unwanted want

Holi Embrace

The day of Holi dawned on Hindaoura, a world poised on the brink of vivacious transformation. Riya, ever the spirit of exuberance, led the charge, her laughter a beacon amidst the bloom of colors. Meera watched, a tendril of amusement curling around the trepidation that gripped her heart. Sarkar was coming.

Miles away, Sarkar stepped onto the train, the hum of his city a fading echo behind the clatter of tracks below. Mumbai’s dark prince, surrounded by his loyal shadows, was heading towards a riot of colors that awaited in Hindaoura - a stark deviation from his regimented reality.

In Hindaoura, the scent of gujiyas being fried and the blend of natural colors prepared by loving hands permeated the surroundings. Neena, with matronly pride, orchestrated the festival’s culinary delights, each dish steeped in tradition and anticipation for their special guest.

Riya, caught in a whirlwind of mirth, festooned her sister with neon-pink gulal. "When Jiju arrives, let it be known that the colors of Hindaoura’s Holi already grace his bride!”

Meera, cheeks tinged with both the pink of the gulal and the flush of her emotions, finally surrendered to the joy around her. She was ready, she realized, to let the day take its course—to bathe in the colors, the laughter, the promise of new memories that could define the very essence of the alliance she had once dreaded.

As the sun ascended to its zenith, a convoy approached the edges of Hindaoura, stirring up clouds of dust that carried whispers of the world that Sarkar hailed from. Children lined the streets, their eager eyes spotting the approaching vehicles, and their hands clutching fistfuls of color ready to inaugurate the festivities.

Sarkar emerged, the crisp lines of his attire stark against the melee of hues that danced upon the air. Me He was met with a cavalcade of cheers, the vibrant crowd parting to welcome him. Tiny hands launched their colorful missiles with glee, dusting Sarkar's previously spotless exterior with the mirth of Hindaoura. He smiled, the gesture unfamiliar and surprisingly smooth on his typically stoic face.

In the heart of the town, Preet Aggarwal stood tall and proud, watching the interaction unfurl with a watchful eye. He welcomed Sarkar with a hearty embrace, the sort reserved for family and the closest of allies; this gesture pronounced more than words the significance of the union to come.

Riya's eyes sparkled mischievously as she stepped forward, her palms opening to reveal a stash of deep violet color. "Welcome to Hindaoura, Sarkar-ji," she chimed, her voice as sweet as the powdered dye she artfully smudged onto his cheek. Sarkar nodded, his eyes crinkling at the edges in silent laughter, accepting the initiation rite into the heart of their tradition.

The square was alive with music, the strings of sitars and the beat of dhols creating a symphony that spoke of timeless joy. As the throng moved to the rhythm, Sarkar found himself drawn into the tapestry of movement—a marionette whose strings had been seized by the spirit of Holi.

Meera, adorned in a saree of soft sky blue that now wore splashes of vibrant colors, emerged from the throng, a living artwork crafted by the hands of her people. Her eyes found Sarkar, and for a moment, a silent exchange passed between them, as palpable as the touch of a brushstroke on canvas.

"He looks lost, Didi," Riya whispered, half-hidden behind her sister, "Perhaps you should guide him?"

Taking a deep breath, Meera approached Sarkar with a smile. "It seems my sister has already marked you as family," she said, the colors on her skin a subtle testament to her own participation in the revelries.

"And I am honored," Sarkar replied, his voice carrying an unfamiliar lilt—a softness that was as much a result of the moment as it was of the woman who stood before him. "Holi truly brings out the warmth of Hindaoura."

Together, they walked, joining the mass of citizens in the grand celebration. Sarkar felt his guarded nature slip away with each step, Meera's presence a comforting anchor in the sea of fest ivity. As they moved amongst the crowds, children approached, their hands laden with color, and they laughed as they anointed both Meera and Sarkar with fresh hues.

"Dive into the spirit, Sarkar-ji!" they urged, their innocent faces aglow with glee.

