As a traveler and photographer, being in Mathura and Vrindavan during Holi felt like stepping into a living painting. The streets pulsed with music, chants, and a storm of colors that seemed to blur every boundary between strangers.
In Mathura, I witnessed Holi as ritual. Inside temples, devotees offered gulal as an act of devotion to Lord Krishna, their faces glowing with both color and faith. In Vrindavan, the celebration transformed into pure energy, water cannons, dancing crowds, and clouds of pink and yellow rising into the air. My camera often disappeared under layers of powder, yet the imperfect frames became the truest memories.
What struck me most was the unity. For a moment, all differences vanished, everyone became equal under the veil of colors. Holi here is not just about play; it is devotion, joy, and human connection woven into one vibrant ritual.
Leaving Vrindavan, I carried more than stained clothes. I carried the feeling of being part of something timeless, where chaos becomes beauty, and celebration becomes prayer.
