Holi in an engineering college

The kind of Holi celebrations I've seen outside my engineering college, I would say, are really tame compared to what used to happen within. At home and the colony around us, it was a sort of tame affair with the womenfolk mostly remaining away from the guys or at least refraining from playing with strangers. The occasional adventurous dude who decided to propose on this day by putting a red sindoor mark on the girl's forehead was usually beaten up badly, whether by his own friends in congratulations or by the girl's brother in retaliation is another story. The situation here in the US is entirely different. With the creeps outnumbered by far and a more vociferous female populace, the percentage of females coming out for the university Holi celebrations is much higher and the occasion is therefore understandably a lot more fun. The exact middle ground of this was in our engineering college: with everybody an adventurous dude and no females at all.

In Gujarat, Holi celebrations start at least a week ahead, at least the colorless variety. Bunches of home-made water balloons (and packets of mineral water from the wealthier folks) routinely find their way on to the heads of passers-by during this time. The engineering college remains kind of tame during this time -- nobody actually wants to spoil the fun that is coming. The events were unofficially kicked off once in our batch by pouring a bucket full of water on the dozing night guard exactly at midnight. The profusely swearing gentleman (who many had a bet could not hurt a cow) almost woke up the entire hostel in the ruckus that followed: but the perpetrators were found in the deepest slumber and blissfully unaware of what had happened. One of them actually went up to ask why he had bathed with his full clothes on, that too at midnight.

On this night, people usually made sure they packed all clothes and books inside cupboards. Computers were duly covered and/or sealed off into their original boxes. And then the fun used to begin early next morning. Groups of junta, usually the all-nighters, would come armed with buckets full of water and wake you up with a "little" splash. Some people, of course, found this just a little disturbing for their sleep. They would wake up, shout and abuse the enthusiastic people, then dry themselves off with a towel, and promptly go to sleep again. Colorful celebrations kicked off when some people decided enough was enough and mixed a handful of colors in a bucket of water and poured it on the next unsuspecting victim to come down from the stairs. All hell would break loose at this time, and anybody who can grab any kind of color (including swabfuls from others' faces or a little concentrate accumulated in that dirty corner of the railing) -- everyone would proceed to smear everyone else with their own personal colors. And then of course people would proceed to some common chowk to thus spread happiness, serenity and joy to juniors and seniors, in that order.

I hope many of you are aware of the flesh-for-beads custom of Mardi Gras. Basically, women go about collecting beads/necklaces from men for volunteering to show a little flesh. Holi in the engineering college has a similar custom, except the fact that a) there are no women involved, b) it is not voluntary to get your flesh exposed, c) people actually take parts or strips of your clothes as trophies -- flesh once uncovered will remain so and d) sorry: you don't get any beads for getting your clothes torn off. Hoards of people in different groups would meet each other at these chowks and proceed to tear off clothes like there is no tomorrow. I remember having seen one particularly lanky guy literally suspended in mid-air by the 5 people trying to tear off his shirt at the same time from different directions: the poor thing's Lee t-shirt was finally torn open when someone got a blade. Once you have a strip, you either tie it around your head as a trophy or just fling it atop the nearest tree -- the day after Holi you might be staring agape at the multi-colored pieces of cloth on almost every tree on the road. And of course, some unlucky fella would happen to be dragged into a muddy pool and 'colored' differently, who would promptly volunteer afterwards to find the next unlucky guy.

The final touch of the celebrations, of course, would be to form a procession and march towards the girls' hostel. Semi clad, fully black-and-blue faces and armed with absolutely outrageous accessories such as huge red buckets, cardboard placards that say "Down with Imperialism" or something to that effect, etc. -- such a group of about 100-200 students would form a procession (usually with 2-3 people supposedly playing drums by beating the crap out of a dustbin tin someone might have picked up). Since this was in the teachers' colony, it was always a little risky to be too brash: but even then the girls usually stopped playing among themselves and watched the show quietly. The level of excitement surrounding this momentous occasion used to be great, since you yourself were nearly undressed and yet unrecognizable in the crowd. An awkward silence usually followed when the drums stopped for a moment, and inevitably someone would point and declare in a loud voice: "Kisi ko mat bolna ki ye X hai!! (Don't tell anybody this is X)". And the said dude X would run for cover as suddenly nearly 300 eyes would be glued onto him: 200 of them laughing out and about to do the ROTFL, while the rest of them (the girls, usually) smiling or shaking their heads in disapproval. Suddenly everyone would be happy that a scapegoat had been found, and drums would start roaring again, and people would proceed back towards their respective hostels while the guard at the girls' hostel would keep giving them absolutely dirty looks.

