From Water Guns to Adulting: Why Holi Still Feels Like Home
But here’s the beautiful irony: even as adults, tired, practical, slightly over-responsible, we still crave Holi. The festival doesn’t just remind us of home; it returns us to it, even if only for a day.
Back then, Holi was an entire event, not just a festival. You woke up early, half-asleep, already plotting who you’d attack first. Your mother warned you not to get colour in your eyes; your father acted like he wasn’t involved but secretly filled the biggest bucket. You’d team up with your siblings, form strategies, store backup water balloons, and pretend like the fate of the neighbourhood depended on your mission. The day ended with stained faces, exhausted laughter, and that iconic post-Holi sleep that even adult life can’t replicate.
Fast forward to adulthood, and things look different. Now, before you step out, you check your calendar, your laundry situation, your skin-care routine, and whether your white kurta is even worth sacrificing this year. The water guns have been replaced by deadlines and responsibilities, but somehow Holi still pulls you in. There’s something so grounding about the festival that even the most practical adult melts a little.
Maybe it’s because Holi gives us permission to let go, something adulthood rarely allows. It’s one day where your polished self takes a backseat and your messy, loud, colourful self gets to come out and breathe. We spend so much of the year trying to stay put-together, make the right choices, act mature. Holi laughs at all that and says, “Relax. Throw some colour. Be human.”
And honestly, we need that. As adults, we’re often hesitant to be playful. We worry about the mess, the noise, the aftermath. But Holi reminds us that life’s messiest moments often become the happiest memories. Nobody talks about the Holi where everything was neat and clean. We talk about the Holi where someone fell into a bucket, or a stranger smeared colour on your face and said “Happy Holi!” like you’d been friends forever.
There’s also a sense of community that Holi revives effortlessly. In childhood, it was the neighbours, cousins, family friends. As adults, it’s the friend circle that has slowly shrunk, the colleagues who feel like family, the people you’ve chosen as your tribe. You realise festivals aren’t just about tradition, they’re about belonging. About the comfort of being surrounded by people who get you, even in your most colourful, chaotic form.
And then there’s the food. Oh, the food. Gujiyas, thandai, pakoras, the kind of comfort that feels like a warm hug. No matter how old you get, there’s nothing more grounding than eating Holi snacks that taste exactly like childhood.
Maybe that’s why Holi still feels like home. Because home isn’t just a place, it’s a feeling. The feeling of laughing without restraint. The feeling of being messy without guilt. The feeling of colours on your face and people around you who love you in all your shades. Holi reminds us we don’t need to be perfect to be loved; we just need to be present.
And so, even as adults juggling responsibilities, deadlines, and adulthood’s serious face, we still show up. We still buy the gulaal. We still step out knowing our faces will be unrecognisable by noon. Because deep down, Holi connects us to a version of ourselves we never want to lose, the playful, joyful, fearless child within.
From water guns to adulting, the festival hasn’t changed. We have. And yet, Holi still welcomes us home, even when life feels a little too grown up.
Written By : R. Sagarikaa, Editorial Head
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