Joy in Every Hue: Holi by the Beach at Mount Lavinia Hotel
I did not arrive at Holi this year as someone new to it. I arrived already carrying it with me. What began last year as a one-off experience had quietly settled into something more personal. There is a certain anticipation that comes with returning to something that once changed you. You do not just hope it will be good again; you wonder if it will move you in the same way. This time, I came with a sense of responsibility. My sisters, Ayesha and Thahira, had their tickets long before I did, naturally more organized and far more excited. Yashmitha and I followed, already aware that this was not going to be an event you simply attend. Holi asks something of you. It asks you to let go, even if only a little.
In Sri Lanka, we do not always grow up within traditions like this. We encounter them. We step into them when we can, between routines, responsibilities, and the everyday pace of life that rarely pauses. So when something like this happens, people do not hold back. They do not observe from a distance. They arrive fully. And this, more than anything, felt like one of the most authentic experiences I have had. Set along the shoreline of the Mount Lavinia Hotel, the afternoon unfolded effortlessly. The sea was calm, almost indifferent, but the sand told a different story. Colour took over everything. We had barely stepped in when a girl named Darshi, someone we had never met before, walked straight up to us with a handful of bright pink powder and welcomed us in. There was no hesitation, only a smile that seemed to say, you are part of this now. It broke whatever distance we had carried in with us. It felt less like entering an event and more like being let into something.
The heat was what we had worried about most. Colombo afternoons in March are rarely forgiving. Yet between the open stretch of beach, the steady sea breeze, and sudden bursts of cool mist drifting over the crowd, it never became overwhelming. There was something about standing barefoot on the sand, covered in colour, that made the heat feel like part of the experience rather than something to endure. There is always a moment at Holi when you stop watching and start being in it. It happens quickly. One second you are aware of everything around you, and the next, you are part of it. Colour on your arms, in your hair, laughter that you did not begin but somehow belong to. Strangers approach without hesitation. Someone presses colour onto your cheek and moves on. And just like that, the quiet boundaries we carry in everyday life fall away.
A little boy named Akash came up to me at one point, holding his water gun with complete confidence that I would help him. I filled it carefully, only for him to splash it straight across my face and run off laughing. There was no apology, only joy. It was impossible to be annoyed. That, in many ways, was the point. At some stage, we found ourselves drawn into a group, encouraged to dance. A few of them hesitated, saying they did not know the steps. I remember telling them it did not matter. There is no right way to dance to this. If you move with the music, you are already doing it right. Somehow, that was enough. Within minutes, everyone was dancing as though they had known each other for years.
I danced more than I had expected to. First with friends, then with people I did not know and may never see again. Yet in that moment, it felt complete. The crowd itself was a quiet blend of everything. Sri Lankans, members of the Indian community, travellers who had arrived out of curiosity and stayed because something about it felt like home. No one stood out, and yet everyone did in their own way.
Even the colours carried a kind of reassurance. Soft on the skin and traditionally made from natural ingredients, they lacked the harshness one might expect. There was comfort in that, especially for someone who notices such things. And then, of course, there was the food. The kind you do not intend to eat too much of, but always do. The scent of biriyani, warm parota, chaats layered with spice, pakoras fresh from the oil. And the gulab jamun. Soft, heavy with syrup, almost too sweet and yet impossible to stop at one. I remember thinking I should save some for later. I did not. I never do. What stayed with me most, however, was how no one rushed to leave it behind. The colours remained on skin and clothing, worn without urgency to wash them away. Like proof. Like something worth holding on to just a little longer.
As the sun began to set, the atmosphere shifted, softer but no less beautiful. The sand, the water, even the sky seemed to carry traces of colour. It did not feel like an ending, only a pause before life returned to its usual rhythm. Holi, in that moment, felt like more than celebration. It felt like permission. To be open, to be unguarded, to belong without needing a reason.
I left the way I had hoped to. Covered in colour, yes, but carrying something far deeper. There was a lightness I had not realized I needed, as though I had quietly set down more than just the dust of the day. For a few hours, everything unnecessary had fallen away, and in its place was a kind of freedom that felt almost unfamiliar. And if I am being honest, I will be back again next year. If not for anything else, then certainly for the gulab jamun.
