By Aisling Larkin
Shortlisted in the 2024 PureTravel Writing Competition
For a split second, time stands still. Painted faces stretch comically wide in grinning ecstasy, heads turn in anticipation towards the stage. DJ Honey Singh stands with hands raised above his head, appraising all that lies before him.
“Mumbai, are you READY for Holi twenty fourrrr”, he screams.
A sonic BOOM as the beat drops and the crowd erupts. Clouds of coloured gulal burst skyward, streams of pink and yellow and blue, and bodies launch into a kaleidoscope of colour and sound. I only notice I’m airborne when a streak of cold beer slaps me in the face and I emerge from a fevered dance-reverie several inches above the ground, sandwiched between teenage giants too engrossed in water-ballooning each other to notice their unintentional hitchhiker. Floating on a multi-coloured cloud nine, I’m stupidly drunk and deliriously happy. Which feels surreal, considering up until this morning I had debated leaving India for good.
Mumbai had opened her arms and pulled me into an addictive world of towering skyscrapers, vibrant markets, and bustling streets. One could get lost tracing a path along her arteries and towards her beating heart, following in the rutted tracks of speeding mopeds and lumbering cows, guided by the aromas of smoky tandoor, sweet mango, and the brutally invading stench of raw meat. But wheedling into my brain through this wall of ordered chaos, an old adversary, the Voice, had returned. Molding me into a committed bulimic over the years, the Voice would come and go in the manner of its choosing, pulling me inwards and turning me into a skinwalker hiding under the guise of my former self. Now, the Voice was not even content to allow me reprieve on what I had tentatively planned to be an adventure of personal growth.
I holed up in a boxy lodging room; inched through monotonous days listening to the lazy whir of the ceiling fan, interminable nights fighting every urge to relapse. But all the while, Mumbai let me know she was just outside the walls, raging and unapologetically alive. I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, the chaos could be an escape. Should I choose the familiar and deceitful ease of solitude and withdrawal, or drag myself out of the door and fight the Voice opting for life instead?
I choose life. Mumbai doesn’t make it easy; she is a whole universe crammed into one city, a teeming labyrinth that threatens to overwhelm a fragile mind. But persevere and the weary traveller is welcomed with a joyful heart. I make the choice during Holi, the Hindu festival of colour that celebrates the end of winter and the arrival of spring. A time for new beginnings.
Dancing as one with Mumbaikers in a blissfully euphoric crowd on the first day of Holi, this feels particularly apt. Firm hands guide me through a forest of waving arms: Lou, a friend of only two hours, whose previous suaveness is slightly diminished by his current resemblance to a grinning Jackson Pollock. We toast lukewarm Heineken and crispy golden pakoras as a pinkish late-afternoon haze hangs over the sky. I wait for the Voice to pipe up, whispering guilt, but my mind is too full of appreciation for the miracle pairing of spiced bread and tangy green chutney. The Voice is, for now, silent. I feel both complete peace and a cautious hope for the first time in days. The greatest journey? I think choosing life is just the beginning.
Photo by Dibakar Roy on Unsplash
