Holi has always been a nightmare for me because of the dangers of

Host: The morning sun rose shyly through a haze of powdered color, suspended like dust from dreams half-remembered. The air itself seemed painted — streaks of pink, yellow, and violet danced above the streets, mingling with laughter, music, and the faint crackle of drums echoing between walls. It was Holi, and the world below the sky was alive with chaos and beauty — a thousand hands throwing celebration into the air.

But away from the noise, on the terrace of an old house overlooking the festival, Jack stood alone, watching the spectacle unfold. His white shirt was untouched — not a single stain of red or blue. Beside him, Jeeny arrived quietly, a small bowl of color in her hand, her expression thoughtful, not playful.

Jeeny: (softly, watching the crowd) “Amala Akkineni once said, ‘Holi has always been a nightmare for me because of the dangers of synthetic colours. Eco-friendly colours are the best way to celebrate Holi.’”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “So even Holi — the festival of chaos — has rules now?”

Jeeny: “Not rules. Respect. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “You mean guilt. We can’t even celebrate anymore without a lecture on what’s wrong with it.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe we’re finally learning to celebrate without causing harm.”

Host: The wind carried a burst of laughter from below — children squealing as a cloud of blue dust rose and shimmered. It looked beautiful, but even from a distance, Jeeny could see the glint of something chemical, sharp and unnatural, in its glow.

Jack: “You think a little color on skin is really a moral crisis?”

Jeeny: “It’s not about the skin, Jack. It’s about what’s beneath it — the rivers that carry it away, the air that breathes it back, the earth that swallows it.”

Jack: “It’s one day a year.”

Jeeny: “And yet the water stays poisoned for months.”

Host: A group of teenagers ran by on the street below, smearing each other with neon green and metallic purple, their joy uninhibited. But a stray dog nearby licked at the same water they’d used, and Jeeny’s gaze followed it — tender, troubled.

Jeeny: “Festivals were meant to honor nature, not outshine it. Holi began with flowers, turmeric, sandalwood — things that returned to the earth softly. Now we stain it.”

Jack: (leaning against the railing) “Maybe we’re just evolving. Every generation reinvents tradition. Synthetic colors, music, fireworks — it’s the modern world’s poetry.”

Jeeny: “Then why does the poem always end in pollution?”

Jack: “Because beauty’s never been gentle. Art isn’t supposed to be clean.”

Jeeny: “But joy shouldn’t come with collateral damage.”

Host: The sunlight brightened, catching the bowl in Jeeny’s hand — her colors looked different. Soft, muted, hand-ground powders made from flowers and herbs. They smelled faintly of rose and sandalwood — the scent of remembrance, of origin.

Jack noticed.

Jack: “You made those?”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Marigolds, beetroot, and rice flour. My grandmother taught me. She said real color doesn’t sting — it blesses.”

Jack: “You sound like a poet disguised as an activist.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re the same thing. Both are about preserving what’s sacred.”

Host: A sudden gust of wind swept through the terrace, lifting a few petals from Jeeny’s bowl — they danced away into the light, carried toward the chaos below. For a brief moment, the harshness of the colors in the street seemed to soften where her petals landed.

Jack: “You really believe a handful of homemade powder can change anything?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not the world. But maybe the way we move through it.”

Jack: “Idealism doesn’t clean rivers, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No. But apathy dirties them faster.”

Host: The words hung in the air like quiet judgment. Jack turned his gaze away, looking out toward the horizon — the rooftops now half-buried under a veil of artificial color. The smoke from cheap dye mixed with the warmth of the sun, creating an illusion of paradise — and a warning.

Jeeny: “You know what Holi really means?”

Jack: “Festival of colors, right?”

Jeeny: “No. It means renewal. Burning away what’s toxic — inside and out — and beginning again. But now we add more toxins to the fire.”

Jack: (thoughtful) “You make it sound like we’ve forgotten the soul of it.”

Jeeny: “We’ve remembered the joy, but not the reverence.”

Host: Below them, someone turned up the music — a burst of drums, loud and relentless. The city danced, radiant and oblivious. But up on the terrace, time seemed slower, wiser.

Jeeny stepped closer, dipping her fingers gently into the bowl.

Jeeny: “Close your eyes.”

Jack: (half-grinning) “Are you going to baptize me in your organic crusade?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m going to remind you what color used to mean.”

Host: He hesitated but obeyed. Jeeny brushed the soft red powder across his cheek — gentle, fragrant, leaving only a faint stain. It didn’t sting. It didn’t stick like paint. It melted, almost disappearing into his skin.

Jack opened his eyes, surprised by its simplicity.

Jack: “That’s… different.”

Jeeny: “That’s nature. It gives without wounding.”

Jack: (quietly) “Feels almost too delicate for this world.”

Jeeny: “That’s why it needs defending.”

Host: The wind caught her hair, strands glinting gold in the sunlight. Below, the cacophony continued — laughter, shouts, and colored smoke rising like modern incense to indifferent gods. But up here, there was only stillness, honesty.

Jack: “You know, I always thought Holi was about forgetting — forgiving, laughing, throwing away the heaviness of life. But maybe it’s about remembering instead.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Remembering what we owe to the world that gives us all these colors.”

Jack: “And if we keep forgetting?”

Jeeny: “Then one day the world runs out of colors to give.”

Host: A long silence followed. The noise below seemed distant now, faint — a dream fading into noise. Jeeny set the bowl down gently on the railing. The wind scattered the rest of the powder into the air — streaks of gold and rose dancing into the blue sky.

Jack watched, a rare softness crossing his face.

Jack: “Maybe purity isn’t in retreating from chaos… but in how we choose to color it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The beauty of Holi was never in how much color you throw — but how gently you let it touch.”

Host: The last of the powder drifted away, settling like memory across the city’s haze. The sunlight caught it, turning it to glitter.

And in that fragile radiance, Amala Akkineni’s words shimmered with new depth —

That celebration without care is consumption,
that color without conscience becomes poison,
and that true joy is not in the riot of pigments,
but in the quiet act of honoring the earth that birthed them.

Host: The drums below beat on — loud, insistent, joyous — but on the terrace, another rhythm had begun. The rhythm of reflection.

Jack smiled faintly, touching the faint red on his cheek.

Jack: “You’re right. It feels lighter.”

Jeeny: “That’s what real color should do — remind you of your place in the palette, not your power to paint over it.”

Host: The wind softened, carrying the scent of sandalwood and rose. The city glowed beneath the haze of celebration — imperfect, vivid, alive.

And as the last petal of color vanished into the sky,
the two stood there in silence,
bathed not in dye —
but in meaning.