The vibrancy of Indian culture is often showcased across media, from Hollywood and Bollywood films to serious documentaries. The festival of colours is almost always part of that montage. It appears as spontaneous joy. A riot of abandon.

I am speaking, of course, about Holi.

In films it looks random. Filmed whenever the cinematic flow needs gay abandon, and an Indian setting. In reality, its date is anything but. It follows the lunar calendar, not the solar or Gregorian one. Holi falls on the full moon, the Poornima of the month of Phālguna. I wrote about this last year. It was as part of – and interlude in – a longer series centered around stories (and not theories). Parts of that exploration return here.

A calendrical aside

Indian calendars can end (‘antah’) with the new moon (‘amavasya’). These are known as ‘amavasyantah’ or ‘amantah’.

They can also end with the full moon (‘poornima’). These are called ‘poornimantah’.

In both systems, the waxing fortnight, shukla paksha, falls in the same named month. Therefore, Holi lands on Phalguna Poornima in both traditions.

There are many stories about this festival, and certain distinctive ways it is observed in most of the Indian sub-continent. Let’s try and cover one and do some theorizing.

Let us look at the one related the most to kids. This one explains the traditions observed on the eve of the main festival. It also gives a reference to the name. Interestingly, it does not cover the actual day-time revelry.

tale(s) of triumph of good over evil

teasers of connected tales

Quite a few of the adversaries in Indian mythological tales are Daityas. They are the sons (and daughters) of Mahāṛṣi Kaśyapa. His name translates to ‘the great sage’ who was ‘the one with black teeth.’ These children were born to one of his wives, Diti, which means ‘the limited one.’

tale of the golden-eyed one

One of these Daityas, and reportedly their early leader, was Hiranyākśa (literally ‘the One with the Golden/Yellow Eye’). He was killed by the hands (or maybe tusks) of the Varāha avatār of Viṣṇu (‘the wild boar’ ‘descent’ of ‘the all pervading one’).

This happened even though Hiranyākśa received a very specific boon of near immortality. He got this from his great-grandfather, Lord Brahmā (literally ‘the one who grows or helps others grow’).

This is not the story of the defeat of this golden-eyed daitya.

Food for thought #1:

In ancient forests, hunters would have witnessed battles. These battles were between the Indian wolf (Canis lupus pallipes) and the Indian wild boar (Sus scrofa cristatus). It would be evenly matched. Tusks and coarse hide versus speed and sharp teeth. If the fight took place in a muddy wallow, the boar had the advantage.

The wolf’s iris can appear golden. A hiranya-aksha.
The boar, often used in sacrifice, was a yajna varāha.

Could a recurring natural encounter have seeded a mythic template? A golden-eyed adversary overcome by a sacred boar.

Stories crystallize around repeated sights.

This could be the seed for a story of the fight between a hiranyāksha and a varāha. This became the story of how the giant Hiranyākśa was killed by the Lord Varāha.

tale of the golden-seated one

Hiranyākśa’s brother was Hiranyakaśipu (“the one with the golden seat”). His son Prahlāda (“great joy”) became a devotee of Viṣṇu. The father opposed him violently. The narrative culminates in the Narasimha avatāra.

Incidentally, Hiranyakaśipu had an even more specific boon of near immortality from his great-grandfather Lord Brahmā. There seems to be a pattern here.

This story is not about the death of the Daitya with a golden cushion as well.

Food for thought #2:

But imagine hunters watching a stag, bright golden-brown (‘hiranya’) in coat, antlers like a crown. Zoologically, Cervus duvauceli. Sometimes killed by a lion (‘simha’). Sometimes by a man (‘nara’).

The hide becomes a seat (kaśipu). A golden cushion. A hiranya-kashipu.

Over time, perhaps the hunted became the tyrant king. The predator became the divine avenger. Memory compresses. Symbol replaces observation.

