This day breaks with the feverish call of a cuckoo, far away, for his mate.
I look around. Two unknown birds are cooing on my window ledge.
From a distant loudspeaker, snatches of “Rang barse” are wafting over on and off, riding over an irregular flow of wind.
Frame after frame of Bachhan showing an excess of explicit emotion for Rekha under a delirious spell, much to the chagrin of Jaya, film over my eyes.
Love is in the air this morning.
For a change, I am reminded that life still stays colourful beyond this rancour of an election season where mutual acrimony runs the show.
A procession of an assortment of little girls and young ladies is coming from the northern avenue.
They are led by two men who are playing khol as their dancing feet keep the time.
A group of singers follow them. They sing “Khol dwar khol, laglo je dol…”
One after another doors of Ulhas are opening up to welcome the processionists who urge the residents to throw open their doors.
I run down the stairs to stand close to the outer gate in the open.
“Ranga hasi raashi raashi ashoke polashe..” they throw up melody to the morning sky as their garlands of ashok, polash and shimul swing wildly to their dancing movement.
Suddenly I find smeared in coloured dust.
Holi Hae… Sanyal babu, my next-door neighbor, is shouting at me as he throws abir at me.
I notice his eyes glisten.
Colour is catching up with Sanyal babu, who turns eighty five just the other day.
There comes moment in ordinary life of ordinary people when Bachhans and Rekhas and abir sneak in through the open door to the call of cuckoos and colour it beyond recognition.