It’s Holi today, and while I’ve tried to keep the spirit alive wherever I am, there’s always a quiet emptiness that creeps in this time of year. Holi used to mean something entirely different when I was growing up in Gwalior... A festival that was louder, messier, more chaotic, and yet so full of heart. Now, as an immigrant far from home, Holi feels quieter, more reflective and honestly, a little lonely.
Growing up in Gwalior, Holi wasn’t just about colors, it was about the people, the atmosphere, and the effortless joy that came with it. The day would start early with the sounds of laughter and splashes of color filling the streets. Friends and neighbors would come together without the need for an invitation. The air would smell of gulaal and wet earth, and the streets would be lined with people chasing each other, drenched in color, while loud Bollywood songs blasted from every corner.
I remember how we used to plan our color attacks the night before. We used to gather pichkaris and water balloons, and by mid-morning, everyone was unrecognizable under layers of silver pinks, blues, and greens. There was no worry about clothes being ruined or hair being a mess because that was the point. Then came the sweets...gujiyas, thandai, and all sorts of homemade snacks that every household seemed to have an endless supply of. Holi was a sensory overload in the best possible way!!! Colorful, loud, sweet, chaotic, and deeply comforting.
It’s been years, but I vividly remember the exhaustion after a long shower, scrubbing off the stubborn colors from my skin and hair. The tender warmth of the March sun on our hands, still stained with hints of color. That special mom made chicken curry, a Holi tradition that tasted like home. And the quiet that followed after all the chaos and laughter... A peaceful stillness that made it all feel complete.
But Holi as an adult, and more so as an immigrant, feels… different. I still try... I make something colorful, maybe buy some gulaal, and wish friends and family over text. But there’s no crowd of friends showing up unannounced, no neighbors dragging me into a color fight, no loud music spilling into the streets. The energy is missing. The spontaneity is missing. And with that, the feeling of being truly immersed in the festival is gone too.
What makes it harder is the contrast. I know what Holi can feel like, so this quieter version feels hollow. It’s not that I’m not grateful for the life I’ve built here, but this version of Holi lacks the warmth and chaos that made it so special back home. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s the festival I miss or the version of myself that existed back then. The carefree kid surrounded by friends and family, not worrying about the next day or the cleanup.
I think the hardest part about missing Holi isn’t just the lack of celebration, it’s the emotional weight of realizing that some things might never feel the same again. Traditions evolve, people grow apart, and places change. Holi back in Gwalior exists now only in my memory, but that’s why it feels so vivid. It’s untouchable, preserved in my nostalgia.
Still, I try. I put on some music, maybe make a small batch of gujiya/mathri, and call family and friends back home. It’s not the same, but it’s enough... Because maybe Holi now isn’t about recreating the past, it’s about holding onto the feeling of connection, even when the celebration looks different. And maybe that’s enough for now.
So, to anyone missing home a little more today - Happy Holi. May the colors find you, even if they arrive more quietly this year...
Picture courtesy: A random colorful doodle made by me for Holi.
