By Rehana Ahamad
ONE day I left work around 22:30hrs. I was exhausted and all the way home I kept fantasising about curling up on the sofa, munching on a bowl of warm cornflakes, while I catch up on my missed episodes of Grey’s Anatomy. My night was going to be perfectly calm and restful.

I lowered the music, drove into the yard, grabbed my stuff, and locked the car, then the gate. So far, so good; I couldn’t wait to get inside, shower and then listen to Meredith Grey complain about her worries as a surgeon.

As soon as I turned away from the gate to approach the house I was startled by two men, a woman and a young boy; they were armed with guns. Before I could react, shots were fired! My hands were instinctively positioned as a shield, but I was too late; the damage had been done. I could feel four separate forces of water hit me about the body and face.

I struggled to catch my breath as the water entered my eyes and forced its way into my nostrils.
I had suffered a “Phagwah attack” that lasted for almost two minutes. Once the guns were emptied, I raised my head to assess the situation. The “attackers” were my two brothers, sister-in-law and boyfriend. Luckily, my phone is waterproof, so there was no notable damage, but I was ready for revenge.

The “attackers” sought to run and I geared up to chase, but they had a back-up; my father began to bomb me with water balloons.
I started to get angry and I was ready to cry, but they started to laugh and I couldn’t give them the satisfaction, so I angrily bolted to my room, slammed the door, and went to take a shower.

It’s not that I’m a spoil-sport, but I really was looking forward to a peaceful night. I might have also been a tad bit ‘hangry,’ considering that I hadn’t had lunch, and I was tired.
Nonetheless, the shower calmed me down. I was ready to greet my loved ones with the usual love and kindness, but when I exited my room, nobody was there. The kitchen was empty, the bedrooms were vacant.

I even called a few times, but there were no answers. I came out of the house and made my way to the front yard; there they were, “liming” by the gate. I was making my way over to them when I sensed Ashraf, the older of my two brothers, run to me from behind, pouring a five-gallon bucket of water on my head.

I turned around hastily, on the verge of crying, when I noticed my 10-year-old brother Irshan creeping up behind him, and plastering a healthy handful of ketchup all across Ashraf’s face, blurting out the words, “Ketch yuh!” Mischief was written all over his face.

I had to laugh. Within seconds, all my anger subsided. I didn’t crave sitting in front of the television anymore. I was surrounded by the people I loved, and we were all safe, happy, healthy, and laughing heartily.

That night, I went to bed and reflected on all of my most treasured Phagwah memories; I woke up the next day and decided to share some of these with you, our valued readers.
Phagwah (Holi) is undoubtedly one of Guyana’s most treasured holidays. Although a Hindu religious occasion, the Festival of Colours is well loved and celebrated with much pomp and exuberance by Guyanese from all walks of life.

UNIFYING FORCE
It is a time when strangers become friends and enemies mend ties over colourful powders and gallons of water. As we all know, the advent of the coronavirus makes it difficult for us to celebrate the occasion in our usual Guyanese style, but it seems to be an ideal time for us to reflect on our most treasured Holi experiences.

Let me take you back to my childhood days at my grandmother’s home in Novar, Mahaicony, East Coast Demerara. The night before Phagwah entailed playing ‘dog and the bone’ in the yard, and just before bed, hide-and-seek during the blackout.
Bedtime meant all the uncles sleeping downstairs, while my grandmother, mother and aunts occupied the bedrooms; the children would spread out on three or four mattresses in the upstairs living room.

Phagwah morning, most of the cousins were awakened by loud screams; I was startled, and somewhat frightened, but then there was uncontrollable laughter. Most of us cousins gathered on the veranda to get glimpses of the action. I remember how happy I was to see most of my aunts, uncles and cousins running each other with buckets of water and water guns.

It was all fun and laughter until someone grabbed me from behind and walked me downstairs where an ambush awaited.
My face was lathered with powder and for some unexplained reason, some of my younger cousins and I ran in the yard for hours trying to escape the blackened ‘abeer.’ At seven/eight years old, it was a beautiful day.

Fast forward to 2006-ish, I was about 11 or 12 years old, and I had come to realise that Phagwah was my father’s favourite holiday. He would ensure that he always has that day off, and his celebrations often start the night before.

My parents had just moved from my paternal grandmother’s home in Mahaicony and had built their first, and very humble home in Grove, East Bank Demerara. We didn’t have many riches back then, but we had a beautiful life.

One night before Phagwah, my brother Ashraf, my sister Fazana and I had just showered and gone to bed. It was not a regular occurrence for daddy to come home early. Both he and mommy always worked hard to give us a wonderful life.
Nonetheless, we had just gone to bed when we heard mommy and daddy arguing outside.

This was out of the ordinary, so we all bolted off our beds and rushed out to the ‘back-shed’ to see what the problem was. As soon as we dashed out the door, daddy grabbed the garden hose and sprayed us until we were soaked. Mommy was angry; she felt it was immature and irresponsible for daddy to play Phagwah with us at 9:00pm.

To make matters worse, daddy rallied his troops and had us hit the streets to play with our neighbours. Initially, mommy wasn’t too pleased about that either, but her anger seemed to have disappeared after she saw how happy we were.

ECSTATIC
Eventually, she even joined us as we went door to door to play Phagwah that night. My siblings and my friends and I were ecstatic. In those days, holidays in Grove were like a village party.

All the neighbours would be out on the streets and the gate to every yard was sprawled open, as if inviting every passerby to join in the celebration; it always seemed as though every home was stocked with unlimited goodies for everyone else to part take in.

After a few hours of sleep, Phagwah Day came and it was even better than the night before. I distinctly remember my brother Ashraf coming home after hours to have lunch; he sat at the table under the ‘back-shed’ and asked, “Please fuh some food?” My mother placed the food and a glass of juice in front of him, and then asked, “You ah who pickney, son?”. I blurted out in laughter; mommy didn’t realise it was her favourite child; his voice was hoarse and his face was unrecognisable – seemingly a mixture of black-pot, powder and abeer.

A few years later, we moved to a more comfortable home in Little Diamond, where all my neighbours were staunch Hindus. It was there that I got my first glimpse of clean, authentic Phagwah celebrations. The years of celebration in Little Diamond enabled me to truly appreciate the religious connotations of Phagwah, and even today, I hold those memories dear.

I have had many other notable Phagwah experiences, but as I attempt to type them, my editor is growing more and more impatient for the story, so I must conclude here. I encourage you to use this year’s Phagwah to reflect on the exciting celebrations you have been part of, and commit to ensure the continuation and strengthening of our Phagwah traditions, so that your children can also have stories to tell.