Mayukh Pandey
1
Aarav stepped out of the dusty bus as the late afternoon sun poured its golden warmth over the narrow lanes of his hometown. The air itself felt different—charged with excitement, fragrant with gulal and marigolds, humming with the rhythm of dhols being tested for the upcoming celebration. Everywhere he looked, the streets had transformed into canvases of anticipation: shopkeepers arranging pyramids of powdered colors in brass bowls that shimmered like jewels, women stringing garlands of orange and yellow flowers across doorways, children chasing each other with premature splashes of water from their pichkaris. The town he had left behind years ago, when ambition pulled him to Delhi, still pulsed with the same rustic vibrance. Yet something in him felt both foreign and familiar, like a melody half-remembered but instantly stirring. With his small duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he let himself walk slower than usual, absorbing each detail as though it might vanish if he blinked too quickly.
At the marketplace, where the crowd pressed close, the sound of drums grew louder, syncing with the thrum of his heartbeat. A vendor recognized him, called out his name, and soon Aarav was enveloped in greetings and questions about his return. He smiled, laughed, but inside, another thought tugged at him with surprising insistence: Ananya. The girl who used to sit apart during Holi, clutching her books as if they could shield her from the riot of colors around her. She had been his quiet anchor in a childhood otherwise spent in boisterous games, and though he had teased her mercilessly back then, he had always felt a tenderness he could never confess. A shopkeeper’s voice broke his reverie—“You must meet her, beta. She’s doing wonders now, teaching literature at the college. Our Ananya has become a name of respect in this town.” Aarav felt a slow smile form on his lips, but beneath it surged a current of something deeper, something that had been dormant but was never forgotten.
As dusk settled and lanterns began to glow above the bazaar, Aarav stood at the edge of the square, watching children practice with small bonfires of dry sticks, their laughter ringing like bells. The sight of fire preparing to consume the night reminded him of the Holikas of years past, when he and Ananya would watch from opposite sides of the crowd—he bold and loud, she quietly observant, her face half-lit by the flames. He wondered if she still watched the fire that way, guarded yet secretly yearning to step closer. The idea of seeing her again, not as the shy girl hiding from color but as the woman she had become, filled him with an excitement more potent than the festive air itself. The town’s Holi was about to begin, but for Aarav, another festival was stirring within—one of memory, possibility, and a longing that time and distance had failed to erase.
2
The morning sun filtered softly through the neem trees as Aarav made his way toward the college gates, the walls painted with fading slogans and fresh Holi banners fluttering in the breeze. Students poured out, laughing, their palms already streaked faintly with dry color, as if unable to wait for the real celebration. And then, among the crowd, he saw her. Ananya. She stood by the gate, her sari a simple pale cotton, her hair neatly tied back in a bun, a satchel of books slung across her shoulder. She carried herself with an ease that was dignified, her posture straight, her face calm, her smile restrained into that perfect curve of politeness that teachers wear like armor. Aarav stopped for a moment, struck by the contrast between the noisy students and her quiet composure. For an instant, he didn’t approach—he simply watched, as if seeing a familiar poem written in a new language.
When she finally noticed him, her eyes widened ever so slightly, the mask of her professional calm flickering with surprise. “Aarav?” she said, her voice carrying both recognition and hesitation. He grinned, hands tucked into his pockets in his old casual way, and nodded. “The same one who used to chase you across rooftops with a bucket of color,” he teased, his laughter spilling into the air, reminding her of a time she had long tried to bury. A faint blush rose on her cheeks, though she quickly hid it behind a controlled smile. “Some things don’t change,” she replied softly, though her eyes betrayed the faintest sparkle of warmth. Aarav stepped closer, leaning against the gate, making light conversation about the years gone by, about Delhi, about how little the town had changed. Yet his gaze lingered on her in a way that unsettled her careful composure, making her clutch her books a little tighter.
For every teasing word of his, she responded with gentle formality, but beneath that veneer, something stirred—an echo of laughter she had once swallowed, a memory of Holis when she secretly longed to join but never did. Standing in front of him now, she felt that same tug: the invitation to abandon restraint, to remember the girl she used to be before the world expected her to be measured and respectable. Aarav seemed to sense it, because his words carried not just nostalgia but a challenge, as though daring her to step outside the lines she had drawn for herself. When the college bell rang and the students dispersed, Ananya offered him a polite nod, saying she had to leave. But as she walked away, her fingers brushed unconsciously at her cheek, as though expecting color there already. Aarav watched her retreat with a half-smile, knowing the festival would give him another chance—and perhaps this time, she wouldn’t run.
