38. Erase The Distance
Erase The Distance
Kiri
When I reached the main courtyard, I saw how the entire estate had changed.
The pale stone disappeared beneath draped fabric in pink, orange, yellow, and red.
Garlands hung from the balconies. Brass bowls filled with powdered color covered long tables around the courtyard, each one brighter than the last. Musicians sat beneath an awning tuning drums and strings while staff carried trays of sweets, drinks, and flowers through the gathering crowd.
Everyone wore white, including me. Mine was a gift from Mrs. Malhotra, waiting on my bed the second night.
A long white cotton kurta, light enough for the heat, with a narrow collar, small mother-of-pearl buttons down the chest, and subtle embroidery along the cuffs that I was absolutely going to ruin within ten minutes.
The trousers were loose and soft, tied at the waist, like I was someone’s respectful idea of a man.
When I'd put it on, I'd stared at myself in the mirror.
The white made everything else look louder.
The black of my hair. The rings on my fingers.
The tattoos crawling over my hands and disappearing under the sleeves.
I looked less like I belonged in their family courtyard and more like someone had dressed a warning sign for a festival.
Radhika stood near her mother beneath one of the arches, looking so perfectly composed no one would have guessed what I had done to her less than half an hour earlier.
Her sari had been repaired. Her hair was pinned neatly back into place.
Only the faint flush still high in her cheeks betrayed her.
That and the way she looked at me. Her gaze dropped briefly below my waist. Then she smiled.
I could still taste her on my lips. On my tongue.
I looked away before the memory made the five-business-day problem return.
Mr. Malhotra appeared beside me.
“Feeling better?” I glanced at him. His expression was perfectly neutral. He couldn't possibly know. Could he? “Radhika said you required a minute. That you weren't feeling well.”
“I recovered quickly.”
“As it would seem.”
There was something in his voice that made me look at him again, but he had already turned toward the courtyard.
Guests continued pouring in through the carved doors.
Family, friends, actors I recognized from films, directors whose names had appeared in every entertainment magazine in Los Angeles, children already reaching eagerly toward the bowls of color while their parents tried to keep them clean for another few minutes.
No one seemed especially concerned by the fact half the people gathering had faces known across the world. Here, they were simply family.
Mr. Malhotra gestured for me to follow him toward the center of the courtyard. The musicians quieted. Conversation softened around us. A large brass bowl stood on a low table nearby, filled with deep red powder.
Mr. Malhotra looked out across the gathering.
“Holi has many stories,” he said. “Different families carry different parts of it.”
His voice moved easily through the courtyard without needing to rise.
“For some, it begins with Holika and Prahlada. Pride and cruelty destroyed by the very fire meant to protect them. A reminder that power cannot make wickedness righteous.”
The remains of the previous night’s bonfire were visible beyond the garden wall, darkened wood surrounded by flowers.
“For others, it is Krishna and Radha. Love made playful. Color used to erase the distance between two people who believed themselves different.”
At the sound of her name, my eyes found Radhika. She was already watching me. Her father continued.
“It is spring after winter. Life returning. Forgiveness after anger. Joy after hardship.”
Children fidgeted impatiently around us. Mr. Malhotra noticed and smiled.
“But more than anything, Holi reminds us that beneath the color, we are equal. Wealth, age, title, pride. For one day, all of it becomes difficult to see.”
One of the aunties called something from the crowd. Everyone laughed.
“What did she say?” I asked quietly.
“That some of us could use several days,” he replied.
I looked toward the aunties. One waved at him innocently.
Mr. Malhotra reached into the brass bowl and gathered a handful of red powder.
I expected him to press a little against my forehead.
Instead, he hit me across the chest with the entire handful.
Red exploded over my white shirt, my neck, and the lower half of my face.
The courtyard went silent for half a second.
Mr. Malhotra looked at me. I looked down at myself. Then at him. His mouth curved.
“Happy Holi.”
All right, let's fucking go.
I reached into the bowl. Radhika’s eyes widened. Her mother covered her mouth. I smeared red powder across Mr. Malhotra’s cheek. The aunties erupted. Cheers rang through the courtyard. One of the children screamed with laughter, and then everything broke open at once.
