Holi of a blind

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They say and I listen
Holi is the festival of tints & shades.
But they know and I think 
it’s just another dark Halloween,
for me & for people like me.
They jump high & run fast
amidst the stain blast
to escape, to win,
to collide, to colour
with loads of delight
fluttering in their eyes.
And I walk counting my steps
with one hand lagging & one leading
with the bubbling fear in my heart
to stumble, to fall
to lose my only companion, my stick.
Today they wear masks
to defend their faces
from the flow of pichkaris.
And smile becomes my attire
to camouflage the flow of my tears
tears of agony, of inadequacy.
They capture their hued faces
in the lens of the camera.
And I frame the beauty of colours
not by seeing & playing with them
but by touching their texture & feeling them.
Stealing violet from pansy,
indigo from periwinkle, blue from aster
green from grasses, yellow from sunflower
orange from marigold & red from roses
they make each other
Van Gogh’s precious paintings.
And giving my gratitude to the Almighty
for showering so much strength upon me
to accept my lacuna
instead of grieving
I become a priceless portrait of a paradigm.
©ruchiabhisikta