3
That evening, the neighborhood courtyard came alive with the hum of preparations—rangoli patterns spread across the ground, brass plates filled with dry colors, the faint aroma of fried gujiyas drifting from kitchens. Families gathered, exchanging laughter and teasing as children darted past with paper kites left over from winter, their strings tangling in the branches. Aarav stood near the old banyan tree, surrounded by familiar faces who welcomed him back with warmth, yet his eyes sought only one. When Ananya arrived, her presence quieted the air around her; she wore a simple salwar kameez, her dupatta drawn modestly across her shoulders, her smile polite. But to Aarav, she was no longer just the shy girl with books—she was a woman carrying the gravity of years, her footsteps measured, her voice softer but surer. As they exchanged greetings, the chatter of the crowd faded for him, replaced by the rhythm of a hundred half-forgotten memories that seemed to resurface all at once.
The gathering soon filled with familiar stories of childhood. Someone mentioned Holis past, when Aarav had led the neighborhood boys in ambushing anyone brave enough to step outside. Laughter erupted as one uncle recalled how Ananya had once run to her rooftop and locked the door to escape the chaos. Aarav leaned toward her, whispering with that same mischievous grin, “You still would’ve looked prettier with some color on you.” She met his eyes, half-smiling but quickly lowering her gaze, her fingers twisting the edge of her dupatta. Later, during a lull in the conversations, Aarav pulled out an old memory: kite-flying from the terraces, when his paper kite had tangled with hers and they had argued over who won. The mention made her laugh softly—an unguarded laugh, carrying with it the echo of the girl she used to be. Yet almost instantly, she pressed her lips together, reminding herself of her position, her image, her years of careful composure. Aarav watched the shift in her face with quiet curiosity, sensing the unspoken tension between the woman she presented and the girl hidden within.
As the evening wore on, the crowd dispersed into smaller groups. Children clamored for sweets, the elders discussed preparations for Holika Dahan, and music began to rise from the far end of the lane. Aarav found himself beside Ananya again, both of them momentarily apart from the others. She stood still, watching the children run, her expression thoughtful. In that quiet, Aarav noticed how her eyes softened when she thought no one was looking—how they lingered on the kites, how they traced the sparks of the fire someone was preparing, how they carried longing like an unspoken story. “You’ve changed,” he said gently, not in mockery but in recognition. She turned to him, startled, her lips parting as if to respond, but no words came. Instead, she gave him a fleeting glance that held both denial and admission, then walked toward the group again. Aarav stayed where he was, smiling faintly to himself. For he had seen it—the girl she thought she had buried still shimmered in her eyes, waiting for the right moment to return.
4
The morning of Holi dawned with a sky so clear it seemed to invite the colors to rise and claim it. From every courtyard and rooftop came bursts of laughter, shrieks of children, the rhythmic beat of dhols, and clouds of powder that turned the air into a living canvas. Aarav, already smeared in hues of pink and green from early skirmishes with cousins, slipped through the neighborhood lanes like a conspirator searching for his mark. And there she was—Ananya, standing by the gate of her house, still pristine in her light-colored salwar, watching the riot of color around her with the same mixture of fondness and hesitation he remembered from childhood. She held a brass plate of neatly arranged gulal, as though the act of participation must itself be orderly. Her poise set her apart from the chaos, but to Aarav, it was precisely that distance he longed to break. He remembered the girl who once stood on rooftops, hiding from the flood of colors, and he smiled to himself, knowing she had not changed as much as she wanted the world to believe.
Without warning, he approached from behind, moving swiftly before her careful eyes could sense him. In a sudden, playful gesture, his hand, warm and unrelenting, smeared a streak of red gulal across her cheek. The powder flared like fire against her skin, staining her composure in an instant. She gasped, whirling to face him, her lips parted in mock outrage, her eyes wide with that old mix of indignation and something softer. “Aarav!” she exclaimed, her voice sharper than she intended, but her fingers instinctively brushed her cheek, as if testing whether the mark was real. He only laughed, stepping back slightly, raising his color-smeared palms in triumph. “You still look better this way,” he teased, his grin disarming, as though time itself had conspired to pull them back into childhood roles. For a moment, Ananya tried to hold on to her sternness, tried to summon the teacher’s composure that had become second nature. But the weight of the festival, the cheers and music, and the boy-now-man standing before her with laughter in his eyes cracked the shell she had built.