The story of how a hiranyakashipu was disembowelled by a nara-simha. This became the story of how ‘the’ King HiranyaKaśipu was killed by ‘the’ Lord NaraSimha. The deer did look in hindsight as a crowned king, with the multi-pronged antlers.

the ‘holi’ tale answering a ‘burning’ question

Now to the burning.

The Daitya brothers had a sister, Holikā. She possessed a boon of immunity to fire, often said to reside in a protective garment.

Hiranyakaśipu, empowered by his boon of near-immortality, forbade the utterance of Viṣṇu’s name. He tried repeatedly to kill his son Prahlāda.

In one attempt, Holikā sat with Prahlāda in a blazing pyre. The garment was meant to protect her and allow the child to burn. Instead, it covered the boy. Holikā perished.

A freak wind, perhaps. Or perhaps the softening of an aunt’s heart. The story does not say.

The night before Holi, bonfires are lit. Holikā-dahan.
The next day, colour.

From ash to play.

the dots connect…

The ‘evil’ aunt is now (almost as an afterthought) reported to have another name, Holikā. Burning a bonfire of left-over firewood with dry twigs and leaves occurs the night before the actual festival. This event is called ‘the burning of Holikā’ or Holikā-Dahana. The quite rowdy festival of friendliness takes place the day after said ‘dahana’. It involves water mixed sometimes with mud and sometimes bright colours. It also includes colourful powders. This festival is called Holi.

… but do they

Looking at myth through what I (prefer to) call “mythoscopy” raises uncomfortable questions. If stories evolve, what lies beneath?

So I asked three simple questions:

• What is it called?
• How is it celebrated?
• When is it celebrated?

peeling the layers of holi: from ember to emotion

To understand Holi is to peel back layers of human intent deposited over three millennia. It is a living geological record of the Indian spirit. It is a “mythoscopic” journey that begins at the communal hearth. It ends in a riot of aesthetic play. Each layer of this festival did not replace the last. Instead, it settled upon it. This created a dense, complex history. Ancient functionalism eventually transformed into modern ecstasy.

the agrarian bedrock: the fire of the harvest

The deepest layer of the festival is purely functional. The name Holākā finds its linguistic ancestor in Hola, the Sanskrit term for half-ripe grain. This was the “Primal Holi.” It was a pragmatic boundary line drawn between the scarcity of winter and the abundance of the coming spring. The community gathered at a central hearth to roast the “first fruits” of barley and legumes. The bonfire was not yet a symbol of divinity.

It served as a communal oven and a ritual of survival. It was a literal “thanksgiving” to the changing earth.

the frontiers: the livestock herding north-east and the maritime west

Around the same time, there are festivals with unique vernacular hues at the edges of the subcontinent. These have been (now) absorbed by the dominant festival of Holi.

In the North East, the Yaosang of Manipur represents a stunning synthesis. It begins with the burning of a straw hut, symbolizing the agrarian fire. It was burning of the winter huts for penning the livestock. In warmer weather these were not needed for survival of these four-legged basis of the economy. It then evolves into the Thabal Chongba, which is dancing by moonlight.

In the West, the festival is Shimga or Shigmo. This is particularly true in Goa and Maharashtra. It originates from the Prakrit Sugrīṣmaka, meaning the “herald of summer”. The winter in the western seas is not that conducive to fishing, with the warmer season being milder. This is a celebration of survival of the lean period. It is also a hope, for a bountiful maritime harvest for these fishing communities. It preserves a rugged, warrior-like energy. Village deities are carried in palanquins to the beat of drums, maintaining the ancient “shouting” tradition.

These forms of the festivals help us bridge the gap between the ancient and modern customs.

the domestic altar of the east: the rite of the married woman

By 2nd-5th century CE, the festival’s setting shifted. The timeframe we can connect based on the works of the philosopher Śabara (more about him at the end).

It had migrated from the open field to the domestic sphere. The rite was primarily the domain of married women. This Holākā was mentioned to be predominantly an eastern festival. This “Lunar Holi” was centred on the full moon (Rākā). It was a ritual of continuity. It ensured the fertility of the household and the protection of children. The fire was a purifying agent. It was used to ward off the malevolent spirits. The fire also “prevented” pediatric illnesses that arrived with the seasonal shift. May be by burning away what could be later breeding grounds of disease carrying vectors.

