Holi Hai.....in Basantpur!

Basantpur is a typical north Indian village.

Most of its residents depend on agriculture and there are long periods of inactivity as they wait for the seeds of their toil to deliver a good harvest.

February to April is one such period. Hundreds of acres are covered in lush green crop of wheat, mustard and lentil. While forces of nature nurture these small plants, there isn't much a farmer or his/her family can do.

Despite the 8-9% of growth in India in the last few years, the only evidence of it in these parts is the mobile phone, consumer products and rising inflation.

The rare household may have a DTH connection, but most homes don't even have a television. Watching a film means driving 60 kilometres to Gorakhpur, and there generally isn't a vehicle or financial means to do this.

So, Holi comes as a nice distraction at this time. Apart from the dash of colours, the festival sees traditional faag singers go around the village and regale listeners with traditional songs.

My brother-in-law in the Village Headman and Holi is an important occasion to nurture the constituency. From the night before, his wife and servants were busy making preparations for the visitors.

Big carpets were laid out in the front lawn to accommodate the visitors, and there were dry colours and snacks on the table.

The first visitors turned up at about 7 in the morning. Quite obviously, they had started much earlier as they were covered in colour by the time they walked in.

Each visitor walked in, applied colour on my brother-in-law's forehead, touched his feet and sat down. Young or old. Man or woman. All followed this ritual.

Later in the morning, we all went for a walk around our bit of the village. Every person wanted the Village Headman (and by default, yours truly) at their house. It was a matter of great pride for them.

It was also deeply offending if the Village Headman didn't come in. The latent sentiments of caste and religion could come out in the open. Especially, as most men were quite drunk on the day.

My brother-in-law is quite sensible and dealt with sentiments rather well. At every house, he had something to eat and a glass of water to drink. Even at the houses of those who are locked in legal disputes with the family for generations.

By the time we came back home, he must have drunk about 10 litres of water or more and a large amount to eat.

At most houses, the men only applied dry colours while women and kids soaked many of us in coloured water. Strange thought, but I was suddenly distracted by how the colour would be taken off my Levi's!

The faag singers had arrived and were sitting in the veranda. For me, it was the first time of listening live to faag and felt duty-bound to capture it for the readers of this blog. Here is the second sample.

By 2 or so in the afternoon, I was totally knackered. But my brother-in-law's day was far from over. The village consists of five tolas (localities), spread over six kilometres, and he still had political and social obligations to take care of.

I chose the more familiar Holi routine. Excused myself, scrubbed and cleaned myself, had some lovely traditional food and went off to catch some shut-eye. The little one was already asleep having soaked herself and her cousins in wet colour and chanting 'Holi Hai' (It's Holi).

She had been in Basantpur for Holi last year too and was familiar with the festival. From the morning, she wanted to fill up her pichkaari (Water Gun) and soak people with it. But she had to make do with the dry colour put out on the table. Only after we went for a walk about the village that the girls got an opportunity to play proper Holi.

It was shouting and screaming that woke me up. My brother-in-law was back but still hadn't had a chance to bath.

A bunch of villagers had broken into a fight in their drunken stupor.......and the Village Headman was needed urgently to make peace.

Tomorrow, the Village Headman's attempt at making peace.

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