Mumbai

The Indian people celebrate many festivals. The frolicsome spring festival is called Holi and is a fun street festival of colours, when the children spatter themselves and others – especially me, this tall, white woman – with colours and water.

“Very hot, Madame,” says Aneesh, as he does every day when I leave the air-conditioned bastion. “Very hot,” I agree. Aneesh wags his head, as he always does as if to say, “Yes, you’re right.” Today, this brief sentence is very true. It is hot, damned hot.

It is a record temperature in Mumbai, hotter than it’s been for years at this time of year. A thermometer in the tourism and entertainment district of Colaba shows 41.6 degrees. The people sweat and blame it on global warming. They crowd their way through the streets shoulder to shoulder. Hands are sticky, the hair is damp. The humidity is high. The tourists flap through the streets in their flip-flops and can leave their SPF-50 sunscreens in their suitcases. The smog doesn’t let any sunshine through.

Usually it doesn’t get really hot here until after Holi, the holiday that greets the spring with so many colours. It’s not what we would call spring; India has winter, summer and monsoon season, which the people long for every year. Water is needed for survival in the megacity of Mumbai. For many people, though, who live on the streets, the monsoon is also a huge threat. Every year in June, Mumbai sinks in the rain. Buildings collapse and flooded rails regularly tie up railway traffic.

The inhabitants of Mumbai aren’t thinking of the monsoon yet. First comes Holi, a kind of spring festival without the ale benches. Spring festival works in India without Prosit and Gemütlichkeit, but with many colours and Hindu ceremonies. “Happy Holi,” the television announcers say, Aneesh wishes me “Happy Holi,” everyone says “Happy Holi”. The newspaper contains advice on what colours can be bought that aren’t harmful to health. Everyone wears old clothes; trousers, shirts and shoes that can later be discarded.

Holi is celebrated outdoors in courtyards in the so-called colonies. No, it has nothing to do with the English, Sukhada explains. These colonies are more like separate villages in the big city. The people know, like and help one another. The people who live here are from the same milieu; relatives and friends.

At night, Holi begins in the back yard with a bonfire meant to drive away evil spirits. People eat sev puri, small crackers with onions, coriander and cauliflower and go to the neighbours to wish them “Happy Holi”. Depending on one’s religion, the festival is celebrated a bit differently. Some refuse to celebrate Holi, while many celebrate it whether they are religious or not. It’s a little like in Germany when people go to church at Christmas who otherwise are never seen there. Many people want to have their fun with colours, some want to get a little smashed.

The next day, we are invited to a writers’ colony by Pallavi. Megghna, Deepika and many friends have come. Pallavi welcomes her guests with a hearty splash from a huge water pistol, followed by water balloons, then by the coloured powder. She strews it over her guests and smears it on their faces, arms and every inch of visible skin. Everyone lights up pink, yellow, orange, purple and green. They don’t stop until the colours are used up. My mouth fills with the taste of chalk. The neighbourhood children are delighted by the tall, white woman, over whom they throw especially many water balloons. “Look, all the white skin has disappeared,” says Megghna.

She also warns me not to walk the streets of Mumbai tonight, for the jovial, colourful Holi festival also has its dark sides. The men drink bhang, devilish stuff made of hemp, milk and some other substances. Then they wander the streets inebriated. “You enjoyed Holi?” asks Aneesh when I return. I clumsily attempt to wag my head.

Two days later, the red colour is still visible in my hair.