of Holi are happily dying out. In the streets you may still encounter respectable Vaishnava merchants pelting each other with coloured curd, cow-dung, mud, and such other delectable missiles. But to have a vivid idea of the wild delirium excited by this holiday, one has (in Bombay) to stand for an hour in the Márwári Bazar at Mumbádevi. He can there see what extraordinary social antics the usually sober, money-grubbing Marwari is capable of. How a crowd of these bháng[1]-intoxicated bacchanals will besiege a neighbour's Zenana, by way of a serenade, I suppose, and shout their rude amorous ditties in unmistakable language and with significant gestures and attitudes. The filthy epithets, the wanton glances, the obscene gestures, defy description;but these are rewarded, on the part of the dusky Márwáran, by equally shameless ogling and the squirting of red paint. This is the only holiday the stingy sojourner in Gujarát enjoys, according to his lights. Never is the morose Márwári more free, more frolicsome, more abandoned, than on this occasion.
- ↑ Hemp-juice.
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