Colors
आनन्दाद्ध्येव खल्विमानि भूतानि जायन्ते।
आनन्देन जातानि जीवन्ति।
आनन्दं प्रयन्त्यभिसंविशन्तीति॥
From joy, indeed, all beings are born.
By joy they are sustained.
Into joy they finally return.
It's a special day in Varanasi today. You see, it’s Holi. A celebration of joy and happiness. Chaos masquerading as just another holiday.
My goal for the day is simple: come back a different shade.
It's my second actual day in Varanasi. That morning my Airbnb host casually mentions that a man was shot two blocks away a day prior. Due to some sort of marital dispute apparently. How romantic…
I take a few sips of black tea and take a bite out of a pastry and rush out the door after throwing on my white pair of kurta pajamas (a loose-fitting, matching tunic and trousers set). Today, they're a set of sacrificial clothing.
I make it maybe ten steps out the door before a flock of children takes aim. Water balloons come screaming through the air towards me. I duck like Neo in The Matrix, barely avoiding a direct hit to the ear canal. Survival instincts kick in fast and I bolt down the nearest alleyway.
I dart through back alleys and tight corners, slipping past doorways and shuttered shops, until I finally spill out onto the steps of the Ganges River.
I follow the noise to the main square, where Holi is fully underway. The roar of the crowd hits me like a tidal wave.
The sound of the revelers is a living thing… hungry and loud.
Then I feel the hands of the crowd. Dozens of them. Everywhere. They smear pigment into my hair… my face… my neck. Purple. Red. Orange. Pink. Pick a color…
It feels like I'm being searched at the airport by an overenthusiastic security team with no concept of personal space. Hands grabbing for any inch of exposed skin. Laughing. Shouting. No questions asked. No escape.
I emerge unrecognizable… I've become an amalgamation of pigment. Nothing of the old me remains. My identity has dissolved into color and sweat and noise. It’s invasive and joyful and absurd all at once. That's Holi for you…
Once home, I celebrate with a long, hot shower. The kind of shower that feels earned.
The pigment clings to my hair for days, a stubborn souvenir. A reminder that some experiences don’t wash off right away.
And maybe they’re not supposed to.
आनन्दाद्ध्येव खल्विमानि भूतानि जायन्ते।
आनन्देन जातानि जीवन्ति।
आनन्दं प्रयन्त्यभिसंविशन्तीति॥
From joy, indeed, all beings are born.
By joy they are sustained.
Into joy they finally return.
It's a special day in Varanasi today. You see, it’s Holi. A celebration of joy and happiness. Chaos masquerading as just another holiday.
My goal for the day is simple: come back a different shade.
It's my second actual day in Varanasi. That morning my Airbnb host casually mentions that a man was shot two blocks away a day prior. Due to some sort of marital dispute apparently. How romantic…
I take a few sips of black tea and take a bite out of a pastry and rush out the door after throwing on my white pair of kurta pajamas (a loose-fitting, matching tunic and trousers set). Today, they're a set of sacrificial clothing.
I make it maybe ten steps out the door before a flock of children takes aim. Water balloons come screaming through the air towards me. I duck like Neo in The Matrix, barely avoiding a direct hit to the ear canal. Survival instincts kick in fast and I bolt down the nearest alleyway.
I dart through back alleys and tight corners, slipping past doorways and shuttered shops, until I finally spill out onto the steps of the Ganges River.
I follow the noise to the main square, where Holi is fully underway. The roar of the crowd hits me like a tidal wave.
The sound of the revelers is a living thing… hungry and loud.
Then I feel the hands of the crowd. Dozens of them. Everywhere. They smear pigment into my hair… my face… my neck. Purple. Red. Orange. Pink. Pick a color…
It feels like I'm being searched at the airport by an overenthusiastic security team with no concept of personal space. Hands grabbing for any inch of exposed skin. Laughing. Shouting. No questions asked. No escape.
I emerge unrecognizable… I've become an amalgamation of pigment. Nothing of the old me remains. My identity has dissolved into color and sweat and noise. It’s invasive and joyful and absurd all at once. That's Holi for you…
Once home, I celebrate with a long, hot shower. The kind of shower that feels earned.
The pigment clings to my hair for days, a stubborn souvenir. A reminder that some experiences don’t wash off right away.
And maybe they’re not supposed to.
