Holi or dol is something I grew up playing within the safe environment of our apartment complex in Calcutta. Festivities would end with pantuas being distributed before we went home. The Bengali cousin of gulab jaamun made with chhana and not khoya. At times we would also go to my maternal grandparents place and congregate as a family. Play Holi and then have the chicken curry and vegetable pulao lunch made by didu.
In Mumbai, Holi meant a much needed holiday from work and I’d stay inside my PG room. Post marriage it meant a house help-less day. We don’t play with colours. At times I make mutton curry in memory of the Bengali Holi tradition. There was no social media then and we’d not heard of gujias (they are not as all pervasive as you think).
Today I decided to make breakfast as K was sleeping and she’d had an exhausting two weeks looking after me while herself on a post covid low.
Waking me up was Baby Loaf who ran up to me and meowed, ‘how are you? Why are you sleeping so much? You went to sleep at midnight. It’s 1030 am now.’ ‘I am fine Baby Loaf,’ I said. ‘Fever’s long gone. Scabs are drying up. Sugars are under control with meds and mindful eating. Just extreme exhaustion and pain.’ Loaf gave me a nose boop and brushed by me and settled by my foot as he has done for the past 4 days.
Little Nimki, forever the affectionate one, came and checked on me and seeing that I was awake meowed, ‘dao.’ Give me my wet food breakfast.
I did so. Showered, shaved and made an akuri. The idea was for K to have her share when she woke up.
Except that I was so excited by how well it had turned out that I woke her up to have breakfast.
After which she did a video of my scabs for me to do a ‘how it started… how it’s going reel’ for my doc. No, I am not putting it up here. I do want your Holi to be happy!
