His Color Never Fades

“Maa Ji, we all are waiting for you”, my eldest daughter-in-law called me downstairs.

I dressed up as usual and went to the courtyard of our huge palatial property. Being the eldest lady of this huge joint household, everyone was waiting to take my blessings on this auspicious day.

As I came out, each one of my children, their spouses, my grandchildren, my nieces, and nephews along with their families, took turns touching my feet. They bowed down with respect and each one wished me ‘Happy Holi’. I blessed each one of them and thus, commenced the grand Holi celebration for this year.

Everyone played with colors joyfully, splashing colorful water everywhere and running after each other so that no one was left out of the celebrations of this vibrant festival.

 Our chief maid offered me a huge chair to sit down and watch all the fun in the backyard. But I refused. It was time for me to walk back to my room and celebrate ‘My Holi’.

Holi had always been my favorite festival. I got married and came into this household in 1964. I was just sixteen at the time. My husband, I do not call him by his name; was three years elder than me. We made a perfect couple. We lived in a massive North Indian joint family of about 22 people, but it always felt as if we both were alone, enjoying the company of each other all the time. We celebrated all the festivals together, but Holi had a special place in our hearts. We found the festival very romantic, and we used to put colors on each other first before anyone else could play with us. Nevertheless, life was not all that easy. My in-laws were very orthodox and strict regarding customs and traditions. Daughters-in-law were always expected to obey everything silently. But I was able to combat all the tough situations because of His consistent love and support. I had three children over the next decade. But then, on a fateful day, my life came to a still. My husband died in an accident and suddenly, my world of happiness came tumbling down like a house of cards.

From that day onwards, I wasn’t a human anymore. There were numerous restrictions imposed on me. For months, I couldn’t enter the family temple, I couldn’t touch my own children, I couldn’t eat salted food and I could only wear a plain white saree. I was treated like an untouchable. I was still young and felt very annoyed about all this, but the most gut-wrenching thing of all was His absence. He was no more around to comfort and console me anymore.

I lived like this for decades. I still remember my first Holi as a widow; I was practically locked in the room so that none of my children could mistakenly touch me with colored palms. They said, this lifestyle of mine would bring peace to His soul, but I knew Him much more than his own family; His soul must be weeping seeing my misery.

After 40 years, here I am today, wearing a clean, plain white, cotton saree. My clothes and my skin have not touched any color for the last 40 years…. Or as everyone assumes it. Every year, since my husband’s demise, I was forbidden to come to the courtyard and watch everyone play Holi. I tolerated the ostracism for 5 years, but after that, on one occasion, I came back to my room, cried for hours holding His photo in my arms and finally decided, “It is not over for me. He loved me in all the colors. He loved to play Holi with me. No matter where He is today, He must be so disheartened to see these whites all over me. I went to the storeroom to quietly pick up a packet of color. I locked myself in my room, knowing that no one will be looking for me for the next several hours. I happily put some color on His photo and then, smeared my face with the red Abeer. I had not experienced this satisfaction for the past 5 years. It seemed as if He was smiling at me from the photo frame. And then, I heard his voice. It came from deep inside my heart. “Promise me Sumitra, every year you will play Holi with me, in this very room … no one else, just the two of us”, he said to me. I nodded, smiled, and happily accepted His request.

My position in the family has changed reasonably over all these years. Younger generations respect me, love me dearly and genuinely care for me. I tried to eliminate a lot of rigid practices from our traditional household over time but I never again played Holi with my children and family.

He awaits me in our bedroom. I go back to him upstairs every year, bolt the door and take out the hidden packets of colors. His photo has worn out over the years, but his smile has not. He smiles back at me when I put colors on ‘Him’ and smiles even more when I put them on my face. I believe it is his color of love that has stayed with me. His Color Never Fades.

“Happy Holi my Dear Sumitra,” I can still hear him say.