every march—
these guys in thin white cotton shirts,
pockets full of colours,
smearing red on cheeks,
on brows,
on the house after ours.
"bura na mano, holi hai,"
they laugh.
at my gate they stop.
curse my grandpa,
spit his surname
like it tastes wrong.
i stand there.
my white shirt
absorbs it all.
the stain sticks.
the name sticks.
i cannot wash either away.
Oct 25, 2025
Oct 25, 2025 at 8:48 AM UTC
every march—
these guys in thin white cotton shirts,
pockets full of colours,
smearing red on cheeks,
on brows,
on the house after ours.
"bura na mano, holi hai,"
they laugh.
at my gate they stop.
curse my grandpa,
spit his surname
like it tastes wrong.
i stand there.
my white shirt
absorbs it all.
the stain sticks.
the name sticks.
i cannot wash either away.
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