The Case of Unwarranted Mayhem
There was only one force powerful enough to shut down every dhaba in Haridwar:
Holi.
And if there was one day Arnav Swami dreaded more than undercooked rajma or soggy papad, it was this unholy, color-splattered, chaos-drenched carnival.
It wasn’t just the colors. It was the trauma.
The faces smeared beyond recognition, the wild laughter, the horrific memories.
Like that one year when young Arnav mistook his color-drenched cow for his Naniji…
And, in a sincere act of reverence, brought her home and garlanded her with marigolds.
Or that dark day when he drank bhaang-laced thandai, declared himself “Jalebi Einstein,”
and spent six hours trying to milk a parked scooter.
No, Holi was not for him.
Not now. Not ever.
Not even in reincarnation.
As always, he planned a tactical retreat:
Lock all doors.
Bolt the windows.
Switch off the lights.
Tell Chotu to report anyone who said “Bura na maano.”
And pretend the sun had applied for casual leave.
Until she happened.
Khushiji did not play Holi.
Holi played with her.
She was the brand ambassador, mascot, and chief mischief officer of the festival.
If Holi were a national sport, Khushiji would have won:
Three gold medals
One honorary doctorate in Gulaalogy
And her face printed on every packet of gulal from Rishikesh to Rajouri.
And this year, she had made her plans very clear.
Not only would she be celebrating from dawn to dhoop,
She would also be gracing the Hasya Kavi Sammelan that evening
“Swami Ji,” she had said, twirling far more than was socially necessary,
“If poetry were a person, it would get down on one knee and beg me to write it.”
Arnav had serious doubts.
About the poetry.
About the evening.
And mostly, about his blood pressure.
But the real problem wasn’t Holi.
Not the avalanche of gulaal.
Not even the DJ, who played only three songs on loop, all remixed versions of Rang Barse.
No.
The true menace… was Advay Goswami.
That good-for-nothing, self-declared Casanova.
To his horror, he was lurking around Holi milan samahroh with a mischievous grin, two pichkaris, and an unlimited supply of bhaang.
Now Khushiji, being the radiant little disaster that she was, had the self-preservation instincts of a Parle-G in monsoon.
Of course she would drink it. Of course she would start a revolution.
Of course she’d then hug a tree and deliver Megh Malhar to the bark.
So, naturally, Arnav had to go.
Not to play Holi, of course.
Never.
He was simply going to keep an eye on things. Nothing more.
The moment Arnav Swami stepped onto the Holi grounds, two truths hit him like pichkari to the face:
One: His pristine white kurta was now an endangered species.
Two: So was his peace of mind.
Colors detonated like happy grenades.
Dhols thundered.
And in the middle of it all was Khushiji, arms raised, head thrown back, grinning like she’d personally invented joy.
She was covered in so much pink and yellow…
..and looked like a rasgulla that had joined a Holi boot camp.
He wanted to scream.
He also wanted to stare forever.
His stomach flipped, his ears twitched.
And then, his worst fears came true.
She grabbed a glass of bhaang.
And another.
And another.
Before he could stop her, she had declared, "Swami Ji! Bhaang is just badam milk with confidence!" and downed two more glasses.
Somewhere inside his heart… something gave up and sighed fondly.
+15 minutes: Petting a goat.
“It’s as soft as Swami Ji’s soul,” she informed the goat gravely. “Also, hello.”
The goat nodded. Respectfully.
+30 minutes: On top of a vegetable cart, one foot in a basket of karelas, reciting a poem about pichkaris, unfulfilled love, and the tragic lack of poetry in jalebi pricing.
Crowd: Applauding.
Swami Ji: Internally combusting.
+45 minutes: She slipped on a puddle of pink disaster, arms flailing like a flamingo, and fell.
Right into Arnav Swami’s arms.
Her head thunked against his chest. Her arms flopped around him like she was attempting a half-hearted hug or a surrender.
She looked up at him, drunk, dazed, and absolutely delighted.
“Swami Ji…”
“Yes?”
“You’re so handsome up close.” She squinted hard. “Like a ghevar. A very squishy ghevar.”
Arnav blinked. “You’re drunk, Khushiji.”
She gasped. "You noticed!"
And with that great achievement... she passed out cold.
Arnav looked around.
On one side: a crowd hurling colors and questionable singing.
On the other: a woman unconscious in his arms, smelling of bhaang, bravery, and nonsense.
Two options.
One:
Leave her here. Let fate, gravity, and possibly goats, take over.
Two:
Take responsibility for this color-soaked jalebi of a human and ensure she didn’t wake up in a gutter, or inside a tandoor.
He sighed.
Option Two it is.
With great effort, he walked her to the Kavi Samelan, where she was supposed to perform.
When he arrived, organizers rushed over.
“Where is Khushiji?”
A weak reply: “currently unavailable due to excessive intoxication.”
A pause.
“Then her Swami must perform.”
Arnav stared at them.
They stared back.
He considered faking a seizure. A mild one. Just enough to avoid the mic.
But alas. Destiny, betrayal, and peer pressure won.
And thus began the most humiliating moment of Arnav Swami’s life.
Because he, who was
the Dhaba owner. Holi avoider. Definitely not a shayari-writer.
Was now... the star act.
Under the bright Holi moon, in front of a cheering audience, Arnav Swami recited a poem for the first time in his life.
His voice was hesitant at first, then stronger:
Pehla rang jo tune lagaya, kuch toh khaas baat thi,
Ek pal mehfil-e-gulaal thi, ek pal mein barsaat thi.
Tere qareeb aate hi, dhadkenein wahdat mein dhal jaati thi,
In rangon mein chhupi koi roohani saugaat thi.
A hush fell.
Like the crowd had forgotten to breathe.
And then
Thunderous applause.
Somewhere, unconscious in a corner,
thee faintest smile bloomed across Khushi’s lips, like her heart had heard him.
Even in sleep…
She knew.
With his poetic dignity in tatters and his kurta now a canvas of seventeen untraceable shades,
Arnav Swami had one final mission:
Extract Khushiji from the Holi battlefield.
He could’ve slung her over his shoulder like a sack of onions.
Practical. Efficient. Emotionally accurate.
But no.
Dignity.
Stray witnesses.
Inconvenient feelings.
demanded something more absurdly cinematic.
So, he did the unthinkable.
He picked her up- bridal style.
She smelled like gulaal and bhaang and the kind of trouble he no longer wanted to avoid.
Halfway to her house, she stirred.
Eyes fluttered open, sleep-drunk and soft.
She blinked up at him.
For a moment, everything stopped.
The laughter outside faded.
And all he could see… was her.
“Swami Ji,” she murmured, breath curling against his neck,
“Tell me you like holi”
He looked down at her.
Her cheeks streaked with yellow.
Her hair a halo of absurdity.
Her smile… dangerously soft.
And for once,
he didn’t lie.
“…Maybe a little.”
She inhaled deeply, dreamily.
“You came.”
Something tightened in his chest.
His arms followed suit.
She snuggled in closer, face smushed peacefully into his neck.
He stiffened.
Then melted.
In exactly that order.
The night softened around them.
The colors faded.
The chaos slipped into dreams.
And in the middle of it all, carrying one deliriously drunk muse,
Arnav Swami finally understood that
Maybe Holi wasn’t all horror.
Maybe it was half madness...
And half magic.
Just like her.
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