Color filled the air.
Pink burst over the crowd from one side. Yellow followed from another. Children charged with handfuls of powder while adults abandoned every trace of dignity and attacked one another. The musicians began playing, drums pounding hard enough to vibrate through the stone beneath my boots.
Someone hit me in the back with blue. I turned and caught an aunty fleeing with both hands over her mouth.
Another threw green into my hair. Within seconds, white clothing vanished beneath color.
Powder drifted through the courtyard like smoke, hanging in the sunlight before settling over skin, hair, flowers, tables, and marble.
Mr. Malhotra had disappeared into the chaos. Mrs. Malhotra hadn't.
She came directly toward me with both hands coated in yellow. She smiled sweetly as she pressed both palms to my face. The family cheered again. I caught her wrists too late.
“You were the nice one.”
“I still am.”
She patted my cheek, leaving even more yellow behind, then walked away laughing.
A splash of cold water struck the side of my head.
I spun around. Radhika stood across the courtyard holding a brass pichkari, her smile wide and victorious.
The front of her white sari was already streaked with pink and gold.
Green dusted one shoulder. Purple stained the end of her braid.
But there was no blue on her yet. I reached for the nearest bowl.
She saw what I was doing. I gathered both hands full of blue.
She backed away. I moved toward her.
“Kiri, don’t you dare.”
She turned and ran. I chased her through the courtyard.
She slipped between relatives, laughing as she used them for cover.
I nearly collided with two children and was struck in the side of the face by another blast of water.
Radhika looked over her shoulder, saw me still coming, and shrieked.
Everyone moved aside for me. She reached the garden path before I caught her around the waist.
Radhika screamed with laughter as I lifted her off the ground.
“No, no, Kiri, please.”
“You started it.”
“That was water.”
“This is better.”
I turned her in my arms and dragged both blue-covered hands over her cheeks.
She gasped. Color swept across her skin, bright against the pink already there.
I spread it over her jaw, her throat, the white fabric at her shoulders.
She reached into a passing tray without looking and came away with a handful of pink.
I tried to move but I was too late. She pressed it against my other cheek, rubbing it in slowly while she laughed.
Her fingers curled behind my neck. The celebration surged around us.
Drums. Shouting. Children running beneath clouds of color.
Her mother dancing with the aunties. Her father allowing someone half his age to paint green across his forehead.
Flower petals falling from one of the balconies while powder turned the air gold in the sunlight.
Radhika pulled me closer. Her face was covered in blue and pink.
Her hair had come loose again. Her smile was so wide and unguarded that she barely looked like the woman who spent her life knowing exactly where every camera was.
I held her around the waist. She laughed into my face.
I laughed with her and the words just came out.
“I love you.”
I didn’t plan them. Didn’t test them first or decide whether I was ready.
They escaped in the middle of laughter, surrounded by her family, in the center of Holi, like I had stepped into one of her films and forgotten there was supposed to be a script.
Radhika went still. Everything else kept moving.
Color flew past us. Music thundered through the courtyard.
Her smile remained, caught somewhere between joy and disbelief.
Tears appeared in her eyes so quickly it broke something open inside me.
I lifted one hand and wiped beneath her eye.
The powder coating my fingers mixed with the tear, deepening the blue across her cheek until the color became brighter.
More beautiful.
“What did you say?” she whispered.
She had heard me. I knew she had, but she needed it again. I held her face between my hands.
“I love you, Radhika Malhotra.”
Clearer this time. No laughter to hide inside.
Her mouth opened, but no sound came. Then her arms wrapped around my neck and she kissed me.
Hard. Her lips pressed against mine with no space between us, her whole body pushing into me.
I could feel her cheeks against mine, the width of her smile making the kiss clumsy and perfect. I held her tighter.
She laughed against my mouth, crying now, color and tears smearing between us.
“I love you, Kiri Chhim.”
The words went through me.
I had always thought being in love would feel like music. Music was something I understood. Something with structure. Something I could follow.
This was bigger.