Little Delhi cries Holi !!!

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Satellite minds, plump and lean,

Towering unclean,

Ailing young spirits,

Having woken up to a motley illness,

Infected by bugs of mischief,

Like comic dices rolling on a plastic board,

Rambling aloud, they rolled,

From one corner to the other,

From railings to grills and the door,

Chiefs took verandas for forts,

Windows for covered bunkers,

Rest of their midget army,

Hid unsuccessfully,

Their heads still highlighted against the blue sky,

To their dismay, I could see them take position,

Ready for an assault,

One that they knew would never fail,

One that would grant them an easy bail,

My steps, up that yawning street,

Was heading for its centre,

My pit in their battlefield,

Must have been counted for accuracy,

Time to reach, measured by now,

Gossiped discreet, balconies whispered,

War communications wired in yells,

I guess, they all knew by it now,

That I had little options,

Helpless was the lonely passerby,

To taste the end of that road,

I tread ahead, watchful above,

Could sense the silence temporary,

The morning wore a playful lull,

The air smelled naughty,

Of colors past the ides of March,

The God of Spring,

Was up to something…

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Prudent eyes picked buildings,

One by one, naked vulnerable they swayed,

Zoomed in and out of high porches,

From this side of the street to that side,

Gangs of little gangsters,

Restless limbs in shorts,

Seemed like giggling mirages,

A flash here, a flash there,

Then empty verandas, shunned terraces,

Then into nowhere they disappear,

To their joy, they had their prey walking into the trap,

Unaware, his next step had him circled red,

Lit up, and locked in their cross-hairs,

Laughter rings the ambiance,

Still pungent, early enough to rinse and brush,

For the morning to smell flowery and fresh,

Crows flap off the wires and tall entrance gates,

All confused, panic-stricken, abruptly alert,

Color Balloons catch me off guard,

Strike my face, chest, and dress,

Heavy with water they almost pressed sores on me,

Had me roaring enraged,

Before screams lifted up my stare,

Little Delhi smiled apologetic from up there,

“No hard feelings big brother,

Please don’t mind, it’s pure fun,

Thank You, we’d a great target practice, a great time,

Wish you a very Happyyyyyyyyyyyyy Holi” *

All my anger vanished volatile,

Instantly evaporated dry,

Flashed across my childhood days,

For a moment, I wished it was never gone,

Countless must have been innocents that we had preyed upon,

The festival then too was stretched like this,

For the little ones, it has always been the same, complete bliss,

This colorful infection always got them for an entire month,

With guns and balloons dripping water,

We too have been on the hunt,

For a large informal kill like me,

Someone young, who likely, wouldn’t mash up their festive spree,

Cheers to Spring, to our days tender,

I was no more angry, no more low,

Smiling at the street below,

Above at them to reassure the fun,

My signal to them,

Kids you can disarm yourselves of concern,

Drenched, soaking red, blue and green,

Apologies still beating behind,

Past the choir of sorry cries,

I walk by…

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Debaroon’2013

March 19, New Delhi

 

* (Holi is the spring festival, celebrated with colors in the month of March. It is a Hindu festival, celebrated by followers of the religion, all over the world. It originates from India and Nepal, primarily… http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holi)

In the year 2013, the festival will be celebrated on March 27. Though for kids, the fun starts with the month, and ends only with it.


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4 thoughts on “Little Delhi cries Holi !!!

  1. Amazed I am at the way it has been knit with colourful flowers and you deserve to wear this garland. Thanks also for strongly creating that Holi environment full of fun but not devoid of the thrill & suspense. Taken me down memory lane.Dipankar

  2. Hi my friend
    Maybe some time you could write about this festival. I find that even if I look them up on the internet, they don’t provide the indepth artfulness that reading it from someone who writes as beautifully as you would convey it. You write so fluidly and like a palette of colors.
    Bless you
    Yisraela

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