THINK
PINK
By
Karen Watkins
Through a cloud of pink Karen Watkins takes a
personal scooter tour of the Pink City, during the spring festival of
Holi. Jaipur
is known as the Pink City because it was dressed in pink to welcome the
Prince of Wales in 1876.
“Don’t
go out,” said the receptionist, “it’s dangerous!” But I want to
experience Holi. So, diving behind pillars and vehicles I plunge into
the fracas. The roads are filled with scooters carrying multiple
passengers, each one having a different colour to offer.
At
a junction in the Pink City, three colourful men sit under trees while
pink-splotched cows munch cardboard. Turbans and sari’s march past,
even the pink buildings appear to glow brighter. A group of musicians
materialise, play and dance, ignoring the symphony of horns. A car pulls
up spewing a family who shower each other in a rainbow cloud, merging
with smog, laughing and merry. This is what Holi is all about—colour,
merriment and family.
After
Diwali, Holi is the second most important festival. It’s held at full
moon in February or March—a celebration of the coming of spring.
A
group of young men approach. Suddenly, realising my vulnerability, I dig
into a bag of silky pink powder creating a cloudy blur, becoming part of
the festivities. My adversary places seed-like flecks in my hair, pink
streaks on my cheeks and throws powder down my shirt.
The
men follow to make more mischief but I worry about my brand new camera.
“Jump
on.” A man on a scooter rides between the men and me. I hop on.
Why
did I do that? I think to myself as we speed away. “Where
you want to go?”
“The
hotel,” giving him the name, but he doesn’t know it. We
talk and he seems to be a nice guy and offers to show me the Pink City.
It’s early and there is nothing else to do. The shops are closed, the
hotel empty and it doesn’t have satellite TV. I
nod in agreement and off we go, my mind whirling with images including
slavery, drugs, police and newspapers.
‘Rajasthan is the largest of India’s 29 states.
Situated in the northwest of the country,
it shares a border with
Pakistan’
It may be the driest state but what it
lacks in scenery it more than makes up for with festivals, food and
saris. It’s no wonder that it’s known as India’s most colourful
state. Jaipur (City of Victory) is the capital of Rajasthan and known as
the Pink City because it was dressed in pink to welcome the Prince of
Wales in 1876.
We
pass the hallmark of the Pink City—the five-storey façade of finely
carved sandstone architecture—Hawa Mahal or Palace of Winds, built in
1799. The elaborate palace comprises 365 balconies and windows where
royal ladies were able to watch unobserved while festive processions
went by.
Passing
beneath a gate and shimmering in the distance is the water palace of Jah
Mahal, the summer resort of the royal family, mirrored in Maota Lake.
We
climb the Aravalli Hills to Amber Fort, abandoned by Maharajah Jai
Singh, in 1727, when he relocated to Jaipur. Elephants carry wide-eyed
tourists steeply passed the Mughal gardens and sweeping vistas to the
carved Elephant Gate and into passageways and courtyards. In the Hall of
Mirrors I imagine concubines peeping through latticed screens in days
gone by.
The
previous night the same elephants, carrying tourists in the stifling
heat, take part in the annual Elephant Festival in Chaugan Stadium,
Jaipur. The origin of this festival goes back to a time when elephants
formed an important part of the royal paraphernalia and were the main
attraction at royal processions, very often regally decorated.
The
procession starts late as the stadium continues to fill with locals,
tourists and far too many press photographers. At last the elephants
enter, greeting us with colour and head-spinning scenes of a bygone age,
accompanied by turbaned mahouts (owners). The mahouts go
to town decorating their pachyderms with painted designs, jhools
(saddle cloths) and heavy jewellery, including anklets above
pink-painted toes. What a festive sight—not only elephants, but also
camels, horses, jugglers, folk dancers, a kaleidoscopic extravaganza.
Next
we watch a tug-of-war between elephant Bulbul and 17 tourists. No prize
for guessing who won. A
comical polo match follows this event—where elephants chase a beach
ball. And we watch as four tourists, on the backs of two elephants,
throw fug (coloured powder) over opponents and anyone else who
seem to get in their way. The
grand finale is a fireworks display—my heart aches for the elephants.
On
the way to the hotel, we see fires next to roadside stalls selling
sachets of powder. Children who celebrate their first Holi must
circumnavigate a bonfire and seek the blessings of gods. Similarly,
couples celebrating their first Holi circle the bonfire seven
times—the seventh with the bride being carried by the groom,
accompanied by much leg pulling.
While
watching this, my guide invites me to join his family in their
celebrations. Travelling further and further away from town, my heart
beats faster. “Is
it far?” “No,
we’re almost there.” It
feels like an hour has passed, but eventually we stop in front of a gate
in a well-to-do suburb. Children swarm me in a blur of colours. “Nooo,”
I say, lifting my arm in a pathetic gesture.
They
smear my face—my rescuer explains that this is the customary Holi
welcome. We sit in the garden, a large sunny lawn overhung with trees.
Sweetmeats and a jug of icy water are brought as we try to communicate.
The children lose interest and play, spraying each other from water guns
and throwing packets of powder against a wall, and each other.
They
take me up flights of steps and a ladder onto the roof where they point
out landmarks that I’ve already seen up close. My earlier warning of
danger seems distant and empty, as I sit on the roof admiring the Pink
City.
Safely
back at the hotel and after trying soap, shampoo and even cleaner, I
struggle to get rid of the ‘pink’. Later I learn that water and
‘seeds’ leave an indelible dye, durable for days. Over a well-earned
glass of wine I contemplate how I am going to explain my pink nails,
pink scalp and pink breasts when I arrive home.
