Perspective... a word looping out from a strand of a half forgotten conversation. It all boils down to that one word. Really.

 

Not who you are. But how you look at things. Not what you do. But how you do it. Perspectives.. Sound and light.. shadows and silence.. they come they go.. we filter images, register words, translate intentions. At the end of the day, we hold up this mosiac to the light of our own eyes and watch the truth emerge. Our own personal truth.. your truth.. my truth.. a credo of kinds.

 

And if the shades, the differences were well captured, then sometimes, we can take a step back and view the full picture. Look at the different forces, the multihued voices that went into creating that framework, the emotions that gently sloped into the mould, some rushing fiercely in, others lingering, meandering through the hidden crevices of memory to emerge subtly...all to create that painting that glints the sun off the grass as we hold it up, looking with jaded/tired/cynical eyes.

 

How long do I look at the painting. What all do I see. What do I do with it. Do I wish that maybe insight and perispicacity had never revealed to me the things that I dont want to know. Or am I wise with the knowledge of whispering leaves.

 

Will this painting now fluff into the air and dissipate into the clouds. And will I look down upon my hands, looking at the emptiness that lurks within... look at them, fine fingered bareness.. and smile in quiet contentment. Will I then turn to look at the green grass around me, feel the wind and turn walk back with the warmth soaking into my back. Is it the sunshine or the painting's beauty that draws a cloak around me, protecting me, loving me. I wonder.

 

 

 

 

He first and I behind, we climbed so high

that through a small opening I saw

some of the turning beauties of the sky.

And we came out to see, once more, the stars.

 

- Canto 34, Dante's Inferno

 

 

So its spring time again. That beautiful transition between winter and summer when we shed our woolies and don spags with a shawl thrown on.

 

As warmer bright hues give way to light pastels, along comes a jamborie of colours to help us select from the beautiful palatte unfolding outside our windows. Yep. Holi, it is.

 

This Holi was not about Bhang and Revelry and Colours. It was a muted one which allowed the innocence of young ones to unfurl tenderly the joy of rubbing 'gulal' for the first time in their tiny hands.

 

Let me elaborate.. My festival started by awakening to the sounds of an excited eight year old filling balloons and buckets of water. As early morning slowly gave way to lazy breakfasty Sunday newspapers..the excitement turned to grumbly "No one's coming to play with me."

This from a child who had bawled copiously at 4 months to see himself pinked by bratty sisters and at 5 years, had thought he'd get slapped for daring to pour water on his lil di.

 

Anyways, the grumbles gave way to whoops with two buckets of water steathily splashing on his head from the balcony. And the baby-frowns turned to sulky grins.

 

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The next child in line was my one year old niece. Daintily dressed, she emerged from the confines of a quiet house to silver faced parents and grubby grandparents. In a world gone mad, she heard familiar voices, but recognised no faces. And bawled her lungs out. However, she must have figured that the only way to save her kin was to jump onto the bandwagon. And jump she did into the lap of her coloured mother and emerged soon after smudgily smiling and cozily pinky silver.

 

And her Cheeky Aunt stood in a corner laughing. Waiting. For she recognises a kindred soul and knows Holi will be fun with the youngster in the years to come.

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And finally, the reason for this post... a tiny little shy turbanned friend. All of five and wide eyes to boot. He stood still scared in a corner as the world raced to colour his parents and showered them with ice cold water. The Screeches and Whoops brought his safe world crashing down as all authority figures in his life crumbled to gulal. The brave upper lip was twitching. It was a time to flee or cry.

 

Then came along a dear older friend with a huge Green water pistol. The kind he had been warned against in school. But surely now, he was done for..the water would come anytime soon now. But instead of feeling wet furious splashes and squirts, he saw the boy by his side, showing him how to press the trigger.

 

First a shy push, then stronger and a final give-it-all-I-have shoot aimed at a cheering Di-di. Yet the distance remained. A safe measure between him and the colours of the world. Then came along two people, a big girl and a small boy, carrying a platefull of Rang. They showed him the dish and asked him to put his hands in it and feel the colours. Hesitantly, he saw his hands turn green..but before his face could turn a further shade of white, the little boy asked him to colour his face. Gently, still fearing retaliation, he applied colour to one cheek and then another. Gradually, the colours of the festival reflected their joy on his face.

 

I, last saw them, going from one adult to another, gently performing the traditional greeting of the Festival of Colours.

 

A handful of Gulal. On one cheek and then another. A teeka.  And a hug.     

 

Happy Holi..