Holi, as I have always understood it, is not just a festival. It is an elaborate military campaign disguised as revelry, where strategic maneuvers, sudden ambushes, and the occasional betrayal by one’s closest allies are par for the course.

It is supposed to be the festival of colors, but I ask you—what about the bonfire? Is the real Holi the one where Holika, the demoness, got the short end of the stick (or rather, the fiery end of it)? Or is it the next day, when people smear each other with the sacred ashes of said bonfire? And if that is Holi, then what on earth were we doing five days later on Rang Panchami, merrily turning each other into walking, talking rainbows? The confusion, I assure you, is immense.

One thing, however, was certain—Holi preparation began with a frenzied hunt for combustible material. Dry branches, coconut fronds (branches), and anything even remotely wooden that wasn’t nailed down became fair game. Come evening, the pyromaniacs of the colony (myself included) would pile up our precious collection and set it ablaze in the school grounds. The fire roared, coconuts were tossed in, and once they emerged charred and blackened, we cracked them open and declared them a delicacy fit for royalty.

Then came Rang Panchami, the main event. The day dawned bright and full of possibility—or, in my case, full of impending doom. I played my first round of colors in the morning with the local brigade. But just as a soldier never has the luxury of declaring war over, I had my second battle at maths class. Shilpak, Shreyas, and Ashutosh, all good chaps in ordinary times, turned into ruthless warlords the moment they got their hands on colored powder. Even they, however, exercised discretion. The two Anjalis and Lilawati remained untouchable, not because of any written law but because even the most reckless among us valued survival.

By afternoon, it was time for phase three of the operation—The Mud Ditch. This was a classic trap involving an innocent-looking pit filled with slimy, slushy, earth-toned horror. The unsuspecting victim would be lured in and promptly deposited inside. With impeccable planning and teamwork, we ensured that no soul escaped unscathed.

But the true terror of the day was yet to come. Enter Vikram. Now, Vikram was not a man to be swayed by a friend’s heartfelt pleas for mercy. I tried reasoning, I tried diplomacy, I even tried faking a rare skin allergy to colored powder, but Vikram had the steely determination of a man who had found his life’s purpose. No amount of wailing about having already played twice deterred him. He arrived in the afternoon, slathered me in a villainous shade of silver, and then, as if by divine decree, appeared again in the evening for a final, glorious soaking.

And so, at sundown, I staggered home, an exhausted, multi-hued wreck of a human being. The idea of a bath, which should have been comforting, was instead fraught with peril. For the streets were still alive with rogue warriors, armed with water balloons that they launched with the precision of trained snipers. One could never be too careful.

Thus ended another Holi—full of color, full of laughter, and full of stains that no amount of soap would remove. But what is a little battle damage in the grand scheme of things? After all, next year, I would have my revenge.

Or so I told myself.