People were running around on the street, in a dust-storm of colours, flinging water at each other. They were tossing water from their houses, many storeys high, at the chaotic crowd below. The people were throwing water balloons and using guns to squirt streams of water all around. Nobody seemed to care about the water that they were wasting. If only they knew what us village folk have to bear. I was almost in tears, but I held them back.
The townsfolk were making merry in the streets, enjoying the festival of colours. Powders and waters of different hues were being tossed around. The blues mixed with the greens and the yellows to create a joyous chaos. No one noticed at first that the people suddenly falling down, were not collapsing because of the effects of bhang. They only realised the truth when they saw that the red on the fallen was not colour.