HOLIBBLE

Depending on where you are from, Holi could either be the Festival of Colour or the Festival of Love. The first legend speaks of the word being derived from the name Holika who was the evil sister of the demon king Hiranyakashipu who was basically an arrogant, egotistical asshole who thought he was a god. He demanded that his subjects worship him but his son Prahalda refused and remained loyal to Vishnu despite his father’s cruelty. Holika then tricks Prahalda into sitting on a pyre but the magic shawl that is intended to protect her from the flames ends up protecting Prahalda instead and Vishnu then appears and kills Hiranyakashipu. The day after the Holika bonfire is called Holi and is supposed to be a reminder of the symbolic victory of good over evil. The second legend tells of how the baby Krishna transitioned into his characteristic blue skin because a she-demon by the name of Putana, poisoned him with her breast milk. In his youth Krishna worried that the fair-skinned Radha and other girls would like him because of his skin colour and eventually when his mother grows tired of his fretting, she suggests that he colour Radha’s face which he does and they become a couple. This playful colouring of Radha’s face has since been commemorated as Holi. Both equally plausible of course...

As far as I am concerned this mindless, drunken colour pollution is just plain Holibble!

We took a taxi to Arambol on a pleasant and sunny Saturday morning even though we knew that this madness would in all likelihood send us straight back to the relative calm of Morjim. Along the narrow road groups of colour smeared local men were stopping cars and ‘happy-holi’ing’ the occupants, we sat sternly in the back seat with windows firmly shut and very obviously not interested in what was happening all around us. We arrived in Arambol just after eleven and immediately ducked into a restaurant where we watched the shenanigans of foreigners and locals who were already pissed. Sometimes it helps to wear ones sterk-gevriet and throughout the day we remained colour-free even though there were sections of the main road that we avoided because to pass would inevitably have meant that some drunken asshole would have taken courage in the anonymity of the crowd and pissed us off! Big time!

Anyway, it was late in the afternoon and I had finished snooping around the music stalls in search of a set of Tablas. We were on our way to find a taxi when we passed yet another group of revellers who wanted to ‘happy holi’ us. I looked sternly at the young man in front of me and gave him my most intimidating Cape Flats “Djy!” He backed off and as we passed one of his cohorts said in explanation: “Pakistani.” And in their minds, that explained it all: and the disorder was restored.