India, March 2 -- Every year, as spring leans into summer, my mind wanders back to Nani's old house. There, Holi was never just a festival; it was a homecoming. It was the one time of the year when every cousin, near or far, arrived with overstuffed bags and louder laughter. Preparations began days earlier, turning the courtyard into our lively command centre of whispered plans and playful quarrels. The elders assigned duties with exaggerated gravity, and we obeyed with barely hidden excitement. On Holi eve, the men returned from the bustling market laden with bright gulal, gleaming pichkaris, and heaps of balloons. Meanwhile, we cousins transformed the courtyard with cheerful decorations, setting the stage for the riot of colours to come. Inside the house, however, was where the true alchemy unfolded. The women divided kitchen duties with quiet efficiency. Papdis were rolled into perfect circles, dusted lightly with flour. Gujiyas were folded with careful fingers, their edges pressed into delicate patterns before being lowered into hot ghee, emerging golden and crisp. Large vessels brimmed with soaking lentils for dahi bhallas, later whipped into soft clouds and drenched in creamy yogurt. Green mint, tamarind and dates chutney lined the counter in steel bowls - each promising its own burst of flavour. On Holi morning, we woke up to the aroma of potato kachoris puffing up in hot oil, and the sweetness of syrup-soaked gujiyas cooling on trays. Before the colours flew, tradition grounded us. We bent to smear a gentle touch of gulal on the feet of our elders, receiving their blessings along with affectionate streaks across our foreheads. Then came the ceremonial glasses of saffron thandai, thick with crushed almonds and the faint nuttiness of khas khas. Energised, we rushed into the courtyard where the air soon turned into a pink and yellow haze. Gulal rose like fragrant clouds, settling into hair, eyelashes, and laughter lines. Water balloons burst into delighted shrieks. No one stayed untouched; no one stayed aloof. For those few hours, we were simply colour - indistinguishable, united, carefree. But what lingers today is not just the colour, it is the feeling. Holi at Nani's home taught us that celebration is collaboration. It is shared labour in the kitchen, the collective decoration of a sunlit courtyard, elders guiding gently while children run wild. It is the quiet understanding that joy deepens when prepared together and multiplies when shared. Holi reminds that family is both anchor and celebration - that tradition endures not merely in ritual, but in participation; in laughter echoing against old walls, in hands stained pink and hearts wide open. Sometimes, the brightest colours are not the ones we cast into the air, but the ones time preserves in the quiet corners of memory. As life scatters us across continents, Holi arrives more quietly now. The greetings are digital, the gatherings smaller, the colours often symbolic rather than exuberant. Yet whenever I catch the scent of frying gujiya or a burst of fuchsia powder, I'm transported back to that courtyard. Memory becomes its own festival....