A thirteen year old girl jumped off her bed early one morning. It was Holi. She woke her little seven year old brother, they changed into their old ragged clothes and water guns and colours in hand, they were ready to go out and celebrate.
“Are you sure you want to go out and play. Aren’t you too old?” her mother looked a little concerned. The little girl was appalled. Too old for Holi? “That’s never happening! I’ll play all my life!” she replied before rushing out to the streets.
The celebration had started. The streets were colourful and joyous. Children ran around, chasing one another with colours. Red, blue, green, yellow. It was beautiful. Within no time the little girl was drenched in colour and she laughed. She was truly happy. It takes so little for a child to be happy.
A lovely morning passed too fast. It was time to get back home and get cleaned up. She took her brother’s hand and headed home. “My water gun!” her brother wailed. He must have left it behind somewhere. They would find it in no time. And so they headed back to where they had been playing. The streets had cleared out by then. Everyone had left. Only the empty roads, with blotches of colour here and there, remained. Sure enough, the little water gun, smeared in colour lay at the corner of the street.
They picked it up and turned back towards home, laughing and chattering. It sounded like the chirping of little happy birds. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a man, covered in colour beyond recognition stood before them. He had a fist full of red colour.
The little girl knew, Holi was a day to be celebrated with everyone. Everyone was a friend and no one was a stranger. However, she didn’t feel quite right about this man. She told the man she had to go home and tried to walk ahead gripping her brother’s hand protectively.
“It’s just a little colour!” he stood in her way. She stood there stupefied. He was tall and muscular. Large in every possible way. Her hands felt cold. Maybe it was because she was wet and there was a slow breeze.
The man smeared the red colour on her little scared face. Some went into her eyes and she closed them tight. She was about to bring her hand up to her face to clean her eyes, when she felt his hand going down to her neck. And before she knew it, his hand, firm and confident slid down slowly to her chest. It went left and right, up, down and around and down to her stomach. She then felt the hand being withdrawn.
She wanted to throw up. Perhaps because the colour had entered her mouth and nose. It was extremely uncomfortable. Her eyes hurt. Something was piercing into them. It must have been the red colour. A few drops of water trickled down her eyes. That always happens when something is stuck in your eye. It’s the body’s mechanism for cleaning.
She opened her eyes to see that the man had moved aside to allow her to leave. A group of boys stood at one corner suppressing their laughter. As she hurried home, the sharp sounds of laughter pierced her ears. Her body was cold. Her face felt warm from humiliation, and shame. Her eyes still hurt and all she wanted to do was throw up.
When she reached home, her mother smiled “look at you!” She didn’t notice her daughter’s hurt hidden behind all the vibrant colours. The distressed little girl rushed to the bathroom and in the full length mirror examined herself. Her face, chest and stomach were covered in a thick layer of red colour. She felt as if that colour was the man’s fingerprints on her body. She stood under the shower and saw the red colour running down the drain.
She knew it wasn’t her fault. She had been told about these “bad men”. But standing there at that moment, looking at all the colours being washed off her body, she felt dirty and guilty.
And at that moment she made an incorrigible mistake. She thought to herself. She was too old to run about and play. She needed to protect herself from these men. She cursed herself for going out and making herself so vulnerable today. And she decided she would never repeat this mistake.
She was a woman now. Apprehensive and doubtful of every man. Unable to laugh with a heart full of joy, like the little child she was a few hours back. The dirt had touched her and no matter how old and confident she got, somewhere it would always live with her. No matter how she logically proved to herself that it was not her fault, she would always be guilty of letting it happen to her.
Today, eight years from that day, she stands in her veranda looking out at little boys and girls running around and enjoying Holi. Perched on her veranda, far away from the colours, she is safe.
tirumalabanerjee 