Holi Hippie Festival

The morning sun pierced through the fluttering leaves of the tall Banyan trees as I stepped barefoot onto the cracked warm pavement of my host family's driveway. I had not met my benefactors formally as my arrival late the night prior was delayed by the cabdrivers multiple stops for tea, directions, and keychain flashlight guided engine checks when it sputtered and spat in disagreement with the key's turnings. I shaded my eyes with a hand--right, not left I reminded myself as the left hand is traditionally viewed as unclean--and approached the Indian man before me. He was casually dressed, a white cloth swathed reverently around his head. His face was covered by a gray, well-kept beard with patches of straggling raven colored hairs of youth. His lips were spread into a wide, welcoming smile as he lifted his hands to my face, "Happy Holi!" he grinned and smeared a line of bubblegum colored powder across my forehead followed by a gentle, colorful pinch to each cheek before he slapped me into a friendly hug, chuckling as he passed me onto his wife. Her greeting was the same, but the powder she thumbed artfully on my face was canary yellow. A peacock gawked from a distance as the children playing Holi behind the sun-bent marigolds and large, lipstick hued blooms of hibiscus flowers spattered each other with as many shades as they could hold, competing with the garden's vast array of colors. I eagerly accepted the invitation to celebrate Holi with this gregarious bunch who gathered at a home with an impressive, lush backyard relieved by the shade of more Banyan trees and cornered by gardens with thick rows of sweet-smelling dahlia's. A circle of chairs surrounded a white, rod-iron garden table cluttered with silver trays containing fried foods and powdered sweets. A cup of chilled thandai was placed in one hand while the other was busied by the gujiya that had been simultaneously bestowed upon me. I drank in the intoxicating almond and cream beverage, savoring the peppery finish between each bite of the sweet, whose flaky crust dripped with a mixture of brown sugar, butter, and a hundred exotically named spices. A red flash caught my attention before it settled across my chest. White teeth appeared through the young, hair-topped smiling rainbow before me. She was right, it was time to play. Music strummed brightly from sitars, punctuated by clashes of bells and cheers of "Holi Hai!" paraded merrily from small shops as it marched uninhibited and directionless through the streets and homes of Agra. Women swinging brittle sticks chased men playfully down alleyway's, unobstructed by their typically strict gender roles and their color soaked sari's or salwar's that hung heavily from them, dripping more circled patterns of Holi onto the streets splotched canvas. Color-filled water balloons hissed through the hazy air rich with smoke from Holika fire remains, tie-dying the world around me. My inner hippie rejoiced, "I'm home!".