But the best part was the free food that I usually managed to garner at the end of the day. Bengalis have a tradition by which we usually touch the feet of our elders at dusk on Holi and then are usually given sweets, etc. Now, during the time that I was in my first and second years at the college, our principal was also a Bengali gentleman. On both these years, I dutifully gathered a group of about 10 and turned up unannounced and uncalled at his house, touched his feet, exchanged a few words in Bengali and then focused my attention on gobbling the sweets that his wife would bring us while I would leave the responsibility of chit chat and small talk to the rest ;) But they were a nice and sweet couple, and this man was one of those rare men I've seen with a strong moral backbone and complete selfless dedication to the college. And of course, the expressions of the teachers as they walked in the next day staring at blue, green and red faces peeping out of clean white shirts was priceless! :D

Sleep like a log

People say, ideally, you should sleep like a log. What they fail to tell you is when exactly you begin to sleep like a dead man and not like a log. Or, more importantly, when sleeping "like" a dead man can make you one.

So I was at my uncle's place about 3-4 years ago during one of my breaks in the college. It was winter, and we were sleeping under thick quilts. Mosquito coils were lit around the house because there weren't too many mosquitoes anyway. So my uncle and aunt were in their bedroom, and my aunt's brother and I were sleeping in the guestroom. Point to be noted: I was definitely fast asleep.

Late into the night sometime, the tip of the quilt I was under touched the mosquito coil and caught fire. Not exactly the flaming inferno fire, but the gradual one that creeps up and eats away. I did not know when this happened -- I was sleeping. So the fire gradually climbed up and most of the quilt was burnt till my feet, but I was still fast asleep. The room was full of smoke; the other person in the room woke up and so did my uncle and aunt. I was still sleeping, very much fast asleep. They looked at me: my feet had turned red and there were brown marks on my skin from the burning cotton of the quilt. I was still sleeping, like a dead man.

They shook me and woke me up. They put water on the quilt and doused the flames. And I was standing there, confused. I asked, "What happened?"
- "The quilt caught fire... your feet were in the fire. Are you okay?"
- "Uh huh.."
- "Step away from there."
- "Uh huh... then what do I do?"
- "Go into that room and sleep"

So I calmly walked into the other room and went to sleep. Like a dead man. :D

Sister

My sister went away to her in-laws house today. The wedding went fine: minus the usual glitches of managing a hundred people everyday: I need soap, Mr. X who's on that sofa wants some tea, etc. It is always fun meeting relatives who I had last met twelve years ago. Everyone tells me how little I was when they had seen me last, and then they're surprised to see me all grown up. Some people would attest to the fact that I haven't; but thats a different story. ;)

All these days it has been hectic. And the more difficult part, I found, was telling elders in some cases what was to be done. I completely know that they're guests in my house and they aren't supposed to know where the market is or where to find the scissors, but still directing people and asking them to go and drop off three kids at another place was kind-of awkward. But I got over it, and accepted it as part of the job.

The part that was unacceptable was that my sister was getting married. I always thought I wouldn't be bothered: I'll come, do my duties and get back to my life. I believed she was just there as another person in the house -- social customs and rituals were just a wrapper for the real event of a man and woman starting a new family. Strange as it seemed, I was feeling fiercely protective about her all this time. I knew that this was a love marriage, I knew that they liked and loved each other, and I knew that the pair had our parents' total heartfelt blessings. But still I wasn't happy: I sometimes felt I'd dare anybody, any-damn-body, even her husband, to dare harm her in any way. But I didn't have time to think about this: it was just a nagging thought throughout the time when I was running errands.

