1. Hues of Holi – Part I

From the window of my hotel room here in Vrindavan, I look to the farmland that spans the landscape in front of me. In the middle of the lush vegetation is an island of bare soil with one large tree in the center. At the edge of the island, a man sits near a small fire and warms his hands. Golden light from the sunrise frames the scene. It is so soothing compared to the bustle of people and traffic in Delhi just three hours north. I watch the man and imagine the warmth on his hands as I look to my own, which are stained in the colors of Holi powder. There are blotches of red, green, yellow, orange, pink and purple. The stains are smeared together, creating patchy layers of color on my skin. I look to my bare feet, which are stained red, and wonder how many days it will take for all of the color to fade away. But it doesn’t matter. It also doesn’t matter that my shoulders, calves and back ache. I knew I would be like this after three days of pouring every ounce of energy into trying to create interesting images. I hope I succeeded. I look from my feet to the pile of clothes on newspapers spread on the floor. Next to that are my shoes and camera bag, tinted pink, and two towels also stained with color after my showers this morning and last night. I sip a cup of hot tea and feel it soothe my throat. It’s sore from all of the powder I’ve been breathing in, and I hope I don’t lose my voice. I look back to the man sitting in the peaceful stillness of the dawn. The contrast between this moment and the past three days is stark. My mind flashes back to my experience in Barsana three days ago — day one of photographing the Holi festival. “There are 225 steps to climb to get to the temple,” one of my local guides says, struggling to raise his voice above the noise of the massive crowd. “I’m not concerned about the group going up, especially this time of day. But I am concerned about us coming back down. By midday there will be over 200,000 people here.” I study the narrow walkway of steps. With the edges of the buildings encasing it, it looks like a long tunnel. “This is the only way up — and back down. As the day goes on, more people will arrive, and they will be climbing up as we try to leave. I’m not sure if it’s in the best interest of everyone in our group to go; some people might want to stay down here around these festivities.” I feel a lump form in my throat over the way this scenario has been presented. I look around me to the swarms of people and feel like a pindot in the middle of organized chaos. The atmosphere is loud and celebratory, and handfuls of brightly colored powder are tossed in the air as people push their way through the crowd. I look at the steps and know that the main activities with the potential for the most interesting images are up there in the temple. I’m not claustrophobic, but I am concerned about the size of the crowd, the small size of the walkway and my camera gear. A woman catches my attention as she extends her hand to gently wipe yellow powder on my face. “Happy Holi!” she exclaims. “Thank you,” I say. “Happy Holi!” Her kind gesture brings me back to my reason for being here. I remind myself to stay in the moment and be completely open to whatever happens. “Who is going up?” I see my photography lead raise her hand and motion for those who are going to the temple to stand with her. I step to her side along with a few others. Some members of our group decide to stay behind. I feel a little trepidation, but I didn’t travel for two days to miss one of the main events, especially on the first day. Our group divides, and I begin walking up the steps. The excitement builds as the sound of the drums gets louder and the explosions of color get more vibrant. “When we get to the top, you must take off your shoes,” our guide says. “I will store them for you. You cannot wear them into the temple.” I give a thumbs up and continue climbing. At the top, I remove my shoes and hand them to our guide. He stores them and returns with tokens. “Do not lose yours. It is for your shoes.” He hands one to me, and I put it in my backpack. “We will meet back here at this spot in two hours.” I nod in agreement as I look at my watch. “Do not lose each other — or me.” The six of us glance at one another, at our guide, and then we immediately scatter in different directions. So typical for photographers. I’m anxious to get inside the temple and see what I can photograph, and I’m sure the others are too. Within moments, I find myself in the middle of a large crowd, clutching my camera as I dance to the rhythm of irresistible drumbeats. Powder flies in every direction, and the visibility is low. People are swinging each other around, laughing and celebrating. It’s an unbelievable madhouse and unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. I should be taking photos, but I’m loving the experience and having way too much fun to stop dancing… A noise in the hotel hallway brings me back to reality in my room and out of my flashback. I smile to myself, make another cup of tea and sit back down near my window. I continue taking in the serenity of the morning as the light changes and beautiful hues of gold are cast across the sky. Another man joins the scene and is welcomed as he sits near the fire. The two men share a drink from a thermos. I imagine that they are friends enjoying their warming drink before they start their day. I reach for my journal, light a candle and begin writing about the celebration in Barsana and then about the men two days ago in Nandgaon at the Nandgaon Mandir Temple. I shake my head in disbelief and push those difficult memories from my mind. Instead, I reflect upon the parade I photographed yesterday in Mathura. I make a note about how funny life is sometimes. Yesterday I was supposed to visit the widows of Vrindavan. It would’ve been a highlight of the trip since I enjoy meeting women in foreign countries, photographing them and writing about their lives. But fate had other plans, and the appointment was cancelled. I was very disappointed, especially after the extreme difficulties of taking images at Nandgaon. The itinerary change made yesterday different from all of that, though. Thank goodness for a group of exuberant boys, a big bag of pink powder and a parade in the streets of Mathura, the birthplace of Lord Krishna.