It was a “feminine” Holi, focusing on the immediate prosperity of the home rather than distant myths.

the ascetic conflict in south: the ash of love

As the Śaiva influence deepened, the spring season—with its natural arousal of desire—presented a challenge to the ascetic ideal. The myth of Kāmadahana (the burning of the God of Desire) transformed the communal bonfire into a philosophical pyre. The act of “burning” was no longer about grain or household protection. Instead, it represented the sublimation of lust into spiritual devotion. The ash left behind the morning after was the “victory” of consciousness over the senses. Devotees smeared it on their bodies to signify the death of the ego.

In the South, this Kama Dahanam remains the dominant narrative. Śaiva influence is stronger there.

the moral synthesis of the heart-land: the execution of the demoness

The most recognizable layer today—the story of Prahlāda and Holikā—represents the “Sanskritization” of the festival into a moral allegory. By introducing this Vaiśnava hero, the tradition provided a narrative justification for the fire that was accessible to the masses. Namely, the triumph of Dharma over Adharma. The bonfire was rebranded as the execution of the demoness Holikā. This shift moved the focus from natural cycles to a moral binary.

This layer democratized the festival, turning a complex ritual into a monument to the survival of the devoted. Ironically, we Indians need mention of an enemy. Discussion of a victory, whether past, present, or imminent, also serves as the bedrock of unity.

the metamorphosis: from ash to play

The final historical layer is the vibrant Kṛṣṇa-līlā of Braj. This is where the functional becomes the aesthetic. Historically, the morning after the fire was a time for extinguishing embers with water and collecting protective ash. In the hands of the Kṛṣṇa tradition, this chore became a dance. The water-throwing (likely once a functional end to the fire) was transformed into the play of pichkaris. The grey ash was replaced by the bright Gulāl of the forest. The “shouting” once used to scare away spirits became the laughter of a society momentarily freed from its rigid hierarchies.

From stories we found reasons to let go of memories of animosity. And ashes gave way to colors.

the legal anchor: Śabara’s defense of custom

None of these layers would have survived as “orthodoxy” without the legal framework provided by Śabara. I found it in Holākā-adhikaraṇa. In Adhyāya 1, go to Pada 3, and read Sutra 15 onwards in that (around page 123 in the pdf). That is, if you would like to read it in original.

The logic is: if a custom (Holi is the example) is practiced by virtuous people (Śiṣṭas), we should “infer” a lost Vedic basis. Such customs indicate a connection to sacred duty (dharma). He maintained that practices by virtuous people must be rooted in the Vedic tradition.

Finally, Śabara looks at the “thing” or the “act” itself (padārtha). He suggests that even if the name of the festival changes, the authority of the act (prāmāṇya) remains. This applies whether it changes from Holākā to Sugrīṣmaka. It stays intact as long as the core ritual structure is preserved by the Śiṣṭas. This allowed the festival to survive its many “rebrandings” (from Śiva to Kṛṣṇa) while keeping its legal status intact. By declaring these regional customs as universally valid, he allowed the festival to be “liquid.” The festival can change its story, its name, and its geography.

Through these terms, Śabara provided the logical scaffolding that allowed Indian tradition to be incredibly conservative. It is anchored in the Vedas. The tradition is also incredibly flexible. It absorbs regional customs.

Today, when we celebrate with colors and Bollywood songs, we are participating in a 2,000-year-old game of tectonic shifts. We are extinguishing the embers of a Vedic harvest. We are smearing the ashes of an ascetic’s conquest. We are celebrating a devotee’s survival. Holi is not just a festival. It is a geological record of the Indian heart. Every era has left a stain of its own hue on it.

And to the residents of my apartment building, who insist on playing seasonal music at heroic volume,

I hear you, my friends. Happy Holi… in all its hues and forms!