Sarkar looked at Meera, seeking silent consent. At her nod, he knelt before the children, allowing them to smear his face with greens and oranges, a canvas yielding to the painters’ whims. His laughter—a sound foreign to his lips—melded with the music of the festival, resonating through Meera's core, awakening a flicker of something potent and raw.

As the sun set and the celebration wound down into gentle camaraderie, Sarkar found himself seated beside Meera, their fingers stained the same shade of purple. The noise around them had mellowed, and the people of Hindaoura, adorned in the day’s memories, shared sweets and song under a canopy of stars.

"Today has been a revelation," Sarkar confessed, his eyes reflecting the twilight. "I've not known a day like this... ever."

Meera turned to him, her features softened by the dimming light, vibrant streaks painting her as a woman not just of grace, but of fire and life. "Perhaps it’s a beginning, then. Holi isn’t just a day of joy; it’s a day for new starts, for washing away the past and looking to the future with fresh eyes."

Sarkar considered her words, the hues upon his skin a testament to her promise. "A new start," he echoed, and in that instant, the distance between duty and desire, between alliance and affection, seemed to dwindle, bridged by the shared experiences of a day unlike any other.

As the moon climbed higher, casting silvered light over celebrants returning to their homes, Sarkar and Meera remained in quiet reflection, the festival of colors having painted not just their exteriors, but something indefinably deeper within them both. The threads of trust, spun throughout their exchanges and fortified this day, had begun to weave the tapestry of a bond that would soon envelop their lives.

Holi had indeed been a festival of beginnings—a prelude to the mingling of two futures, tinted with the promise of understanding, respect, and a burgeoning affection that, for now, lay beneath the surface like a treasure awaiting discovery.

---

Meera twirled in the festivity, an impromptu dance under the bold blue sky, laughing as she tossed a handful of yellow powder into the air. The color rained down on them both, a shower of new beginnings.

"In Hindaoura, yellow symbolizes the color of new beginnings. It's the first color to greet the morning sun," she said, while her eyes refused to meet his , her smile as bright as the hue that now clung to Sarkar’s attire.

Sarkar looked at the color on his sleeve, a new day reflected in its vibrancy. "Then let us hope this new beginning shines as brightly as the dawn," he replied, allowing himself this moment of shared hopefulness.

---

As they took a breath from the festivities, children’s laughter filled the air—a contrast to the hard lines of reality Sarkar was used to back in Mumbai.

"Back in Mumbai, I never took part in Holi. We were too occupied with the calculations of survival," Sarkar reflected, his gaze following the carefree movement of the children.

Meera’s heart softened at his words. "Perhaps then, today we can calculate the joys of letting go. Even if just for a day," she offered. A subtle invitation to lay down the burden, even if momentarily.

---

The pair paused near a stall dripping with vibrant cloths. Meera’s fingers trailed along the fabric, collecting a film of color, which she held up between them.

"Holi blurs the lines that divide us. It encourages us to drop our facades, to embrace the messiness of life with open arms," she mused, her gaze returning to Sarkar.

"Facades..." Sarkar pondered the word, looking down at the kaleidoscope on his hands. "I wonder, what colors do you think lay beneath mine, Princess Meera?"

She met his questioning eyes hesitantly then passing a smile, "I suspect we are finding them one splash of color at a time, Sark ar-ji."

---

Laughter reverberated around them, yet within this cocoon of celebration, there was a calm, an understanding that seemed to flourish with every shared glance and word. Sarkar surprised both himself and Meera by holding out his hand, stained with a myriad of colors from the day’s festivities.

"I'm told the true heart of Holi can only be understood by jumping into the fray," he said, looking directly into her eyes. "Shall we?"

Meera placed her hand into his, her saree's blue now adorned with the day's vivid palette. "Indeed. Holi is not observed from the sidelines," she quipped, her normally reserved voice tinged with daring.

to. Be continued