Her protest faltered, replaced by a sound that startled even her—a laugh, unrestrained and clear, carrying across the courtyard like a song long forgotten. She lifted a fistful of gulal from her plate and flung it at him in retaliation, the powder bursting across his kurta and face. The children nearby squealed with delight at seeing the usually reserved teacher join in the chaos, circling her with cheers of encouragement. Ananya shook her head, half in disbelief at her own actions, but her heart thudded against her ribs, faster and freer than it had in years. The red on her cheek burned not with shame but with exhilaration, a reminder that beneath the discipline and restraint, her spirit still yearned for abandon. Aarav, watching her eyes glimmer with that sudden light, felt his grin soften into something more profound. In that moment, amidst the swirl of color and music, he saw not just the teacher, not just the childhood friend, but the woman standing at the threshold of rediscovering herself. And as the gulal clung to their skin, neither of them spoke, because the laughter between them had already said everything.
5
The afternoon sun had mellowed into a golden warmth by the time the families gathered in the sprawling courtyard of the Sharma household, where laughter and song blended with the rising scent of fried snacks and festive drinks. Brass tumblers clinked as bhaang-laced thandai was poured generously, its frothy sweetness masking the sharp undertone that promised mischief. Ananya, as always, tried to remain on the edges of the revelry, her dupatta neatly draped, her gaze fixed on the swirls of color drifting through the air. When her aunt pressed a glass into her hand with a playful insistence—“Just one sip, beta, it’s Holi after all!”—Ananya hesitated, her brows furrowing as she weighed composure against curiosity. But Aarav, standing nearby with his own tumbler, leaned close enough for her to hear above the drumbeats. “Don’t worry,” he teased, his voice low and coaxing, “it won’t bite. Besides, you owe yourself at least one broken rule.” Something in his tone, half-mischief and half-challenge, tilted her decision. She raised the glass to her lips and drank, the cool liquid sliding down her throat, leaving behind a warmth that spread faster than she expected.
As the dhol players gathered in a circle and the rhythm grew louder, bodies pressed together in a swirl of color, the courtyard turned into a living sea of movement. Ananya found herself pulled into the flow, cousins tugging at her hands, urging her to dance, her protests drowned by the cheers. The bhaang hummed through her veins, loosening the edges of her restraint, blurring the invisible wall she always carried between herself and the world’s chaos. Aarav, watching from a step away, noticed the subtle shift—the way her shoulders no longer held rigid, the way her laughter came quicker, freer, unburdened. She stumbled once, almost colliding with him, her palm landing against his chest as she steadied herself. The touch was brief, accidental, but it left her breathless in a way she could not explain. His hand brushed hers in return, steadying her with a pressure that lingered just a second longer than necessary. Around them, bursts of color filled the air, crimson and gold powder clinging to their hair and clothes, as if the festival itself conspired to paint them closer.
By the time the evening shadows stretched long across the courtyard, Ananya felt herself adrift in a haze where the world seemed both sharper and softer all at once. The music throbbed through her, her feet moving almost without thought, her face flushed with a warmth that was not just the bhaang. Aarav’s eyes found hers across the shifting crowd, steady, knowing, and in that gaze she felt exposed yet safe, as if he saw the girl she had hidden for years. A laugh bubbled up from her chest—light, unrestrained, so unlike the careful politeness she usually wore. Aarav stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the faint sweetness of thandai on his breath, and murmured just above the music, “Now this is the Ananya I remember.” She met his gaze, her lips parting in a protest that never quite formed, because deep inside she knew he was right. And as the dhol beats echoed into the night, she let herself sway with the rhythm, her restraint melting in the riot of colors, unaware that this softening was the first step into a fire that neither tradition nor composure could contain.
