And so we played Holi

The brat loves Holi, That's a far cry from me who shuttered herself in behind closed doors every Holi while the hordes banged on the doors, pouring buckets of water into the house in frantci bids to get us to open the door and be converted into a scary faced creatures from the living dead. The brat, on the other hand, revels in drenching in compatriots in crime and getting bedraggled himself. Ergo, come holi and the celebrations for him begin from one week in advance where the critters chase each other round the building compound shpoting wild arcs of coloured water from their scuba tank back packed new age Made in China pichkaris which were stocked with enough water to drench a couple of adults from head to foot. And this would result in me keeping stocks of towels and spare Tshirts at the watchman's counter for him to be periodically changed and towelled off.
Ergo, on the day itself, I had to tie him down to the bed to prevent him running off down to play pichkari at daybreak. By alternating threat and guile I managed to hold him back till around 11 am, after which he was off like a rocket down, with his water tank strapped securely to his back, intent on decimating all the pintsizes who came in his path.
Holi celebrations are rather lavish in the society. For one there is a DJ belting out popular dance numbers and for another there is an inflatable tub filled with water put down for the express purpose of keeping all the knee highs concentrated in one spot so that the adults can keep an eye on them given that they would all be fair unrecognisable from the colour dousing they would get. And then there would be the mandatory raindance. Ah yes, water conservationists, please throw the stones at me another time, but we do have a few tankers worth of raindance every year.
Ergo, the brat was busy playing holi with his friends and I was busy getting drenched and dancing with mine, periodically casting an eagle eye over to where he was to check on him, and extricating him from the kiddy pool to change him into a dry set of clothes and towel him off, hang him out to dry in the sun for some time before sending him right back into the water. After a while, he emerged voluntarily from the tangle of kiddy arms and legs fighting for space in the little inflatable pool and sat down on a chair with a loud sigh. I hurried to him, "What happened, brat?" I asked, a little concerned.
"Nudding," he replied with yet another long drawn out sigh.
"Arey," I pursued with my line of questioning. I am nothing if not persevering. "Why did you come out of the pool."
He gave me his usual, scathing, "Moms Can Be So Duh" look. "I'm tired of playing. I want to take a short break now. Before playing again. I'm taking a Kit Kat break."
Errr. There was no Kitkat in sight. I looked around. "Okay. Take a break."
"I is taking a snacks break. Is the short recess. Where's my tiffin box?"
A passing waiter was hailed and the pintsized one was plied with enough starters to quell the rumbling in his stomach. And then he felt thirsty, so he meandered to the counter where the thandai, the cold beverages and the restricted access for children beverages were. "I wantu have water," he informed the person manning the counter. A sealed glass was duly produced for his consumption. He poked at it with the proferred straw and sipped thoughtfully. Finally fed and sated he marched back to his gang.
"Mamma," he warned me sternly. "Don get wet. You'll catch a cole and fall sick, then I will habtu take you to the doctor and you'll get a big injecshun."