On Easter, I went to church and then I went to Holi, which I don’t have the words to describe but it’s okay because NPR did a pretty good job of it already:
Holi, the festival of spring, is meant to be danced in the streets.
It’s about groups of young people exploding in water pistol fights that leave everyone drenched in eye-popping purple and shocking pink. It’s about buckets emptied over your head. By the time it’s over, even the stray dogs on the street are pink. It’s noisy. It’s wet. It’s a riot.
Maybe what’s most fun is that for one day, 4,000 people gather together and drench each other in so many colors, you can’t tell what color anyone is anymore. You could say it’s a glimpse of a new America — not black, brown or white.
“Pink, green, orange, purple, yellow,” says Poornima.
“Red, blue,” adds Mohit.
You can’t understand until you see it. Here is the aftermath of Holi for me and a few friends to help you try to envision this glory of color: