We watch the pretty little sparks of golden warmth,born from the bonfire that is lit to mark the death of evil.
It sure is beautiful,but it's meaningless.I'm just watching a fire burn,giving warmth to all the evil,sheltering it,instead of destroying.Cold stares and wordless mouths,this is what my favourite community festival has become.
What does Holi stand for? what does it mean to you?
For each one of us,a festival and celebrating it signifies something.
Most of my Holis have been colour splashed and vibrant and beautiful and exhausting.
But this time,around,and it's been a few years now..I don't feel unto to celebrating Holi,at all.
Because it's not the same.It's about the spirit of love and being loved,and that no longer happens.
I miss all the old memories that are intricately woven in my head,making me feel warm nostalgia.
The Bengali aunty coming home and smearing gulaal on my Mum's face,spreading good-cheer.
The colour wars that went on for eternity..with all my little friends.The eggs,the tomatoes..endlessly,mercilessly smashed on heads.Being drenched with happiness and murk.
The last Holi I played was when I met him,and now he's just dead.
I don't mean to make it sound like a sob story,but I have such beautiful,priceless memories of the festival..nothing can compare.I don't want to replace them with the ones I know will not be half-good.
Happy Holi?
It sure is beautiful,but it's meaningless.I'm just watching a fire burn,giving warmth to all the evil,sheltering it,instead of destroying.Cold stares and wordless mouths,this is what my favourite community festival has become.
What does Holi stand for? what does it mean to you?
For each one of us,a festival and celebrating it signifies something.
Most of my Holis have been colour splashed and vibrant and beautiful and exhausting.
But this time,around,and it's been a few years now..I don't feel unto to celebrating Holi,at all.
Because it's not the same.It's about the spirit of love and being loved,and that no longer happens.
I miss all the old memories that are intricately woven in my head,making me feel warm nostalgia.
The Bengali aunty coming home and smearing gulaal on my Mum's face,spreading good-cheer.
The colour wars that went on for eternity..with all my little friends.The eggs,the tomatoes..endlessly,mercilessly smashed on heads.Being drenched with happiness and murk.
The last Holi I played was when I met him,and now he's just dead.
I don't mean to make it sound like a sob story,but I have such beautiful,priceless memories of the festival..nothing can compare.I don't want to replace them with the ones I know will not be half-good.
Happy Holi?
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