holi, next door

The family in C-4 starts at eight in the morning. Music I can identify from four walls away: the old songs, the kind that play at every holi and that seem to be the contractual minimum requirement. By nine the stairwell smells like colour and something more complicated — something festive and slightly raw, the way celebrations smell when they're real and not curated. I don't play holi. I have explained this to various neighbors over four years. Nobody believes me or cares. By eleven, coming back from the market, I am hit by a small amount of gulal from a child who is approximately four and has no regard for my stated preferences. My kurta is pink now. The child is delighted. I am less annoyed than I pretend to be.