Holi

Under tin-roof shack where you sway on the eve of Holi. The dwelling, packed past brim and bare of fans, echoes rhythmic tunes from loudspeakers scaling clay walls. Unseen by you, over sixteen thousand die this year -- a girl named Rani from an old reel named Mother India breathes her last. What seeps into your pulse is the dense warmth of the shack -- bodies swathed in myriad hues of powdered dye. And you grasp this rhythm is the rhythm of spring and the local bhangra troupe keeps unrolling it beyond the horizon. Understand this: no one steps out of this shanty, more people enter this joyous pandemonium. The drums persistently loop back to their roots, everyone's palms skyward. Here's another shade: atop the loudspeaker stands a teenage lad adorned with but saffron dhoti and marigold garlands, his movements clashing and squirming. The horde is so tightly knit, we can only sway where we stand, footprints etched to the ground, bodies rippling like waves. Be aware of this. We are waves in an ocean as the troupe drums up another crescendo into the roots of bhangra and as all our palms fly upward you sense the ground protest beneath us. Absorb this truth: we are shaping the Earth.