In the Pink

There really was no purpose to seeing my hair stylist before leaving for India; I’ve had a very nice color job done here, for free, during the festival of colors called Holi. I probably wouldn’t have preferred my hair to be pink, but that was the color most thrown on me by the locals in Vrindavan. No matter how much I wash my hair, there’s still a chunk of fuchsia just at the back. I’ve begun telling people I did it on purpose.

I’ll back up a bit.

On the official weekend of Holi, 3-5 March, FSD Program Coordinator Anna and I took an overnight train to Mathura, the birthplace of Krishna. This, we were told, was the place to experience the holiday. For those who don’t know, this annual festival is celebrated by “playing Holi,” which is something like a country-wide paintball game. Fistfuls of brightly-colored powder are tossed at, thrown on, rubbed into, anyone you encounter in the street. Other methods of dispersing color are in watered form, using cups, buckets, jugs, these huge bazooka-type propelling guns made of plastic, and good old water balloons (usually dropped from rooftops on unsuspecting targets).

Anna and I stayed in the neighboring town of Vrindavan, and had a two excellent tour guides/traveling companions, Ram and Vishwajit. The former is a friend of FSD Host Family Coordinator, Namrata, and the latter is his best buddy from school. We were lucky to have them; I cannot imagine how much worse we would have gotten hit if we’d been alone. (Although I can’t really imagine it being much worse. Did I mention I have pink hair?) The plan was to visit as many temples as we could cram into an afternoon. Within seconds of getting into our respective autorickshaws (Ram and Anna in one, Vishwajit and me in another), Anna and I looked like a couple of Jackson Pollock paintings. White women are a delicious target.

My first assault was, as I mentioned, a burst of hot pink that went directly into my face. Of course, I was laughing at the time, which meant all the way to the first temple I was spitting in Technicolor. So, there we all were: Ducking in and out of places of Hindu worship only to be besieged by gangs of men and women screaming “Radhe, Radhe!” and “Holi hai!” as they gleefully and mercilessly splattered us.

And don’t think that being inside the temples offered any refuge. In one of them, Ram wanted so much for me to get up close to the Krishna idol that was, as most idols are, on an elevated stage-type thing. Crowds gather behind a rope or partition to pray and receive blessings from the priests. So, I stepped up, placed my palms together in reverence...and got a faceful of fuchsia from the priest. Apparently, this is a huge blessing. I felt more like I was in a W.C. Fields film, but there you go. I got a lovely freshflower garland for my troubles, so all was well. Plus, I could use the damp flowers to wipe of some of the colors and clear a small airway...

Oh, but it gets better.

Ram took us to a grove where apparently at night the trees turn into Gopis (holy consorts of Krishna) and dance with their lord. We were warned not of this supernatural transmogrification, but rather of the monkeys that will attack you. (I immediately started humming the Wicked Witch theme from “The Wizard of Oz,” but no one got it. Sigh.) Undaunted, we went into the temple amid the Gopi/trees, where we all knelt and lowered our heads. Of course, we had to lower our heads, since the priest at this temple decided to hose us down with a warm yellow liquid that had a vaguely familiar smell.

“Is that what I think it is?” I whispered to Anna.

“What do you think it is?”

“What does it smell like to you?” I asked.

Pause.

“Oh, my god,” Anna said.

Now, I know that cow’s urine is considered holy here. I’m even open-minded enough to accept a small anointing of it. But please understand: The crowd was being soaked with this stuff like we were on the floom ride at Magic Kingdom.

As soon as we left, Anna blurted, “Ram! Was that cow’s urine?”

“Yeah,” Ram said casually. “Why?”

Anna stopped in her tracks.

“Keep moving!” I yelled. “The monkeys! And don’t make eye contact!”

Of course, Ram was joking. The liquid was a concoction of yellow flowers steeped in warm water. Just after he and Vishwajit finished laughing at us—me trailing behind unconvinced but still using my wet sleeve to wipe my eyes—everyone stopped short and backed up. “What now?” I asked, plowing ahead.

That’s when the monkey got me.

It was a polite attack. She just leaped up and grabbed at my neck, tearing the flower garland in half. She even looked sheepish as she ate the only marigold she scored. I removed the rest of the garland and tossed it to the pack, “with my blessings.”

After that encounter, I got the nickname, “Saint Rachel.” Not bad. I hope it sticks—maybe even as long as this pink hair does.