Not So Holi Festival

Varanasi had a vibe.

Heavy. Dark. Mystical.

I’d just arrived, and after a rough night in a cramped hostel bunk, I knew my hostel days were done. I booked an Airbnb for four nights, but check-in wasn’t until 10 AM so I grabbed my bag and went for a walk along the Ganga.

The energy in the north was different.

More chaotic. More unpredictable. More dangerous.

I wandered the alleyways off the river. It all felt strangely familiar. Like I’d been here before. Definitely.

Back at the hostel, I grabbed my things and moved into the Airbnb. The host, a young woman, seemed nervous and eager to impress she told me I was the first foreigner she’d ever hosted. The place was in what she described as a “posh” part of Varanasi, though it didn’t feel like I’d have much privacy. My room was basically an extension of their lounge.

Still, I decided to make the best of it.

She mentioned Holi festival was a few days away. I’d never celebrated it, barely even heard

of it.

From what she said, it sounded joyful, colour, laughter, celebration.

Sounded like it’d be fun.

I spent the next few days walking the ghats, relaxing, and meeting people. I clicked with a woman named L, a nurse from Spain who’d been on the road for seven years. We hung out a few times. She was kind, but I could sense she was a bit lost in that familiar “fuck society, stay free” mindset I’d seen in so many spiritual circles.

She told me she was living off savings.

I asked what she’d do when it ran out.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“But I can’t go back to the matrix.”

I got it, I’d been there before.

But I told her gently:

“You don’t find freedom from the world. You find it through the world.”

She loved her job as a nurse. I encouraged her to look into working in Australia, where nurses were in demand. She seemed curious. I left it with her.

Then Holi came.

I wore old clothes, knowing they’d get wrecked. The day started okay colours, music, some fun.

But by late morning, the vibe shifted.

No one had warned me that Holi in Varanasi was one of the most dangerous places for foreigners.

I missed the memo.

And so had L.

People were drunk, high, wild. Still, I kept it light. Went to a party for a bit, but by 1 PM I’d had enough. I messaged L she wanted to come out. I said I’d meet her at her place.

We met and walked toward the ghats.

It was at Assi Ghat that everything turned.

We were suddenly surrounded hundreds of locals, no other foreigners, no women, no police.

Just us.

The crowd was loud, high, drunk, aggressive.

They pressed in.

People tried hugging us, grabbing selfies.

Some were clearly trying to touch L inappropriately.

The danger hit me like a wave.

“L, we have to leave. Now.”

She looked at me like I was overreacting.

“What are you talking about? We just got here.”

“No,” I said. “It’s way too dangerous.”

The crowd’s energy had turned. It felt like a pack mentality was ready to explode.

Feral. Unpredictable. Primed.

Then, a man came up to me and shouted:

“Read the room! What are you doing here? You’ll get killed. Take your wife and go home!”

“She’s not my wife,” I said, “and she’s refusing to leave.”

“Then get out. Now.”

He stormed off.

L turned to me and said,

“You seem stressed.”

“Fucking right I’m stressed. This crowd could rip us apart and I can’t defend you or myself.”

She told me to go if I wanted.

She was staying.

I was stunned. But I accepted it.

She went to give me a hug like we were just saying goodnight after dinner.

Except we were in the middle of a feral, boiling crowd that could explode at any second.

I said goodbye.

And left.

I asked a guy on a bike if he could drop me home.

“No,” he said.

I said okay.

I stood there and prayed to Ramana.

“Ramana… I don’t want to go back to Australia in a body bag. Please get me home safe.”

It was a 25-minute walk.

By pure grace, I made it.

When I got back to my room, I messaged two friends I’d made over the last few days.

I just needed to know they were okay.

One replied and said she’d stayed home the whole time

The other messaged back:

“I can’t believe I made it home alive.”

She told me it had been so dangerous, and that a kind group of people gave her a lift and looked after her.

She said:

“I can’t believe nobody warned us. Not a word. How can something this dangerous be so covered up?”

I agreed.

It was all theatre.

Like everyone was pretending, pretending nothing bad happens, pretending it’s just a colourful celebration.

It was bullshit.

Later that day, my host turned up and asked how Holi was.

“It was so dangerous,” I said.

She smiled and said, “Oh, I know. That’s why I stayed in and went to a friend’s house.”

I was stunned.

She’d let me walk straight into a fucking war zone.

The next morning, I packed my things.

Her mum tried to get me to sign some crap about my stay. I refused.

I booked a ticket to Rishikesh and left Varanasi.

Lucky to be in one piece.

I’d never feared for my life like that before.