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.
He didn't have the weekend, but he had the zip. And for now, that was enough to keep the gray away.
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.
In the year 2084, nobody had time for a three-day festival. You couldn't just lounge around drinking thandai and staining your clothes when the lunar colonies needed remote maintenance. That’s why Arjun, a frazzled systems engineer, found himself in a sterile booth in Old Delhi, staring at a sleek chrome headset.
The neon sign above the garage flickered: