With a slight delay, our train stopped in Varanasi the day before the Holi festival. Our German friends Michelle and Bastian had also arrived at the hostel five minutes before, and we wanted to team up with them to survive the following day. Holi - a colourful festival where society comes together and respectfully throws colours into the air for some lesser-known cultural reason with peace, joy and happiness. Peace, joy and happiness? Fiddlesticks. That's perhaps how the uninitiated would describe the German New Year's Eve - until you stand on the cathedral square in Cologne and run the gauntlet of firecrackers and rockets. We were aware that Holi in India doesn't have the best reputation. But we wanted to celebrate one Holi in India and when if now or never!
Leah had attended a Holi festival in Berlin once before, basically a mediocre music festival with a bit of colour throwing. She was rather disappointed that she ended up looking more grey and brown than colourful. She wanted to experience this differently in Varanasi... And don't worry, she would.
Varanasi lies on the Ganges. That's right, it is this holy city where Hindus like to wash themselves in the river, while at the same time their dead relatives are cremated on the neighbouring steps and their ashes thrown into the river. The folks there consist of the following three groups: Family members of the cremated, naked gurus who paint themselves with ashes (um, where do they get them from?) and the rest, for some reason, are Indian tourists, all of whom invariably come from Calcutta. Oh, and then there are all the usual scammers, rickshaw drivers, holy transgender people who pretty rudely beg money from you, and of course the Mr-I'll-show-you-a-better-viewpoint. And in the middle of it all: us, the naive western tourists.
No, the city exudes a very special flair and cast a spell over us the day before Holi. Our hostel was located in the first row of houses with a view of the famous steps (ghats) down to the Ganges, which meant we could do some great people-watching from the hostel terrace. Once we were done with that, we plunged into the hustle and bustle of sanctimonious gurus, holy cow shit... Ehhh holy cows, and those who took on death by washing themselves in the Ganges.
Our extensive preliminary research and focus group interviews about Holi in Varanasi had revealed the following information:
(1) You throw colours at each other, so we would still need colour powder.
(2) It's better to go in the morning because the crazy people come out in the afternoon.
(3) It's better to go in the afternoon because there's nothing going on in the morning.
(3.1) It's better to go in the afternoon because the crazy people come out in the morning.
Despite this unambiguous information, we preferred to ask our hostel receptionist again. On point one, she said that we should NEVER buy paint at the market because it was all chemical and highly toxic. As for the best time, she said we didn't need to go anywhere because we were having a great Holi party at the hostel. That sounded different to what we had imagined, but we were still reasonably happy to have some sort of plan. With this advice, we set off to get some organic colours. It turned out to be more difficult than expected. Although all the shoppers and passers-by knew where to find the special organic colours, because everyone was pointing their fingers in more or less the same direction as we slowly but surely worked our way there, it took us a good half hour to find the hidden shop that boasted that it dealt exclusively in organic colours.
They were very difficult to get, said the shop assistant. We had realised that, so we replied. He wanted the equivalent of €26 for four colour boxes the size of a film canister. They were so hard to come by and the artificial colours would really cause a rash or even worse. By this point, we had realised that it wouldn't be much use if we had organic colours but strangers were throwing the artificial powders at us. And as the shop assistant hadn't been willing to negotiate down to €20, because he claimed he would then hardly make any margin, we walked back to the hostel a little disappointed.
The right decision. According to the hostel owner, the organic colours should only have cost 50 cents - for €20 he could have taken the rest of the year off. But our problem was solved, as we were promised by the hostel that there would be plenty of colour powder available the next morning. But still successful in our only task of the day, we spent the evening between the blazing flames of the cremation sites and the chanting of the evening ceremonies at Varanasi's ghats, constantly jumping in boxes to avoid the cow dung lying around.
The next morning came quickly. It was finally Holi day. We were due for breakfast at seven o'clock and so we found ourselves at the breakfast table at seven sharp with our eyes half-open, dressed in our disposable white clothes, ready for any mischief. Breakfast came at half past eight... Why we had to be there at seven was a mystery to us. But this would not be the only miscommunication with our hostel. The promising Holi party was due to start at ten o'clock. It was just the case that we seemed to be the only guests who would be attending. Another group from the hostel, where all our hopes lay, had announced at breakfast that they would soon be taking to the streets.
We were torn. We realised more and more that there would be no real party at the hostel and that we actually wanted to experience the infamous ‘street holi’ anyway. Unfortunately, there was no sign of the promised colours, which was an ideal way for the hostel to pressure us into staying there. Slight FOMO kicked in. When there really wasn't anything party-like going on at just before ten, we put more pressure on the lovely hostel lady, who finally gave in, handed out a few bags of paint, blessed us and secretly memorised our faces, which she might later have to describe to the homicide squad.
