At home for Holi

Holi. It must have been a long time since I participated in this festival of colours.

In London, you can feel the festival approaching - as shops in Southall and other Asian areas start selling coloured powder - but don't see it happening.

During my first few years in the city, a colleague and dear friend would always invite me and my flatmate home on Holi. The ritual was simple. Just a sprinkle of coloured powder on the forehead, followed by snacks, drinks and dinner.

Nothing like how I remembered it growing up in Delhi. Preparations would begin days in advance, with all the kids filling up water-balloons to soak the passers-by. A couple of days before Holi, the water would be coloured with a dash of red or green or purple or some other colour.

On the day itself, we would wake early in the morning (Delhi had timed water supply then) and fill up buckets-full of water-balloons, mix up wet colours to ensure that it won't disappear off the face and hands of those at the receiving end.

The revelry would last a few hours as we chased friends and applied colour to their faces or pour coloured water on them, then hop onto a friend's car and play Holi with friends across the city.

By later afternoon, we would be back home. After a good scrub and bath, we would sit down for a traditional meal followed by a good couple of hours of sleep. I am not sure whether it was the dry colour in our eyes or hours of being out, but the sleep was good.

For days after that, people and streets retained the colours of Holi.

But that was 10 years ago.

This year, we decided to celebrate Holi in my wife's ancestral village. Her oldest brother still lives there with his family and had been inviting us over for months. Holi seemed like the right opportunity to take a week away from the madness of city.

As always, we left it till late to firm up the plan. Till a couple of hours before our train left New Delhi Railway Station on 27 February, we weren't sure of reserved seats. But thanks to an influential colleague, the seats were confirmed.

The platform, from which our train was due to leave, was choc-a-bloc with people. It seemed everyone was leaving Delhi to celebrate Holi in some other part of Delhi. There were people with no luggage. There were people with loads of luggage. There was a man carrying a tricyle for his little child. There was a man carrying kitchen utensils for his wife. Everyone was jostling with someone to get on the train - some choosing to punch their way into an over-crowded compartment.

Our train was running more than an hour late. By the time it got into the platform, the train on the other side had left. As had those hundreds of people occupying the platform.

We got on to the train, ate our packed dinner, put the bedding on and spread out on the allocated berths.

The little one was very excited about being on a train. After a full day of "Why aren't we going by plane?" she loved being able to climb up to the upper berth, then jump down to the lower berth and then climb up again.

In the morning, the train was full of voices selling hot tea, breakfast, newspapers and other things. But it seemed too early for any of that.

By the time we got up, none of that was available and the train was running three hours late - with the scheduled arrival time in Gorakhpur Junction being 1.30 pm as against the original 10.10 am.

My brother-in-law was standing at the platform, when the train got in. He took us to his car and drove us to the Basantpur Village - which is about two hours away.

Tomorrow, Holi in India and two exclusive videos