6
The courtyard pulsed with life, every beat of the dhol reverberating through the ground as neighbors clapped and circled, urging one another into the frenzy of dance. The colors in the air had thickened into a haze of reds, greens, and yellows, settling on hair, skin, and clothes until everyone looked like walking rainbows. Ananya lingered at the edge, her lips curved in a small smile as she watched children shriek and women sway with abandon. She felt lighter than she had in years, the bhaang warming her veins, yet still she hesitated to step forward fully. That was when Aarav appeared at her side, his face streaked in bold crimson, his grin carrying the same reckless invitation it always had. Before she could protest, his fingers closed gently but firmly around her wrist, tugging her into the circle where the music roared. The sudden pull startled her, sending her spinning into the whirl of color and rhythm, her heart thudding as the circle closed around them.
The dance began playfully, his hand brushing against hers, his steps deliberately exaggerated to draw laughter from the crowd. But soon the space between them shrank, not by force but by the unspoken magnetism of bodies moving to the same beat. Aarav’s palm slid briefly, almost innocently, to her waist as he guided her turn, the touch searing through the layers of fabric, leaving her breathless. In reflex, her hand grazed his forearm, steadying herself, but she did not let go even when balance returned. They moved together, his rhythm coaxing hers, their movements gradually shedding hesitation until they were swaying as if the music belonged only to them. Around them, neighbors cheered and teased—someone called out, “Arre, old friends reunited at last!”—but the noise blurred at the edges of their awareness. All Ananya felt was the closeness of him, the way his eyes held hers as though no crowd existed, as though the chaos outside was only a screen for the quiet storm building between them.
As the circle shifted and clapped to the beat, the teasing grew louder, playful comments flying from all directions. But instead of retreating into her usual shell, Ananya found herself laughing with them, even as her body moved instinctively toward Aarav’s. Each brush of his hand seemed both accidental and deliberate, each glance laden with meanings she wasn’t ready to name. Her cheeks burned, though whether from the bhaang, the dancing, or the heat of his nearness, she could not tell. The smear of red across his jaw, the streak of green on his collarbone, the dusting of yellow in his hair—all of it made him look untamed, elemental, as if he too belonged to the fire of the festival. When their hands finally clasped fully in a turn, the cheer that erupted around them was thunderous, but Ananya barely heard it. Locked in his gaze, she realized with a rush that the careful distance she had spent years cultivating was crumbling, undone not by words but by the simple, undeniable truth of their bodies moving as one beneath the open sky.
7
The festival’s uproar carried on behind them—dhol beats, laughter, and bursts of color filling the air—but in the narrow alley where Aarav and Ananya wandered, the world seemed to dim into something softer, more intimate. The walls on either side were smeared with handprints and streaks of gulal, faded reminders of the chaos they had just left behind. Here, away from the crowd’s teasing and music, their footsteps slowed, the distance between them narrowing with every step though neither acknowledged it aloud. Ananya’s dupatta was tugged loose at one end, a streak of emerald green smeared across her cheek, and her lips bore the faint stain of crimson powder that glowed brighter against her flushed skin. Aarav, walking beside her, noticed it—the way the color caught on her mouth like a secret mark—and for a moment he said nothing, only let his gaze linger until she felt the weight of it and turned her eyes away, pretending to study the wall as though it held answers.
When he finally reached out, it was unthinking, natural, the way one might brush away a stray petal clinging to someone’s face. His thumb lifted gently, hesitantly, to her lips, wiping away the smudge of red gulal. The contact was fleeting, tender, yet it sent a shock through her body so sharp that her breath caught. Ananya froze, her instinct urging her to step back, to remind herself of propriety, of composure, of the image she carried as teacher and daughter and neighbor. But her heart betrayed her, beating louder with every second of silence. Aarav’s eyes stayed fixed on hers, not daring to smile, not teasing now, but searching—questioning whether she would retreat or allow him to remain close. The weight of years pressed between them, years of childhood games left unfinished, of letters never written, of words swallowed in the name of caution. In that pause, the air felt thick with everything they had not spoken, each heartbeat a confession neither dared to voice.
