Pulse and Petals

Evara

I'm standing here, taking it all in, and let me tell you, it's like stepping into a cottage core dream, but desi. This massive lawn with a freaking pool right in front of me is covered in rose petals.

The whole place is dripping in aesthetic perfection, with spring flowers bursting into bloom everywhere I look. And those tree branches? They're decked out with these giant paper flowers, dangling like whimsical balloons, adding a touch of magic to the scene.

Tables are scattered around, each one boasting bowls filled with every color imaginable.

It's like a feast for the eyes and the soul. And the people? Oh man, it's a melting pot of every race and ethnicity, with everyone decked out in their finest whites, looking like they just stepped off a magazine cover. Seriously, this has got to be the best Holi party ever.

But the real magic? It's happening all around me. Some folks have already jumped into the color wars, smearing each other with paint and laughter.

I'm not covered in color, not yet anyway.
Just chilling by the sidelines, watching, playing it cool, while everyone's getting all paint-splattered and festive, I'm waiting for my moment.

Patiently waiting for someone to include me in the fun.

Sure, I could grab a handful of color and join in, but I've been down that road before. Ended up triggering someone's allergies once by accident, and let me tell you, it wasn't pretty. So, these days, I'm all about making better choices.

I'm minding my own business when suddenly, this little munchkin about 6 or 7 years old comes barreling towards me, decked out in pristine white from head to toe.

But before I can even process what's happening, he almost sent me tumbling to the ground, trying to escape a bunch of other kids armed with their color powders.

"Hey, careful there!" I manage to blurt out, trying to steady myself.

These kids? They're like little bundles of energy, darting around with pockets full of color powder, leaving trails of vibrant hues in their wake. It's messy and hilarious, and I can't help but laugh along.

It's pure chaos, but it's the most beautiful kind.

I sidle up to the food counter, and my stomach starts doing somersaults at the sight of all those delicious dishes spread out before me.

What? I love food. Do I attend parties just for the food? Yes. Am I ashamed? Abso-fucking-lutely not.

Seriously, it's like a foodie's paradise. There's everything you can imagine, from savory to sweet, and it all looks so damn good I'm practically drooling on the spot.

From steaming pots of biryani to sizzling plates of paneer tikka, the aroma alone is enough to make my stomach growl in anticipation.

But here's the thing: I can't decide where to start. Do I dive into those crispy samosas first, or maybe snag a plate of butter chicken? And don't even get me started on the desserts—those gulab jamuns are calling my name, but so are those colorful fruit tarts.

And more of those sweets? Oh boy, there are trays of jalebis dripping with syrup, mountains of rasgullas, and platters of creamy kulfi.

It's like stepping into a culinary wonderland. There's a feast laid out in front of me, and every dish looks more tempting than the last.

How am I supposed to choose between all these mouthwatering options?

I stand there, torn between my hunger and my inability to make a decision when suddenly, my gaze drifts towards the door, and—holy fuck.