Colors were everywhere. Green. Yellow. Red. All swirling around us in the tiny rickshaw as we tried to beat the early morning rush of the day’s festivities. The street was already crowded, lined with decorations and “Happy Holi” banners stained with colored powder. Music blasted from somewhere down the road, loud enough to drown out the driver’s constant honking as he tried to squeeze past people dancing in the middle of the street.
“How much longerrrr?” my sister asked, dragging out the word like she had been waiting forever.
“A few more minutes, kanna,” my mother replied.
My sister was visibly hangry, kicking the back of the driver’s seat every few minutes to release her frustration. We had just landed after a week in Hawaii and were heading straight from the airport to my aunt’s home in India. My stomach was still thinking about the food from the trip. Creamy coconut sauces. Sweet glazed chicken. Everything rich and familiar. With those flavors still lingering, my mother’s words echoed in my head: “It’s Holi. Food always tastes better when everyone’s together.”
Fueled by hunger and the promise of breakfast, I found myself joining my sister, lightly kicking the seat as the rickshaw finally pulled into my aunt’s driveway.
I ran inside and found an open seat at the table just as my Nani began serving food to the rest of my family.
“Ready for tiffin, kanna?” my aunt asked.
I nodded quickly and flipped up my plate, already picturing crispy rava dosa or soft idli. Something golden and warm. Something I actually wanted.
But the smell hit me first.
Warm semolina. Plain. Heavy. Not the crisp, buttery scent I had been hoping for. I looked down at my plate and froze. A mound of upma sat in the center, dotted with curry leaves that I already knew I was not excited about.
I looked up at my mother. She glared back.
I gulped.
Slowly, I scooped up the first bite and pushed it into my mouth, swallowing almost immediately. Bland. Not terrible, but definitely not what I had imagined during that long rickshaw ride.
I knew better than to complain.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my sister getting ready to say something. Before she could open her mouth, I kicked her under the table.
“Quiet,” I muttered.
We sat there, silently forcing bite after bite, chewing slowly while everyone else ate casually, chatting and laughing like this was the best meal of the day. Around us, plates clinked and conversations overlapped, while my sister and I worked our way through what felt like an endless pile of upma.
Just when I thought it was over, my aunt walked back into the room carrying another dish. Karakaya. Bitter gourd curry. Even the name sounded suspicious. I watched as it landed on my plate, dark and glossy, clearly not meant for picky eaters.
I took a cautious bite and immediately reached for my water. My uncle laughed. “Ah, spice is too much?”
I nodded quickly, letting him believe that was the problem. It was easier than explaining that the bitterness itself was what caught me off guard.
Everyone else kept eating like this was completely normal. Meanwhile, I sat there taking small bites and chasing each one with water, counting down until the plate was finally empty.
When I finished, I excused myself and walked quickly toward the bathroom. “Too much water?” someone joked behind me. I didn’t answer. I just stood there for a moment, staring at my reflection and waiting for the taste to fade.
When I returned, the plates were already being cleared, and the conversation had moved on like nothing unusual had happened. Outside, Holi colors still clung stubbornly to the street, smeared across walls and sidewalks in bright streaks.
At the time, that meal felt like survival.
But now, when I think about that morning, I remember more than just the food. I remember the crowded table. My uncle moving quickly between plates. My sister kicking the seat in the rickshaw. The noise from outside drifting into the house as people celebrated in the streets.
The food I once dreaded became part of the memory anyway.
These days, Holi looks a little different. Instead of crowded streets in India, it shows up in smaller ways here. This year, the Hindu Student Council is hosting a Holi celebration on April 5 from 11 a.m. to 1 p.m. at the Beach. There will be music, colors and probably the same kind of chaos that filled those streets years ago.
And honestly, that feels familiar.
Maybe there will be food too. Maybe not upma, maybe not bitter gourd. But if there is, I think I would handle it differently now. Not with panic, not with dread, but with the quiet understanding that food is rarely just about taste.
Sometimes it is about where you are sitting, who is around you and the noise filling the room while you eat. Even the meals you once disliked have a way of staying with you. And every time Holi comes around, the colors feel alive again.
