Another Holi has passed by. The white scarf’s untouched. Remember to wear white, they would always say. And sure enough the white looked best with all the greens, purples, blues, oranges and pinks that friends splashed. But it was the pink, always the pink that I longed for. The pink on our palms, ears, neck -- and if we were lucky, some on the cheeks as well -- that we carried over the next few days smug in our shared secret.
The Palash tree understands. It fills the forest with its orange burst of flame-like flowers. But I know if I crush the petals they’ll stain my palms pink.