"How was it?" the technician asked, already resetting the machine for the next customer.
He was twenty, dancing in a crowded courtyard in Jaipur. The beat of the dhol drum wasn't just sound; it was a vibration in his marrow. He reached out and felt the silkiness of abir powder. He threw a handful of electric blue into the air, and for a second, the sun was eclipsed by a cloud of color. He felt the sugary crunch of a gujiya on his tongue—the ghost of cardamom and fried dough. Holi Weekendzip
Arjun opened his eyes. He was back in the sterile booth. His white shirt was still crisp and spotless. There was no blue powder under his fingernails. "How was it