We joined the Spanish troupe and walked with the first splashes of colour to the ghats for the start of our Holi adventure. After just a few metres, we came across our first group of people. They looked suspiciously like other European travellers from our hostel, but were no longer clearly identifiable with all the colour in their clothes and faces. We greeted each other with ‘Happy Holi’ and smeared colour on our cheeks. Slowly, our disgust at the dangerous artificial colour disappeared and we met the next group, which this time consisted exclusively of Indians. ‘Happy Holi’ and more colour on the face. This was repeated, sometimes alternated with a colour hug. It was fun so far. Selfies were always being taken, partly because of Holi, partly because western tourists who made more engagement on Indian Insta stories. Bastian in particular was very popular and had a few extra layers of poisonous colour on his face and neck.
Suddenly something exploded close to us: a coloured bag thrown from a higher building. We heard children laughing. So from now on we had to keep our eyes upwards, because while the dry colour powder was still acceptable, we really didn't want to get wet paint in our eyes.
The evolution from white to colourful
We walked further along the promenade towards the centre, keeping enough distance from the rooftop throwers and the disgusting broth called Ganges. It became more crowded and chaotic. While a few groups simply exchanged a few nice words and respectfully smeared paint on our faces, a few others noticeably used the special situation as an excuse to get a little closer than necessary, hug you excessively and seemingly give free rein to mildly suppressed aggression. Basti got a little too much colour in his face and a whole bag of powder was emptied on my head. I was annoyed at the green bias of my previously carefully curated colour collection.
When a boisterous guy arrived with a water bottle full of paint and wanted to pour it over Michelle, we intervened and the mood immediately escalated. He no longer thought it was funny that we were going to resist, but the offered blows were stopped by intervening Indian bystanders. We had now understood what is so dangerous about Holi: the festival of colour and joy can quickly tip over if a few chaotic people get carried away and cross the admittedly unclear boundaries between a me and you. Which can understandably happen very quickly, just think of carnival or New Year's Eve.
In any case, we turned around again, as we were able to collect paint on our faces in the other direction without the chaos-mongers. We were almost back near our accommodation when someone approached us with grey powder in his hands - clearly ash and I had to let him know quite firmly that I didn't want any ash from whatever in my face. His friends actually didn't find it as funny as he did, but didn't do enough to stop him so that some ash ended up in my ear. I'd had enough and decided to return to the hostel to watch the goings-on from a distance (and maybe throw a colour bomb or two). Bastian and Michelle wanted to venture back towards the narrow alleyways, but returned after five minutes looking like they'd been dipped in paint. The terminal battle had broken out there with snipers in every window, just waiting for any innocent western lamb to completely blast them to kingdom come with the worst un-washable colour that you would be able to find.
Then it was time to shower. The colour came off the blonde hair surprisingly well. However, there were differences, purple and pink were particularly stubborn. After half an hour, most of the traces were gone. Bastian and Michelle still looked the same after the shower as they did before. And in view of the planned Taj Mahal pictures the following day, we thought it was a good decision not to have gone into the narrow alleyways.
We spent the afternoon in our ‘party hostel’, throwing paintbags at people in the streets, taking photos of our colourful splendour and playing cards. In the evening, the spook was actually over and, unexpectedly disciplined, nobody was throwing paint around anymore, which we hadn't expected. So we dared to make our way to a restaurant.
Our honest conclusion and advice for anyone who wants to celebrate Holi in India:
- Don't buy a colour for €26. For the very low budget traveller: just pick up the bags from the other groups.
- One hour is enough to get enough colour in your eyes, mouth and ears to get a good impression of the madness.
- It doesn't matter what time it is, there are always chaotic people on the road.
- Instead, pay attention to the location: It's most fun in places where you have the opportunity to avoid the chaos. Large areas or parks. You don't stand a chance in narrow alleyways.
- Happy Holi! [Smear colour on the cheek]
And to conclude this article, perhaps a brief summary of the real story behind the Holi festival would be appropriate. Holi symbolises the victory of good over evil, the beginning of spring and the celebration of love, joy and reconciliation. According to a Hindu legend, a king ordered his sister Holika to kill his son because he preferred to worship Vishnu instead of him (that is this god and is the better choice for a Hindu than worshipping his father). The sister Holika lured the king's son into a fire, but he was able to save himself while Holika burned to death. This is why a fire is lit on the eve of Holi to honour the victory of good over evil. And the colour thing comes from a completely unrelated story in which Krishna (you may have heard of him) smeared colour on his beloved's much lighter skin to blur the differences in skin tones. A symbol of unity and equality. There are also other traditions, such as men being given a shield and women beating them with a broom, but Bastian and I have successfully concealed this tradition from our female companions.
