Holi That I Did Not Play by D.N. Moorty SignUp
Boloji.com
Boloji
Home Kabir Poetry Blogs BoloKids Writers Contribute Search Contact Site Map Advertise RSS Login Register
Boloji
Channels

In Focus

Analysis
Cartoons
Education
Environment
Going Inner
Opinion
Photo Essays

Columns

A Bystander's Diary
Business
My Word
PlainSpeak
Random Thoughts

Our Heritage

Architecture
Astrology
Ayurveda
Buddhism
Cinema
Culture
Dances
Festivals
Hinduism
History
People
Places
Sikhism
Spirituality
Vastu
Vithika

Society & Lifestyle

Family Matters
Health
Parenting
Perspective
Recipes
Society
Teens
Women

Creative Writings

Book Reviews
Ghalib's Corner
Humor
Individuality
Literary Shelf
Love Letters
Memoirs
Musings
Quotes
Ramblings
Stories
Travelogues
Workshop

Computing

CC++
Computing Articles
Flash
Internet Security
Java
Linux
Networking
Memoirs Share This Page
Holi That I Did Not Play
by D.N. Moorty Bookmark and Share
 

There are lingering images of those days when as a kid through teens I used to play Holi. Images of innocence, images of suppressed anger when some boy chose to spray the girl you looked at often with colours that you wanted to spray her with but for some reason could not. Images of innocent cruelty when the gulal you put on the next door ‘Uncle’ you disliked was mixed with the powder derived from Forget-Me-Nots. And the ‘Uncle’ screaming vengeance as you looked on laughing your eyes streaming at the picture ‘Uncle’ made – though at the back of the mind was a sense of trepidation at what could later be – the consequence of folly.

Yet, the significance of Holi for me springs from that Holi that I did not play. The night before bhang-inebriated we sat round the embers of the tongues of fire that had reached for the skies but an hour ago. Some one inquired about the novel I was writing. Some one else asked me to narrate the story. I began enthusiastically and went on till somebody exclaimed: “Your heroine is too good to be true.” I stopped the narration as some odd apocalypse hit me. I went to the niche where I had placed the 2000 and odd pages written in long hand stored in some 20 notebooks got them out and returned to the embers and threw them all in and suddenly the tongues leapt briefly again to consume my work. As I looked at the winking red embers mocking at me, I felt the colours dry up within me. I walked into the darkness ignoring my worried friends and cried. 

I never played Holi again.  

15-Mar-2000
More by :  D.N. Moorty
 
Views: 2175
Share This Page
Post a Comment
Bookmark and Share
Name*
Email ID*  (will not be published)
Comment
Verification Code*
V5N28
Please fill the above code for verification.

    

 
 
Top | Memoirs



Solitude and other poems by Rajender Krishan
 


    A Bystander's Diary     Analysis     Architecture     Astrology     Ayurveda     Book Reviews
    Buddhism     Business     Cartoons     CC++     Cinema     Computing Articles
    Culture     Dances     Education     Environment     Family Matters     Festivals
    Flash     Ghalib's Corner     Going Inner     Health     Hinduism     History
    Humor     Individuality     Internet Security     Java     Linux     Literary Shelf
    Love Letters     Memoirs     Musings     My Word     Networking     Opinion
    Parenting     People     Perspective     Photo Essays     Places     PlainSpeak
    Quotes     Ramblings     Random Thoughts     Recipes     Sikhism     Society
    Spirituality     Stories     Teens     Travelogues     Vastu     Vithika
    Women     Workshop
RSS Feed RSS Feed Home | Privacy Policy | Disclaimer | Site Map
No part of this Internet site may be reproduced without prior written permission of the copyright holder.
Developed and Programmed by ekant solutions