Holi haute

PEOPLE LIKE US

But for some sleight of planetary configurations, today was to have been Holi, but now that it is to be on Sunday, it has given the children "" in the midst of their final exams "" an extra day for preparation. Not for their papers "" that would be too much to expect "" but for Holi itself.

My son and his friends spent all of yesterday organising the clothes they would wear for Holi. "Won't any old pair of trousers and a T-shirt do?" I asked in some bewilderment, for the clothes would in all probability be thrown away after the celebration.

My son looked at me in horror: "You're supposed to dress for Holi," he explained, "in designer wear." It was my turn to be appalled. "You intend to spend a fortune on clothes that will be unusable after Holi?"

"I knew that's how you'd react," said my son bitterly, "so I'm organising my own clothes. You should at least be thankful you have a son who is creative and isn't blowing up a fortune on clothes to play Holi in."

I watched him as he a took a pair of jeans and put bleach and acid to work to fade some parts. Having achieved what he thought was a desireable result, next he pulled out a paper-cutter and sat down to shred the now faded pair of jeans at knee and ankle and mid-calf and thigh, even as I winced.

"Why are you ruining a pair of perfectly wearable jeans?" I demanded to know. "They aren't wearable," he insisted. "But they looked almost new before you proceeded to demolish them," I pointed out. "They'll soon be small for me," he assured me. "But they aren't yet," I insisted.

"Listen," said my son, "you're supposed to look trendy for Holi." "But after your friends have thrown colour on you," I said, "it will hardly matter whether your jeans are faded, or shredded, or not." "There you are," he said triumphantly, "then you need hardly stress yourself out about what I'm wearing anyway."

It didn't make sense to me still, but by now I was more concerned with my daughter who had spent the first half of the morning alternately oiling, shampooing and then blow-drying her hair. "Aren't you supposed to shampoo your hair after Holi, to get all the colour out?" I asked her.

"Sure," she said, "but I must also have hair that's silky before that." "Why bother," I asked, "when you're going to get colour in your hair anyway?" "Why bother to brush your teeth since you're bound to be swallowing colour as well," she reasoned. "Because that's bad hygiene," I pointed out.

"And since when has dirty hair been good hygiene," she came back. "Besides, I'm only making sure my hair looks good, but I have a friend who isn't even going to wear her glasses to play Holi." "Neither should you," I cautioned her.

"Of course I won't," she said, "but my friend isn't going to be half-blind like me." "Because her astigmatism isn't as bad as yours?" I sympathised. "Because her mother's got her contact lenses to wear," cribbed my daughter.

I turned to my wife to complain about how materialism was ruining the festival, but my wife retorted she had no time to listen to me because she was busy painting her nails. "What with all the Holi colour, it'll hardly matter," I said to her.

"I know," she agreed, "but I must look my best if I'm to go to the beauty parlour this evening. "Why would you want to go to the parlour on Holi eve?" I couldn't help asking. "To get my legs waxed, silly," she said, "after all, you have to look your best for Holi."