The Story of Colours
Holi | Mythological origins of the festival
This story is part of the new series which seeks to retell the mythological origins of certain festivals celebrated in India. While there has been a strong attempt to ensure there is some grounding by citing ancient literature, creative liberty has been taken in the narrative only to dramatize the events and add psychological depths to the characters. This may (or may not) infuse new meaning to the festival itself. The views are of my own expressed without the intention of hurting anyone’s belief. You can also read the retelling of the festival Onam (The Story of Three Paces), Durga Puja (The Story of Mahishāsurmardini). Diwali (The Story of Return), Mahashivratri (The Story of Halahal) and Holika Dahan (The Story of Burning)
OVERVIEW
While there is no clear evidence in any ancient scriptures of the association, there is an oral legend about how the tradition of playing with colours started in Holi, that probably originated regionally and later got added into the mainstream narrative.
STORY
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“Maiya (Mother), how come I am not beautiful?”
Despite the strangeness of the question, hearing the sweet, soulful voice of her 10-year-old son was enough to distract Yashoda from the house chores. She turned around to see a noticeably upset Krishn standing near her at the courtyard.
She bent down to his level and gently held his face with both her palms. The sunlight beautifully illuminated his dark complexion. When their eyes met, for a moment like many times before, she felt she could see the whole cosmos behind the tears…
“What makes you think you are not, my dear Kaanha?”, she asked, snapping back to the moment.
Krishn rubbed his teary eyes. “Because I look so different from all the gopis. From Radha. She is so fair.”
Yashoda sighed. If only he could see himself in the way she saw him. She suddenly had an idea. She got up, quickly got some gulal (colour powder) from the house and came back before softly applying some of it across Krishn’s cheeks.
“Listen to me carefully, Kanhaiya. You are a very handsome, gorgeous boy because of who you are. The colour of someone’s skin doesn’t define their beauty.”
“It doesn’t?” Krishn asked innocently, confused yet fascinated with applied gulal.
“No. Look, now you look red. Take this and go apply on Radha’s face. See if her skin colour changes.”
Bemused and excited by the unusual directive by his mother to cause mischief, Krishn grabbed a fistful of gulal from her hand and ran out, screaming back:
“Yes! That’s it! I am going put it on Radha and all the gopis until we are all the same colour and beautiful!”
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