Color is a way of arriving
At 9:12 on a March morning, the lane outside Vishram Ghat was already a soft blur of gulal. A boy in a white kurta pressed a turquoise thumbprint onto the doorway, then laughed as a magenta cloud crossed the sun.
By noon, the old rules of the street had dissolved. Neighbors traded paper cones, strangers shared water, and every white surface became a record of where someone had been. The city did not match; it gathered color, layer by generous layer.