Ananya lowered her gaze, her lashes trembling as she tried to summon restraint, but the warmth of his touch lingered like fire on her lips. She wanted to dismiss it, to laugh and push him away, to retreat behind the armor of teacherly composure—but the alley’s hush left no escape, no distraction to hide behind. Her chest rose and fell quickly, betraying her turmoil, while Aarav simply stood there, his presence unyielding yet gentle, as if he understood that silence could speak louder than words. The colors smeared across their skin became symbols of something deeper: the red of desire, the green of renewal, the gold of memory. When she finally dared to look up again, her eyes met his with a vulnerability she had long denied herself, and in that look was a plea, a surrender, an acknowledgment of everything she could no longer contain. The noise of the festival seemed impossibly distant now. All that existed was the closeness of him, the memory of his thumb against her lips, and the terrifying, intoxicating truth that her self-control was dissolving faster than the colors in the spring breeze.
8
The night sky shimmered with sparks as the Holika bonfire roared to life, its flames rising higher with each crack of dry wood and burst of ghee tossed into the heart of the fire. Villagers gathered in a wide circle around it, clapping, singing age-old songs that celebrated the triumph of good over evil. The glow of the fire painted every face in shades of gold and amber, turning children’s laughter into silhouettes of joy and the elders’ chants into something timeless. Amid the crowd, Aarav and Ananya stood side by side, their shoulders brushing, though neither shifted away. The warmth of the flames mingled with the warmth already kindling inside them, and the festive noise seemed to blur, as though the world had dimmed to a private stage lit only by firelight. Ananya’s dupatta glowed at its edges, the reds and yellows deepening in the flickering light, and when Aarav turned to her, the sight of her eyes reflecting the fire struck him harder than the heat ever could.
He leaned closer, his voice low enough that it was meant for her alone, threading past the singing and drumbeats. “I never forgot you,” he whispered, the words simple but laden with the years between them. It wasn’t a grand confession, not wrapped in poetry or drama, yet it cut through the smoke and noise with a clarity that made her breath falter. Ananya’s lips parted, her eyes flickering away from his, toward the flames, as though she might find the courage she needed in their relentless crackle. Her heart pounded, the bhaang softening her fear just enough for desire to seep through the cracks of restraint. She remembered the boy who had once chased her across rooftops, the laughter they shared, the unspoken tenderness she had buried under duty and discipline. Now, standing in the glow of fire and tradition, that tenderness surged back, raw and insistent. She turned her gaze back to him, and what he saw there was no longer the polite reserve of a teacher, but the longing of a woman who had carried silence for too long.
The moment hung suspended, charged as the sparks that leapt skyward, until Ananya’s trembling hands rose, hesitated, then found his shoulders as though anchoring herself to courage. Her lips quivered before the words even left her, a whisper meant only for the space between them: “Nor I.” And then, as if the confession itself demanded proof, she leaned forward, her mouth brushing his in a kiss so tentative it was almost like a question. The taste of gulal lingered on her lips, faint sweetness mixing with the smoky air, and Aarav responded with a gentleness that made the world fall away. Around them, the villagers clapped to the beat of songs, oblivious, celebrating tradition, while the two of them kindled a fire of their own—one that burned hotter than Holika’s flames, one that consumed fear and hesitation alike. Ananya closed her eyes, surrendering at last to what she had denied for years, and in that surrender, she felt both terrified and free. For in the flickering firelight, desire and tradition blurred, until all that remained was the kiss that bound them, fragile yet fierce, fragile yet inevitable.
9
The ancestral courtyard lay hushed under the canopy of stars, its stone walls carrying faint stains of colors from Holis long past, echoes of laughter and festivity lingering in their memory. Tonight, it was no crowd that filled the space, only Aarav and Ananya, their breaths still ragged from the confession by the fire. They stumbled into the quiet haven almost unconsciously, drawn by the need for a space untouched by watchful eyes, a place where the weight of tradition could not follow. The faint scent of marigolds and smoke drifted in the air, but it was the closeness of each other that consumed them most. Ananya’s hand, still dusted with crimson powder, clutched at Aarav’s kurta as though to steady herself, leaving streaks of red against the white fabric. He caught her by the waist, pulling her nearer, and for a heartbeat they simply stared—at lips parted in anticipation, at eyes wide with the trembling fear of what they both knew was about to break open. Then, with a hunger too long restrained, their mouths found each other again, fiercer this time, lips colliding as though the years of distance had only been fuel for the fire now burning uncontained.
