Mess, please!

Today, all of India is celebrating the Hindu festival Holi by attacking each other with colored powders. Nothing is sacred. Not even the cows.

I’m in Udaipur, at my buddy Nirmal’s house with his family and friends, woman traveler Sen, and a cluster of eager neighborhood kids I just chased around like a gorilla.

In 4 days I will leave for Agra and head to Nepal. Holi feels like a well-timed going away party. I want to let go and let loose, but I have a problem: I am smitten by Sen and my mind is a mad scientist at work, formulating how best to attract her without making a fool of myself, before it’s too late.

The party opens with cordial introductions, but we quickly set to work vandalizing each other with powder. In a frenzy of sneak attacks and paybacks, we are soon smeared with kaleidoscopic graffiti. One guy uses cow manure!

Indian club music is blasting. A dance party mixes in with the frenzy. Arms, legs, and colors fly everywhere. I attempt to move like a drunken master, showing off for Sen. She’s having fun dancing with Nirmal; a bright smile shining through the paste on her face.

I pick Nirmal up over my head, hoping to look strong. Someone dumps a bucket of water on us, causing Sen to laugh and starting a Holi water war. Bucket after bucket is thrown on the crowd, until everyone is drenched and the ground becomes a sloggy grey mess.

The guys rip each others’ shirts off. The fabric on mine is tough. Five guys pull on it at once, leaving scars on my shoulders, but it won’t rip. Nirmal slashes it with a knife, which does the trick. I tear it off with a beastly roar and wrap it on my head like a turban. Did Sen notice how manly I looked?

Like everyone else at this party and in India, she seems to be just having some good, stupid fun. No one else is trying to look cool or do big impressive dance moves. They are just dancing.

Holi, you are the answer to my prayers. If I can dance like a fool, then I can look like a fool when I tell Sen how much I like her.