Holi 2022: Vikram Seth's 'A Suitable Boy' has these hauntingly vivid Holi scenes...

Tanya Maniktala in 'A Suitable Boy', directed by Mira Nair. (Image: Screen grab)

For those of us who hesitate to jump right into celebrations with coloured water and a myriad other (sometimes not-so-nice) things that people play with on Holi, fiction offers a safe place to partake of experiences that can seem a bit scary in the real world.

Examples of this can be found in Vikram Seth’s novel A Suitable Boy (1993), set in 1951 against the backdrop of a nation’s new beginnings after freedom from British rule.

Seth is a master craftsman, using words to delight, soothe, provoke, and flirt. He is at the height of his linguistic powers here, and the Holi scenes are stunning examples of his artistry. He creates a tactile and sensuous world, fragrant with desire but also in danger of falling apart, thanks to the indiscretions of those who know not the language and practice of consent. There are many references to Holi in this book but this essay focuses on two brief episodes.

Those who haven’t read Seth’s book can experience some of his magic by watching Mira Nair’s mini-series based on the novel. It has been adapted by screenwriter Andrew Davies. However, for reasons of length, many scenes from the novel are missing in the adaptation.

Seth writes, “On the morning of Holi, Maan woke up smiling. He drank not just one but several glasses of thandai laced with bhang and was soon as high as a kite. He felt the ceiling floating down towards him—or was it he who was floating up towards it?” Maan is a depicted as a wastrel who occupies himself with the pursuit of beauty and pleasure.

Unfortunately, he is too focused on the fulfilment of his own needs. He fails to recognize how he harms others. He is adamant about playing Holi with his brother Pran’s wife Savita. She is not keen on playing with colours but he assures her that it would be “just a smidgeon, no more.” After smearing her forehead and face with colour, Maan rubs it on her neck and shoulders and back. He holds Savita and fondles her when she tries to get away. She pleads with him but he refuses to listen. She calls him a ruffian but that doesn’t work either. Oddly, her husband Pran is hardly perturbed by Maan’s behaviour. Savita eventually appeals to Pran and another onlooker – Maan’s friend Firoz – by saying, “What kind of cowards are you? Why don’t you help? He’s had bhang, I can see it—just look at his eyes.”

Just as one wonders whether Seth endorses the licence and liberty that people take in the name of “Bura Na Mano, Holi Hai”, he brings the agency in the scene back to Savita. She wants revenge, so she fills a brass pot with coloured water and, rather stealthily, walks up to where Maan is. Before he can protect himself, she throws the contents on his face and chest. The astonished Maan cries, “Bhabhi doesn’t love me, my Bhabhi doesn’t love me.” Savita feels no need to massage his ego. She simply says, “Of course, I don’t. Why should I?”

It is worthwhile to compare how Maan behaves with Savita and how he interacts with Saeeda Bai, the courtesan who has him eating out of her hands at the Holi concert featured in the novel. Maan gets a thrill out of tormenting a woman who is unavailable and uninterested. When he is faced with a woman who owns her power, he turns from a wild animal into a pet.

Seth writes, “Mahesh Kapoor’s Holi concerts were an annual ritual, and had been going on at Prem Nivas for as long as anyone could remember. His father and grandfather had hosted them as well, and the only years that anyone could remember that they had not been held were when their host had been in jail.”

Seth regales us with enchanting descriptions of the evening when Saeeda Bai casts her spell on men in the audience with her voice and charm. The conversation between women in the audience who are jealous of her establishes that Saeeda Bai is respected for her singing prowess and her knowledge of Urdu. She is depicted as a performer rather than a sex worker but the women keep making jibes, questioning her respectability and, by extension, the legitimacy of her presence in such an august gathering.

Seth writes, “Saeeda Bai Firozabadi was Muslim, but sang these happy descriptions of young Krishna playing Holi with the milkmaids of his foster-father’s village with such charm and energy that one would have had to be convinced that she saw the scene before her own eyes.”

All barbs directed at her fail because of her musical training. The men sipping thandai, nibbling on kebabs, and devouring sweets, stop in their tracks when she begins to sing. Savita’s sister Lata discovers that “she’s just moulding their feelings like putty, and all those men can do is grin and groan!” Saeeda Bai is skilled at reading the minds of her patrons, and knows how to tease them with verses from Ghalib, Dagh and Minai, and her playful glances.

Seth writes, “Maan looked at her, bewitched, entranced and enraptured. What would it be like to lie awake long nights till dawn, listening to her voice in his ear?... Maan did not know whether he was held there more by his ears or by his eyes.” He does not dare to take the liberties that he takes with Savita earlier. The entitlement is gone. It is replaced with awe.

In Seth’s capable hands as a novelist, Holi becomes a colourful playground for enacting and challenging ideas about gender, the so-called battle of the sexes, and what it means to play.