Last week, as part of industrial training, I was accompanying a group of budding cost accountants to a visit to two companies manufacturing car accessories for their Korean parent, in Chennai. En route, the students, mostly North Indians, made merry, dancing to the tunes of popular hit songs. As it was the festival of Holi, some suggested completing the celebration with exchange of colours but chose to keep it in abeyance till the visit was over. Instantly, my mind travelled back to the school days in the late sixties and brought back fond memories.
We lived in the officers’ quarters of an insurance company that had its office in the adjoining building on the Mall Road in Kanpur. As it was a declared holiday, even the driver did not report for duty and our domestic help also took leave. As no callers were expected, my father switched off the mains. Then he locked the doors, pulled the curtains on the doors and windows, directed my sister and myself to remain within the confines of the drawing room till evening and finally seated himself in the reclining chair to read the day’s newspapers. Before long we heard a group of voices shouting Holi hai, bhura na mano Holi hai followed by peals of laughter and some screaming.
Then there was a momentary silence when the motley crowd tried their hands at ringing the doorbell. When that failed, they chose to tap the door and then gradually stepped up their ‘offensive’ with the banging on the walls. The shouts persisted inviting us to come out and celebrate Holi. We were the lone madrasis in that building and my father, for obvious reasons, was averse to joining the revelry. The patience of the group appeared to be wearing off. Out of desperation, they emptied the mugs and buckets of coloured water through the gaps in the main door. My father lost patience and appeared before them with my mother standing behind him.
On seeing him, there was pin-drop silence. Their faces were smeared beyond recognition. Two of the ‘gang’ leaders mustered courage to extend their hands and symbolically requested him to allow them to play Holi. He relented but with a condition that only gulal must be used and that too only applied on the forehead. They agreed and played but honoured their commitment leaving my father in spotless white dhoti and kurta. Before leaving, they touched the feet of my mother, who smiled having recognised two of them—It was the customary practice of both the driver and our domestic help, while my father stood still trying hard to retain his stern look.