Robert Capa used to say that if your photos aren’t good enough, you weren’t close enough. I have never thought about that line as much as I did that day in Barsana, when a bucket of coloured water hit me squarely in the back and, soaked to the bone, I had no choice but to carry on photographing.
This time, I hadn’t set off alone. Photographes du Monde had organised the trip around Holi, and our guide, Christophe Boisvieux, a photographer and specialist in South Asia, knew North India and the countless variations of the festival like few others. It was he who had the good idea of taking us to Barsana and Nandgaon, far from the touristy Holi of the big cities, for its oldest and roughest form, that of Braj: Lathmar Holi, in which women strike men with sticks, re-enacting the legend of Radha and Krishna. No uncertain trail to follow this time, no Mr Kurian to contact on WhatsApp: a group, a calendar, and the promise of two days in the cradle of Krishna.
In Barsana, I didn’t choose my way in. In front of the temple, the crowd had tightened into a single compact block, and I found myself swept along inside it, as in a human river that moved forward without my knowing where or when I would wash up. On the right, a row of men kept throwing coloured powder, handful after handful, over this river of people, without aiming at anyone in particular, for the gesture and for the colour flying through the air.
To breathe in that cloud of powder, you had to cover your nose and mouth. I had bought a scarf the day before, along with a traditional shirt and trousers found cheaply, which I knew were doomed to end up red before the day was out. Christophe had also warned us about our cameras: protect the bodies, wrap up whatever could be wrapped. We had followed his instructions.
In the thick of it, a man was holding an open booklet, no doubt a devotional text, which others followed with their eyes despite the powder already covering the page. Leaning over him, another man held a walking stick. Around them, dozens of outstretched hands, raised arms, bodies pressed against one another, with no distance possible any more.
A little earlier, I had wanted to get higher up. A balcony further on seemed to offer the view I needed: overlooking the scene, unobstructed, with large barrels of coloured water lined up against the balustrade. With another photographer from the group, we tried our luck with the police, who were doing their best to hold back the crowd, batons in hand themselves. “We’re journalists.” It didn’t work, and we stayed down below.
It may well have been from that refused balcony that the water that soaked me came, later. Despite all the precautions, the bucket hit me squarely in the back, without warning. A shock, a total surprise. On reflex, I looked for shelter. There was none. So I carried on photographing, soaked, with nothing left to lose.
The powder, for its part, had found its way in. Already on the spot, I noticed a fine blue deposit that had seeped into my camera’s viewfinder. I couldn’t do anything about it, but the camera still responded, so I carried on. It was only on returning to France that I measured the damage, with a visit to Canon and a bill I could well have done without.
The next day, in Nandgaon, the town was in festive mood again, but differently. The pace seemed a little less frenzied than in Barsana, and above all, the colours were no longer all turning to red. In the temple, I took a lot of portraits, with a much wider palette (yellows, greens, pinks, blues), far from the almost monochrome melee of the day before.
It was also in the temple that I saw several figures with made-up faces, wrapped in colourful fabrics, dancing in the middle of the crowd, surrounded by men who watched them or danced with them. They were hijras. That day, the boundaries of gender were erased a second time, after the sticks had already reversed the usual roles between men and women.
After the temple, we made our way into the town. I was trying to find a spot to photograph from, but the crowd was incredible, and I found myself rooted in front of a house. On the doorstep, a little boy was looking at me. He said: “Come, come.” I followed him.
I thought I was entering some sort of apartment block; I soon realised it was a house. The residents looked at me, a little surprised, without being bothered by it much. I was probably more surprised than they were to find myself there. The boy led me up to the terrace: a plunging view of the festivities, the crowd below, the colours rising in clouds. I was alone up there; nobody else had come up to look. I would never have found that view by looking on my own.
Below, on the paving stones stained purple, a circle of women in red, orange and fuchsia saris had formed around a man sitting on the ground, curled up under a round shield. Bamboo sticks came down on him from every side at once. A woman in an electric-blue veil, leaning forward, struck with all her strength. He did not move: he took it, covered in red powder, while another man, standing beside him, waited his turn. From up there, I saw the Lathmar as I would never have seen it in the crowd: an almost perfect circle, sticks all converging on the same point.
Of the rules of the game, the women who strike, the men who protect themselves, the legend of Radha and Krishna re-enacted every year in the dust, I keep a less vivid memory than of that alternation between control and its absence. In Barsana, a human river that carried me off in spite of myself, and a refused balcony that caught up with me by surprise. In Nandgaon, a child who opened up for me, without my asking for anything, a terrace above the crowd.
That day in Barsana, I was as close to my subject as it is possible to be: inside it, soaked, swallowed by the colour. Perhaps that is why these images matter more than the others.
*Planning Your Own Trip to Lathmar Holi
Lathmar Holi takes place in Barsana and Nandgaon a few days before the main Holi festival across India — usually in late February or early March, according to the Hindu lunar calendar (check the exact dates each year, as they shift annually). The nearest major transport hub is Mathura, reachable by train from Delhi (around 2–3 hours) or Agra (around 1.5 hours); from Mathura, Barsana and Nandgaon are roughly 45 minutes to an hour away by taxi or shared jeep, and many visitors base themselves in Mathura or Vrindavan for the festival days. Given the crowds, booking accommodation well in advance is strongly recommended.
For camera gear, prioritise protection over performance: a dedicated rain cover for cameras can save an expensive body from the coloured powder and water. A weather-sealed camera (dust- and water-resistant) paired with a single versatile, fast lens (wide aperture, to cope with the low light inside the temple) will serve better than switching between multiple lenses mid-crowd. A UV filter is worth sacrificing to protect the front element, and a shoulder strap or wrist strap is essential — both hands are rarely free. Expect the gear to need a thorough clean afterwards regardless of precautions.
