Wandering in a World of Colors

“Holi na ranga holi…”
The tune played in my mind this morning. Suddenly, a whole film of color, sound, and memory burst open inside me.

I became that little Munni again. I stood beside my mother in our small front room. It was the one with the square window covered in iron mesh. Two mesh doors faced each other like silent guardians of our childhood.

Outside, a group of boys sang the Holi song, playing kolatam (the traditional stick dance where boys rhythmically tap wooden sticks together as they sing.
), their eyes bright with anticipation of the reward they hoped to earn.
Amma always had a one-rupee coin ready, but she never gave it until the song was finished.
We waited with the same excitement as the boys, though we never admitted it.

Ah, the excitement on the day before Holi.
We begged Amma for a little extra money so we could buy more colors.
We went to the market in groups, bought our packets proudly, and displayed them on the table as if they were treasure.

Sleep never visited us easily the night before.
I would pray for morning to hurry.

The morning of magic arrived. Our hearts would race.
We wore old clothes. We grabbed buckets, mugs, and steel vessels. Anything that could hold water and color was used. We prepared for battle.

I still remember standing in the backyard, spotting our cousins crossing the open ground with color packets and water guns.
We hid behind the front wall, waiting…
And then, we pounced.

The ambush began.
Screams of joy. Laughter echoing through the lanes.
I was the clumsy one, always the easiest target, but my smile never left.

After drenching each other in red, yellow, blue, and endless pink, we’d form a pack. We would roam from house to house, pulling cousins and friends into our colorful war.

By noon, we dragged ourselves home, dripping.
Pink was the worst; it refused to leave even after multiple showers.

In the afternoon, the boys came again, singing the Holi song, expecting their coin.
And just like that, Holi ended — until next year.

But one year, everything changed.

I was around 12 or 13.
My cousin and I went house to house, calling our friends like every year.

But the girls came out only for a few minutes. They were not allowed to roam anymore.

Someone said,
“You’re not little kids anymore to go around like that.”

The words weren’t about childhood.
They were about our bodies.

It was said only to the girls.
In that moment, they didn’t just notice our growth…
they restricted it.
They folded pieces of us inward that should have been allowed to blossom.

The next year, no one came out at all.
And just like that, my Holi ended.

The child in me stayed longer than in the others.
She still played with dolls, held imaginary birthdays, created whole worlds in her mind. But slowly, the other girls stepped away from childhood.
And no one was coming with me anymore to go around the town to play Holi.

I didn’t understand why I couldn’t stay in that world a little longer.
Not until the eyes of older women began lingering on my chest, measuring my growth.
Not until the day the eyes of men began lingering there too.

That’s when I unconsciously bent myself smaller.
That’s when I stopped wanting to go out for Holi.

The colors didn’t leave my hands, they left my freedom.