In Shantiniketan, the sky glowed with the soft warmth of spring. The silk cotton and palash trees were ablaze with red blossoms, and the call of the cuckoo drifted through the mango groves. It was the eve of Dol, and the ashram neighborhood was filled with a special kind of excitement. Some were sifting colored powder, some were stringing garlands of marigold and tuberose, while others were busy rehearsing songs of spring.
Riddhi was in her final year of college. Since childhood, Dol had been her favorite festival, but this year felt different. For the first time, she was in charge of organizing the entire celebration— the spring procession, songs, dances, and welcoming guests—everything rested on her shoulders.
Her grandmother used to say, "Dol is not just about coloring faces; it is about coloring the heart." Riddhi had heard it many times, but had she ever truly understood it?
Tensions Beneath the Preparations
The afternoon before the celebration, troubling news arrived. A group of boys and girls from the nearby Santal village had decided not to participate this year. The previous year, they had not been given proper time on stage. They felt insulted.
Riddhi's heart sank. She knew Dol belonged to everyone. A celebration could never be complete if someone carried hurt within them. She decided to go to the village herself.
The sun was setting, and the red of the palash flowers looked deeper in the fading light. Riddhi walked alone along the earthen path. When she reached the village, she saw the girls sitting in a field, singing among themselves. Their eyes reflected quiet resentment.
Riddhi sat beside them and said softly,
"We are incomplete without you. A mistake was made, but this year the program will begin with your dance."
Silence lingered for a moment. Then Jhuma, the eldest among them, asked,
"Are you saying this just to please us?"
Riddhi held her hand and replied,
"The colors of Dol cannot survive if they are false."
Slowly, a smile appeared on Jhuma's face.
The Morning of Dol
The next morning, the sky was a clear blue. Songs of spring floated through the ashram—
"O re grihobashi, open your doors…"
The girls wore yellow saris with flowers tucked into their hair as they stepped into the procession. The scent of colored powder filled the air. Guests sat around the field, waiting.
The program began with Jhuma and her friends' dance. To the rhythm of the drums, their feet seemed to converse with the earth itself. The applause from the audience refused to fade. Tears welled up in Riddhi's eyes.
Songs, recitations, and dances followed, blending into a vibrant spring morning. But the most important moment came at the end.
The Moment of Color
As everyone began smearing colors on one another, Riddhi noticed something. Aishi, a girl from a wealthy family, and Jhuma from the village stood facing each other hesitantly. An invisible wall of social difference stood between them.
Riddhi stepped forward and joined their hands.
"Today there is no division. Today we are only colors."
Aishi gently touched Jhuma's cheek with colored powder. After a brief pause, Jhuma smiled and marked Aishi's forehead with color. Instantly, laughter and cheers filled the air.
Riddhi felt something shift inside her. This was the true spirit of Dol—not just color on the skin, but color in the heart.
Evening Realization
In the evening, when everything had quieted down, Riddhi sat alone in the mango grove. Palash petals fell softly to the ground. She remembered her grandmother's words.
Now she understood—Dol means standing together, forgetting differences. Just as color transforms white cloth into something vibrant, love transforms people into something new.
Jhuma approached her and said,
"Didi, this year Dol truly felt like ours."
Riddhi smiled and replied,
"Dol belongs to everyone. We just have to open the doors of our hearts."
In the distance, the cuckoo called again. As the scent of colors slowly faded into the spring breeze, it seemed to whisper—
Colors may wash away, but the memory of color remains.