Life-A Festival of Emotions

Life is a myriad of emotions—sorrow, fear, anger, love, ecstasy, and delight—resembling the colors of Holi, and get applied to us just like the seasons—summer, monsoon, autumn, winter, spring—bringing in innumerous, diverse panorama of experiences, some for a prolonged period while others for a brief amount of time, dazzling us with their brilliance as several colors stand out, or leaving us helpless, awe-struck with overwhelming sensations as they blend with other colors giving various shades, some illusory, some render an ineffaceable impression.

- Sreelekha Chatterjee

The advent of spring is a kind of paradise on Earth—magical experience of natural splendor, with blue sky, rejuvenated greenery, fragrant flowers, and enchanting colors. Captivated by the grandeur of the richly-colored surrounding— so gracious and lovely—I wander around freely until I reach this colony where people are preparing themselves for the festival of color— Holi.

SORROW

I remain on the window sill for a long time, observing the elderly lady, Seema, sitting on her balcony. Her eyes closed most of the time, either in contemplation of the happy–sad days of the bygone years, in response to an immediate discomfort, or for momentary relaxation.

Suddenly, amidst the orangish-grey hue of the twilight, a glistening crowd of young and middle-aged women is seen passing by the lane, draped mostly in bright red saris, holding prayer thalis, and singing songs loudly. Seema rises from her seat to get a better glimpse of them. The ladies stop at the end of the lane, where arrangements have been made for a bonfire.

They lit the bonfire that represents the burning of the demoness Holika-who, according to Hindu mythology, perished while trying to kill Prahlad, a devotee of Lord Vishnu-symbolizing the conquest of good over evil, immortalizing the triumph of everlasting devotion of Prahlad over the wickedness of Holika. They continue humming folk songs as they move around the bonfire. Once they finish their prayers, they crouch down, and bow with folded hands; their foreheads touch the pious ground.

"I want to go there and pray along with them," Seema says.

"Next year, ma. It's already so late in the evening." Her middle-aged daughter retorts with a note of firmness or maybe an unrelenting concern in her voice.