Chapter 10 The Festival Without Colour

The Padmapur sky turned pale with the arrival of Holi, but celebration came thin this year. The usual clatter of drums, the splash of color on cheeks, the echo of laughter-all seemed quieter, more cautious.

In past years, Arinay would organize poetry recitals. Children would paint their palms and leave bright prints along the old school wall-a mural of unity. But now, the wall stood grey. The banyan tree bore no garlands. The children came in ones and twos, not to play, but to wait. And when they saw no sign of their teacher, they simply sat beneath the tree, hands folded in silence.

Rohan brought an old poem Arinay had once read aloud. He recited it, stumbling on the tougher words, but finishing it with pride. Others clapped-not because they understood every word, but because they missed the man who'd made words feel like music.

Meera passed around hand-ground color wrapped in paper. "Masterji would be sad if we didn't play at all," she said. But even as they smeared a little pink on each other's cheeks, no one ran. There was no mischief. Just memory.

From her doorstep, Gauri-Arinay's childhood friend and now the village healer-watched the children with a heavy heart. She stepped forward, holding a dholak. "He wouldn't want silence."

So she sang. A soft, trembling song from their youth, when freedom was only imagined in lyrics and hope was painted in bright gulal. The children joined in, voices cracking but rising.

The landlord's guard passed by, sneering, but said nothing.

The banyan tree dropped two yellow leaves into Meera's lap.

And though the festival had lost its color, something still bloomed-in defiance, in remembrance.