Bengali weddings have a ceremony when we bless the bride before her actual wedding with gifts that she takes with her to her new home. I discovered how much I loved her on this day. All these years that I've been in hostels, I've been able to meet or interact with her very rarely. As such, I had believed, I wouldn't really miss her after her wedding: she would still be a phone call away and the brief meetings would be there anyway. But somehow my heart grew heavy. All those lewd jokes I used to pass with her, all those teasings about how her husband has a secret ringworm infection which she'll come to know when the time comes, all those times when I had been angry with her for not even putting an empty cup of tea she'd had into the basin -- they all appeared so childish compared to what treasure was about to go away.

Last evening, and very late into the night, the wedding ceremony got over finally. We were told about some more rituals from the groom's side, and therefore she had to be sent away early in the morning. I stayed up all through the night, and soon it was time for the actual "yatra" in the car. It happened just like in the movies. Everyone around me was crying and weeping. My dad was inconsolable: I had to hold him steady and take him through it all. I had told myself I wouldn't shed a tear, and I did not. I was consoling everyone else and lending them my chest to cry on. I was issuing orders and taking care of the logistics: who sits where in what car, find that missing driver, make sure that the last minute rituals went smoothly. I was finding something funny -- it was just like in the movies and was thus apparently making an effort to keep a long face. Then they went away. The car moved out of sight gradually and everyone silently went in. I took my dad to the bed and then walked around a dead silent home for some time. I went back to the gate, and as I stared out towards the road, a little tear tricked out. Something broke inside me. I howled and wept. I didn't understand why myself: I never thought I will cry over this. But I couldn't stop. My grief was my own private sorrow, I didn't need anybody -- I held on to a tree for support. Then someone saw me and took me inside, let me sit on a bed and cry my heart out. I suppose it takes me a little time to grasp the importance of everything in life.

I don't know why I'm recording this private feeling on this blog: maybe I shouldn't do this. But this has become a diary of sorts, and this feeling right now even as I type it twenty hours later is something I want to record. It is sad, but it is beautiful as well. Fare well, my sister -- your brother will watch over you.

Personal space and excuse me-s

When I had first arrived in the US, a lot of things were new. The people, especially, were very friendly and open. If you're walking along the road on the way to the university, total strangers will nod and smile, and even greet you with a "Good morning!". Soon, I learned to reciprocate: like the other day I passed this old lady who was walking with difficulty because of a cast around her knee; I wished her, "Get well soon", and she beamed at me and said, "Thank you!". People are genuinely appreciative with their comments, and if you are even of the slightest help to someone, they will make sure that you understand their gratitude, especially with the classical "Appreciate it".

Something else also struck me as a newcomer: the concept of a personal space. In India, if you're in a queue lets say to pay the electric bill or at a railway reservation counter, everyone is almost breathing down the neck of the guy in front of him. We don't mind others peeking around us from all sides trying to see what the guy behind the counter is doing. You need to keep your elbows and feet strategically placed so that if the next guy tries to slip around you, you can create a physical barrier. Things suddenly appeared totally different here in the US. People would stand at least at an arms length from each other in any queue. Even if you're standing in a queue to see Hillary Clinton (she and Barack Obama were on our campus recently :) ), only friends would stand close together and talk: another group would be a little apart in the same queue. On the bus, people prefer standing rather than sitting next to a guy who is on the window seat of a twin-seater, unless the bus is crowded and you "have" to push in to others to board it.

So far so good. But what strikes me as odd is the way people tend to apologize for the slightest things. You're on your way out of a door and she was momentarily in front of the entrance when she notices you and steps away: she'll still burst into an "Oh I'm sorry, excuse me". I'm walking towards a building across an open stretch, and I slightly change direction to allow this lady coming from the other direction to pass, and yet she will turn and say, "Excuse me". She apologized to me even though I was in her path! Initially I used to imagine myself as a village idiot fresh off the boat who had no manners at all . Asking to be excused in such trivial situations never crossed my mind. But nowadays it just appears pathetic to me. What the hell if you had to just brush by me? I don't care... I'm not offended. So I don't apologize for these things any more: it a real extreme! And the funny part is, when this happens between two people from here, they seem to apologize to each other, no matter whose "fault" it was. I have fun when I am one of them. If I was on someone's path and had to step away to let her pass, she will inevitably apologize for my "inconvenience" of taking a step. I always nod with a gesture that says, "Apology accepted!" :)