She breathed deeply as the doctor examined her. A bout of coughing erupted again, and the doctor placed his stethoscope a tad longer on her chest. The cough didn’t stop for a while, so the doctor offered her a glass of water.
“Severe bronchitis. Her chest is congested—please get an X-ray done. We’ll have to be very careful,” the doctor advised her parents as he prescribed a fresh dose of antibiotics.
Back home, her mother created a ruckus. “I was always against her playing Holi, but who listens to me here? She was drenched all day and played in the sun till late noon in wet clothes. I wonder how long this illness will last, how long she will miss school. As it is, we South Indians do not celebrate Holi. So let me make it very clear—no Holi from next year!”
She shed silent tears. She was only six and had played Holi just twice, that too after shifting to Mumbai. As another bout of coughing hit her, she sadly reminisced about how much fun she had that day—out with friends since morning, spraying water, splashing colors, a late lunch at her best friend’s house, and an afternoon siesta. Alas, all that seemed so far away now.
The bronchitis took its own time to heal but never abandoned her completely. It would resurface in the form of whoops and wheezes, later to be calmed with an inhaler.
“Look at what that one day did to you. My poor baby—now stuck with lifelong medication,” her mother lamented.
So deep-rooted was her fear and hatred of Holi that she pledged never to play again. Her friends would call out to her, promise not to get her wet, but she remained adamant.
Years passed, and though her relationship status changed from single to married, her relationship with Holi remained unaltered.
On their first Holi after marriage, her husband romantically serenaded Rang Barse, smeared her with gulaal, and splashed some water. Her anger knew no bounds.
“Do you have any idea why I am bound to an inhaler all my life? Do you know how difficult it was for me to endure chest X-rays, injections, and endless antibiotics? These colors harm the skin, the water affects the respiratory system. We don’t believe in playing Holi, and I won’t let anyone in this house ever participate in that festival!” she screamed.
“Those were organic colors,” her shocked husband muttered under his breath. But the pain and emotion in her voice moved him—forever.
He would partake in the Holi festivities of their residential society but refrained from persuading their daughter to accompany him. The little one was often prone to colds and flu, and though he didn’t entirely agree with his wife’s theory, he refused to take a chance. It was a classic case of history repeating itself—every Holi, their daughter would watch from upstairs, her eyes filled with longing.
The vacations after their daughter’s matriculation brought a big break. For the first time ever, she let her girl travel alone for a two-month-long stay with her cousins in Kerala.
A picture on the family WhatsApp group, captioned ‘Cousins Celebrating Holi’, stunned her. Amidst a group of teenage boys and girls, their faces unrecognizable under layers of vibrant colors, stood her daughter—soaked and smiling.
She boiled. The moment her daughter tasted a little freedom, she had to do this. And that too despite all her warnings!
Her heart thumped as she placed the call.
“Hello, Amma! We’re all having so much fun!” her daughter shouted over the loud background clamour.
“You idiot! Haven’t I cautioned you enough? Now you’ll ruin the rest of your vacation with a bad throat and fever. Since when did we Keralites start celebrating Holi?” she barked.
“Chill, Amma! It’s a beautiful festival, kids have a holiday, and everyone here is so excited. There are a few North Indians in the neighborhood too—they brought us gujiyas and dahi vade. Even my uncles and aunts are having fun…”
She interrupted mid-sentence. “And what have I told you about my illness? The condition that hasn’t left me since that day? Do you want to carry the tradition forward?”
“Amma, your condition is called bronchial asthma. It’s genetic, aggravated by environmental allergens. That Holi incident was only a trigger, not the cause. And rest assured, I haven’t inherited it from you—otherwise, it would have shown by now. Papa and I have always known this, but you would never agree, so firm has been your belief.” Her daughter tried to reason with her.
She changed tracks. “Oh really? But Holi is just an excuse for streetside Romeos to inappropriately touch girls and take undue advantage…”
It was her daughter’s turn to retort. “I know, Amma. But trust me, I’m safe. I understand what a wrong touch is—they wouldn’t dare do that with me. I can perfectly take care of myself. Have some faith in me. Chalo, I’ll hang up—they’re waiting.”
She plonked herself on the sofa, reflecting.
Perhaps they were right all along. Ages after that eventful Holi, she still needed medication. Perhaps her mother had been overprotective—and so had she, unfortunately. Perhaps her daughter was different—stronger, more independent. She was growing up, gradually flying away from the nest. And she had to let her go someday.
She sighed.
Her daughter would be all right after all.
And she couldn’t be prouder.
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