India, March 4 -- Holi never arrived quietly in the early 1980s. It gathered momentum. When my father was a chemistry lecturer at DAV College, Ambala, we lived in the professors' colony on campus. Sixteen families occupied the ground and first floors of that modest building, and when Holi came, those two floors became a world of their own. Celebrations didn't require invitations. We began at one house and moved to the next, a travelling carnival of laughter. Doors didn't just open; they were expected to stay open. Elders settled into easy conversations, while someone cracked a joke or narrated an anecdote. Children were prodded to recite poems. Laughter travelled effortlessly through stairwells and corridors; the festival depended less on arrangements and more on presence. The food was as eagerly awaited as the colours. Each family brought something distinctive to the table. There were plates of hot pakoras, delicate gujiyas prepared by families from Uttar Pradesh, and tall glasses of thandai passed around generously. Some added rasgullas or milk cake from the market-a cheerful blend of homemade and store-bought that tasted better because it was shared without formality. This was a true potluck, a testament to the diverse cultures packed into our little colony. We were more than 20 children of roughly the same age, which meant boundless energy and harmless rivalries. Water balloons were tools of strategy; the sharper the aim, the louder the cheer. A few mischievous boys would hunt for silver grease paint, the kind that refused to wash off for days. Wearing it was a badge of honour, even if it meant scrubbing for a week. By afternoon, the colony echoed with drumbeats. Long before playlists and portable speakers, the steady rhythm of a dhol was enough. Once it began, no one needed coaxing. There was no choreography, no audience, just spontaneous dancing in courtyards dusted pink and green. When we moved to Sector 7, Ambala, in the mid-80s, something subtle shifted. Life became more structured, more private. There were polite exchanges of "Happy Holi," but the easy flow from one home to another faded. Celebrations began to require planning; invitations were circulated and attendance confirmed. Gatherings moved to clubs. Everything became efficient, and somehow, quieter. The colours remained bright, but that seamless sense of belonging felt harder to recreate. When I think of Holi now, my mind returns to that professors' colony between 1980 and 1985-to two buzzing floors, gujiyas travelling from kitchen to kitchen, the dhol echoing against cement walls, and friendships deepening without effort. It reminds me that festivals once lived not in calendars, but in proximity. That is what made them unforgettable, long after the colours faded....