<p>Holi, the rambunctious festival, signifying the end of winter cold and ushering in warm days, emblazoning nature with new life, spells transgressive behaviour in humans, blame it on the great god of mischief and love. Thus it was in the year 1948, after Independence, Sir Maurice Gwyer who ruled D Univ as the V-C was in holy dread of the oncoming festival. An under current of restlessness was in the air even while students swatted away at their notes in view of the final exams.</p>.<p>Sir Maurice, being an Englishman, hoped he would be exempt from the tomfoolery. But as the day dawned, all rules were thrown to the winds and men and women and children ran about with water balloons and <span class="italic"><em>pichkaris</em></span> to drown any passerby with red and green gulal. The V-C had given strict orders that the gate of his bungalow should be locked and no revelers should be allowed inside the compound. He had heard horrific stories of professors of his university being ‘attacked’ by the unruly mob of students who would leave their books for the day to indulge in wild playing with colours. </p>.<p>Gwyer Hall, the men’s hostel known for its elite, westernised residents was the first transgressor. Along with drum beating hostellers, some of whom would distinguish themselves as Rhodes scholars in the coming years, roamed the campus with coloured powder and balloons, with subversive plans to end up at the V-Cs bungalow to pull the sahib out of his hiding and giving him a proper drenching, all in the spirit of the day. High and low, men and women, teacher and student, servant and master, all were equal in free abandon, hardly recognizable who was who in the melee. Sir Maurice barricaded by the bolted gate, the gardener and cook acting as his security personnel had given little thought to the impending danger from an unsuspected quarter.</p>.<p>Indeed, he had not reckoned with the small wicket gate at the bottom of the garden leading into a by-lane which housed the bungalow of the Oxford-returned Principal of the women’s college. Not that he had had much to do with her except to reprimand her regarding the running of her college. He had heard she was quite miffed by his orders. While he stood supposedly safe, watching in horrified silence the ‘hooligans’ as he would call them later, (Rhodes scholars notwithstanding) climb the compound wall, one on top of the other, from somewhere came a crashing sound. </p>.<p>An oath, a scramble, the gatekeepers ran helter-skelter in the garden while the scholars jumped the wall and crowded in, making howling animal sounds. The big man in his pajamas jumped like a fox over the flower pots, panic writ large on his ruddy face. He dared not look behind him. But there stood Madam Principal, her starched sari streaked red, a <span class="italic"><em>pichkari</em></span> aimed at her harried neighbour, who burst into hearty laughter over the sahib’s disomfiture. Transgressive yes, but it was all in the spirit of the God of Mischief, Manmatha!</p>
<p>Holi, the rambunctious festival, signifying the end of winter cold and ushering in warm days, emblazoning nature with new life, spells transgressive behaviour in humans, blame it on the great god of mischief and love. Thus it was in the year 1948, after Independence, Sir Maurice Gwyer who ruled D Univ as the V-C was in holy dread of the oncoming festival. An under current of restlessness was in the air even while students swatted away at their notes in view of the final exams.</p>.<p>Sir Maurice, being an Englishman, hoped he would be exempt from the tomfoolery. But as the day dawned, all rules were thrown to the winds and men and women and children ran about with water balloons and <span class="italic"><em>pichkaris</em></span> to drown any passerby with red and green gulal. The V-C had given strict orders that the gate of his bungalow should be locked and no revelers should be allowed inside the compound. He had heard horrific stories of professors of his university being ‘attacked’ by the unruly mob of students who would leave their books for the day to indulge in wild playing with colours. </p>.<p>Gwyer Hall, the men’s hostel known for its elite, westernised residents was the first transgressor. Along with drum beating hostellers, some of whom would distinguish themselves as Rhodes scholars in the coming years, roamed the campus with coloured powder and balloons, with subversive plans to end up at the V-Cs bungalow to pull the sahib out of his hiding and giving him a proper drenching, all in the spirit of the day. High and low, men and women, teacher and student, servant and master, all were equal in free abandon, hardly recognizable who was who in the melee. Sir Maurice barricaded by the bolted gate, the gardener and cook acting as his security personnel had given little thought to the impending danger from an unsuspected quarter.</p>.<p>Indeed, he had not reckoned with the small wicket gate at the bottom of the garden leading into a by-lane which housed the bungalow of the Oxford-returned Principal of the women’s college. Not that he had had much to do with her except to reprimand her regarding the running of her college. He had heard she was quite miffed by his orders. While he stood supposedly safe, watching in horrified silence the ‘hooligans’ as he would call them later, (Rhodes scholars notwithstanding) climb the compound wall, one on top of the other, from somewhere came a crashing sound. </p>.<p>An oath, a scramble, the gatekeepers ran helter-skelter in the garden while the scholars jumped the wall and crowded in, making howling animal sounds. The big man in his pajamas jumped like a fox over the flower pots, panic writ large on his ruddy face. He dared not look behind him. But there stood Madam Principal, her starched sari streaked red, a <span class="italic"><em>pichkari</em></span> aimed at her harried neighbour, who burst into hearty laughter over the sahib’s disomfiture. Transgressive yes, but it was all in the spirit of the God of Mischief, Manmatha!</p>