Their laughter, once playful and teasing, dissolved into gasps and sighs as passion took command. Aarav’s hands roamed, leaving trails of gulal smeared along her arms and shoulders, while Ananya’s fingers tangled in his hair, streaks of green dust scattering into the air with every pull. Each touch left its mark—not only on their skin but in the heavy silence of the courtyard, where every rustle of fabric, every hurried breath, seemed magnified. Ananya, who had spent years cloaked in discipline and composure, felt her self-control unravel thread by thread, her body yielding to instincts she had buried under duty. Aarav, in turn, held her with a reverence that clashed with his urgency, as though he could not decide whether to worship her or devour her whole. The rough stone of the courtyard wall pressed against her back for a fleeting moment, colors from their skin staining it like a painter’s canvas, a secret mark of their surrender. Her dupatta slipped free, pooling onto the earth, and she did not reach for it. Instead, she tilted her face upward, lips swollen, cheeks glowing with both gulal and desire, as Aarav bent lower to claim her again.
Garments loosened almost without thought, the line between celebration and consummation fading until there was no longer Holi outside and passion within, only one riot of color and heat merging into another. Reds smudged across her collarbone, greens streaked along his jaw, yellows pressed into their palms as they clutched desperately at each other. Their bodies tangled with an urgency that spoke of years lost, of longing bottled too tightly, bursting now in the sanctuary of night. Tradition, discipline, restraint—everything dissolved in the primal language of skin against skin, the whisper of her name from his lips, the moan that escaped hers before she could silence it. In that moment, there was no teacher, no dutiful daughter, no returning son—only two souls who had waited too long, finding one another at last in the flames of Holi’s madness. And as they sank deeper into each other, colors staining every inch of their bodies, it felt as though they were no longer participants of a festival but the embodiment of it, a living fire burning brighter than any bonfire lit in the village square.
10
The first rays of dawn crept softly into the courtyard, spilling over stone walls and settling on the remnants of passion scattered through the night. Ananya stirred against the warmth of Aarav’s chest, her breath catching as awareness returned—the loosened garments, the vivid streaks of color still smudged across her skin, the tenderness of exhaustion that told her what they had done could never be undone. Outside, the distant echoes of Holi rose again: children’s laughter, the beat of drums, the splash of water balloons bursting in the streets. Life was continuing as though nothing had shifted, but within her, everything had changed. She pulled the edge of her dupatta over her chest, instinctively seeking cover, though it was already streaked with faded crimson and violet, a fabric that betrayed her surrender. Her mind filled with questions—of respect, of image, of the judgment of eyes that would never understand. She was not just a woman in love; she was a teacher, a daughter, a pillar of quiet composure in the eyes of the town. What would they say if they knew the fire she had stepped into?
Aarav stirred beside her, sensing the tension in her body before she even shifted away. He reached for her hand, still dusted with faint yellow gulal, and held it gently but firmly, his touch steady where her thoughts trembled. “Last night wasn’t only desire,” he said quietly, his voice hoarse from both the night and the weight of his words. “It was fear burning away. Fear of what people would think, fear of saying what our hearts have carried for years.” His gaze, raw in its honesty, anchored her even as her doubts swirled. He brushed his thumb over the back of her hand, leaving behind a fresh smear of color, as though to remind her that what marked them now was not shame, but a story written in hues too vivid to erase. Ananya closed her eyes briefly, torn between the instinct to retreat into silence and the aching relief of finally being seen. His words pierced the armor she had worn for so long, and for the first time, she wondered if love, too, could be a kind of respectability—one that needed no approval but their own.
When they rose, gathering themselves, the courtyard bore the evidence of their night together: clothes rumpled, colors smeared across stone, the scent of marigolds lingering with smoke and passion alike. Yet as they stepped toward the gate, the weight of secrecy no longer felt crushing. The festival awaited them outside, alive with the same chaos they had escaped, but now it seemed less a reminder of what must be hidden and more a celebration of what they had found. Aarav extended his hand, palm still tinted green, and for a moment Ananya hesitated. But then, slowly, deliberately, she placed her stained hand in his. Together, they walked back into the throng of Holi, laughter and color exploding around them, their bodies marked not only by the powders of the festival but by the love they had claimed in the night. For the first time, Ananya did not shrink from the brightness of the world. She let the colors rain upon her, because this time, she was no longer hiding—she was walking into life hand in hand with Aarav, carrying not the fear of yesterday, but the promise of tomorrow.
End
