Holi - the festival of colours, the festival that heralds the onset of summer - arose as a different day in Maharashtra Nivas. The sweeper, the caretaker, the liftman, took great pleasure in coming into each room and applying gulal on us. And then they waited for us to give them some baksheesh. It became difficult because each one, irrespective of his age, bent down to touch my feet. I am actually quite embarrassed by people touching my feet. It makes me feel too old! It was even more difficult to judge what would be the 'standard' of this baksheesh.

Outside, the roads were quiet - dead, almost! Not a single person to be seen. Mornings 'sounded' unusual with public transport off the road. Locals had forewarned us that Holi in South Calcutta could be quite boisterous. It was turning out to be a damp squib.

I went out to the balcony in the hope of getting something worth savouring, something that would add an ounce of truth to the projected boisterousness, to catch a glimpse of people enjoying themselves. Alas! The spirit of Holi could only be heard on Vividh Bharati, which kept on playing the expected Holi songs. Rang Barse from Silsila, Holi aai Holi aai from Mashaal and so on. Frustrated and finally tired of standing on the balcony, I came in. Not knowing what to do, Sridhar suggested making a trip to office. I agreed, since there was nothing to 'fear.'

But first, lunch. Maharashtra Nivas being closed for the day, we decided to go to Hajra More. As we walked towards Hajra More, the spirit of Holi slowly started becoming evident to us. Multicoloured faces greeted us with smiles, white teeth gleaming amidst black faces - like flashes of lightening. It seemed people had even drunk the colour - their tongues were coloured green and yellow. Policemen at a shout's distance ensured that we were left dry.

I failed to recognise Hajra crossing. Not a single bus, no shouting conductors, no honking horns and not a single roadside vendor. Our search for a single place to eat - any place that would provide us something to say that we had eaten - proved futile. The whole place looked deserted as it would be on a 'bandh' day in Mumbai. This was worse, since even the means of transport were off the roads. Hunger was driving us crazy and Kolkata's apparent apathy towards people like us crazier. People back home would be enjoying sumptuous puran-poli and here we were, roaming in the heat seeking a bite.

Finally, we decided to give up the effort and go to office, hoping to see some other place open along the road. As we passed along Hajra road, hunger ensured that we looked for nothing else but a place where food would be available. I did not see the roads, washed clean by the previous day's rains, being coloured. Neither could I see the coloured water puddles between the road and the footpath. People in the nearby bastee failed to arouse my curiosity as they washed the colour off themselves at the roadside tube well. I could only see 'blood' there. Nothing mattered to people who having finished all their Holi festivities had settled down to a game of carrom on the footpath.

We kept searching for some shop, even a paan-wallah, that would sell us some biscuits. At last at Ballygunj Phanri, we found a shop selling biscuits and cakes. We thanked our stars and stocked ourselves with these bare essentials. The crumbling pieces of the stale cake did not matter. Nor did the soft biscuits evoke a bad feeling. Hunger!

Sitting in the office, I kept thinking how Holi in Kolkata appeared different from the one in Mumbai. Was it just because I was an outsider here, a passer-by? Would people have really enjoyed Holi as we did a couple of years back in our place? That year the way we celebrated Holi in our building was very memorable. It had started slowly with some enthusiastic school children going from house to house asking everybody to join in. Slowly, we teenagers joined them. And then everybody joined.

The spirit was upbeat and it was perhaps the only time when I had seen all the members of our building together. That is, if you exclude the annual general body meeting which is attended with sombre faces and marked with quarrels. That day, children, parents and grandparents enjoyed splashing colours on each other. Acquaintances from the neighbouring bungalow also joined in. Tricks were played on each other. Bald uncles were treated with an extra layer of colour while upturned buckets coloured the unsuspecting person coming up to the terrace.

I was at an age where certain desires can neither be expressed nor suppressed; and one lacks the courage to put them into action.

After about three hours of festivity came the tea, samosas and kaju katli. Each one sponsored by somebody or the other. The tea by Karnik-kaku, the samosas by Nerurkar-kaka while the kaju katli by Raju-dada, for some reason that we thought enough to demand (or rather thrust) this celebration upon them.

Then came the cleansing activity with the hose from the neighbour's tube well being connected for this purpose. Mind you, it did not happen on the roads, but in our private compounds. Later, we went on a cleaning spree and washed the whole building - stairs, walls, tiles, compound wall, vehicles, et al. That feeling of being one community and of togetherness was likeable, especially as it was quite new to me.

I am sure that day's puran-poli was the best I had eaten in my whole life.

As time progressed, the girls got married, the boys went abroad for their studies or got into jobs and the spirit of Holi remained etched only for that one year in my mind. I wonder is it because of that single instance of festivity that it has remained as a nostalgic feeling for me? Should good things in life not last long?

In the ensuing years, I spent Holi mostly in hostels and later at office; could not really bear seeing the saddening state of Holi in our society. I remember that Holi in office where Chandu Gokhale and I were the only two people in office and had seen the security guards playing Holi amongst themselves. Last year, I was without a job during Holi, so the ritual of spending Holi at office was broken. This year it resumes.

Feels better.

Having seen the way Holi shows its 'bad' colours these days, I wish we stopped celebrating it. Oil paints and cow dung and mud and all other dirty things are being used; water balloons filled with gutter water is used against girls. This crassness makes Holi something to be scared of than feel happy about.

Where is that Holi which had colours - only in the form of gulal and abeer?

As the evening set in, we returned. I was quite gloomy and hoped that we would have a better meal that day. We were again mistaken as nothing had changed at Hajra crossing except the light. The laziness of the shopkeepers out here was well criticised by two hungry souls.

Finally, we saw a small biryani stall. There was a crowd there and a psychological feeling translated the crowd to good food - a simple rule learnt in childhood. Legs took us to the place, which was a Muslim shop serving Mutton Biryani and Chicken Biryani. Sridhar's religious beliefs were still strong enough to disallow him from eating there, while I had long ago submitted to my hunger.

I ordered a Chicken Biryani. After about fifteen minutes of wait, I was served a plate of biryani usurped from a huge cauldron containing rice, salt, some spices for namesake, potatoes and mutton pieces. Not to forget the oil (animal fat?) being sprayed continuously like water. So hungry was I that I failed to notice that it was mutton that I was served. Dislike for mutton and the need for getting value for money prompted me to go back and ask for chicken pieces.

I was almost in a mood of a brawl, when with a surprising, almost spiritual, nonchalance, the shopkeeper removed the two mutton pieces and replaced them with chicken ones. I did not know what to do, as everybody around me started laughing! It was quite a revelation in consumerism. People back in Mumbai should learn from this shopkeeper!

The importance of the word 'yuck' dawned on me, as I managed to eat the biryani leaving out the chicken pieces that were 'yuck-ier.'

Finally to restore some taste to my taste buds, I had a paan and that gave me some relief. Imagine finding your hunger satisfied and yet no taste left. How disrespectful to food!

Basushree was the only place worth going and we settled for three hours in air-conditioned comfort for a screening of December 16th.

Thus ended a Holi that I would never forget for the sheer hunger that was so omnipresent that it overruled any feelings of festivity. And I had heard that Bengalis love festivities. If this is the way they celebrate festivals, then I take a solemn oath that henceforth for any festival, however small or important it may be, I am going to stock up my room with enough food to last for a day.

God! How lazy and un-industrious can people get?