The poet Khabib once said,
The river and its waves are one surf.
Behind the wave,
Water.
Ahead of the wave,
Water.
Don't seek separation.
That which is you is also the bank,
The boat and the sea.
Before we can understand the river,
We have to find the bank.
Let's start by finding your physical body right now.
Close your eyes.
Not in preparation,
But in surrender.
I want you to feel the actual physical weight of your form right now.
Notice gravity pulling your hips into the chair.
Feel the solid pressure of the floor rising up to meet the soles of your feet.
Let your weight drop into those anchor points.
Now,
Notice the distinct edge where your skin meets the air.
Feel how cool and dry it is.
This is your physical boundary.
Right now,
It is solid.
It is safe.
Take a slow,
Deep breath in.
Not to control anything,
But just to give yourself permission to exist exactly as you are.
And as you exhale,
Let your shoulders drop.
So,
Here's the thing about Holi.
It's the only festival in the world where getting soaked is the entire point.
Not despite the inconvenience,
Because of it.
Think about what happens when water,
Cold,
Unexpected,
Hits your body.
Your first instinct?
You flinch.
You contract.
You try to protect.
That's your startle reflex.
It is ancient and involuntary.
It's your body saying,
Boundary threatened.
But then,
Something shifts.
The water spreads.
Your clothes cling to your skin.
And suddenly,
You can't quite tell where the fabric ends and you begin.
Or where your skin ends and the water begins.
Your brain has this map,
Proprioception,
If you want the fancy neuroscientific word.
It's how you know,
Even with your eyes closed,
That your hand is in front of your face and not behind your back.
It's the neural basis of me and not me.
Wetness messes with that map.
When you're dry,
The boundary is crisp.
You know exactly where you end.
When you're wet and clinging,
The boundary gets fuzzy.
Your brain struggles to locate the edge of you.
This isn't philosophy.
This is just how your body works.
Your skin isn't a wall.
It's a membrane.
And membranes,
Unlike walls,
Are designed for exchange.
So the pichkari,
Also known as the water gun in English,
Isn't really a toy.
It's a kind of a teaching.
It doesn't destroy the self.
It just liquefies it a little.
And in that liquid state,
You can stop defending and start participating.
There is a story that explains this liquid state.
In the lanes of Braj,
They say Krishna once aimed his water gun at a visiting sage.
The monk was old.
His beard was white.
His orangey robes were heavy with years of austerity.
He hadn't laughed in decades.
He stood at the edge of the celebration,
Observing the chaos with this kind of dignified detachment.
Krishna approached him,
Not with reverence,
But with color.
The old monk saw the water gun and stepped back.
Stop,
He said.
These robes are sacred.
They are the uniform of my renunciation.
Krishna,
Upon hearing this,
Did not lower the water gun.
He just smiled.
You guard the cloth,
He said.
I've come for the man.
The sage didn't understand.
Krishna went on.
He said,
You think your renunciation is in your robes?
You think your holiness is in your distance?
You've spent 40 years keeping the world at an arm's length,
And you call that liberation?
He raised the water gun and said,
But liberation is in distance.
Liberation is intimacy.
And then he went on to press the nozzle.
A jet of deep blue water shot through the air and hit the sage's chest.
The orangey robe darkened.
The water spread.
The sage looked down.
The blue had seeped through the fabrics and reached his skin.
His chest,
Which hadn't been touched by another being in 40 years,
Was now the color of Krishna's laughter.
He then looked up.
Krishna's chest was the same shade.
The same water.
The same blue.
The sage stood there.
He'd spent a lifetime building walls.
And in one moment,
A boy with a water gun had dissolved them.
He did not remove his robe.
He did not renounce his renunciation.
But for the first time in 40 years,
He understood.
Holiness isn't the absence of contact.
It's the courage for it.
Now,
Settle deeper.
Feet flat on the floor.
Hands resting gently on your thighs.
Spine long,
But soft.
You're not preparing to defend.
You're preparing to receive.
Gently guide your awareness to your breath.
We don't need to breathe in any specific way.
Just observing the breath as it is.
Imagine yourself standing in an open courtyard.
It's warm.
The sun is on your shoulders.
You're wearing a white kurta.
Or any long vest you have.
Or a white-colored dress.
It's the celebration day of Holi.
Around you,
People are laughing,
Running,
Chasing each other.
The water guns arc through the air.
All kinds of different colors.
Yellow,
Saffron,
Blue,
Pink,
Green.
Someone's shirt is completely soaked.
A group of women scream as the water hits them from three different directions.
A child runs past you,
Dripping blue,
Grinning.
You're the only one,
Not yet touched,
Standing still,
Watching,
Completely dry.
Notice that feeling.
You know it very well.
The party where everyone's dancing,
And you're against the wall.
The meeting where opinions fly,
And you're the one holding back,
Analyzing.
Watching your friends,
Or your kids play,
Whilst you scroll,
Present,
But not really in it.
There's safety there.
Comfort.
Control.
You've practiced this your whole life.
Honor it.
It's kept you safe.
But now,
Notice what it costs.
The separation.
The distance.
Watching life,
Instead of living it,
Being in it.
Now,
A figure approaches.
You can't see their face.
Sun behind them.
But they're holding a water gun.
One of those big ones,
Walking towards you with intention.
Your body knows what's coming.
Notice what happens.
Does your chest tighten?
Your shoulders lift?
Do you step back,
Without deciding to?
This is the startle reflex.
The boundary saying,
Something's coming.
Protect.
But,
Look at this figure.
They're not your enemy.
Not trying to humiliate you,
Or teach you a lesson.
They're just playing.
Including you.
Holding color,
Wanting you to have some.
This is the colleague,
Giving feedback you didn't ask for.
A friend,
Who wants a hard conversation.
Your kid,
Who just wants to wrestle.
Life,
Approaching with something wet and unpredictable.
You have a choice.
Flinch.
Contract.
Step back.
Protect the white.
Or,
Receive.
Soften.
Stay.
Allow.
Choose to receive.
Feel the jet,
Hit your chest.
Don't flinch.
Don't wipe it away.
Let it land.
Let it spread.
Feel the water,
Seep through the cotton.
First,
A spot.
Right over your sternum.
Then,
It spreads.
Inevitably.
The fabric darkens.
Clings to your skin.
Feel that.
Can you tell where that kurta,
Or that dress,
Ends?
And you begin?
Can you find that boundary anymore?
It's blurred.
The cloth is wet.
The skin is wet.
Same temperature.
Same sensation.
This is exactly what that old monk felt.
The boundary dissolving.
The boundary between you and the water is completely gone.
You can't tell where you end and the color begins.
Look down.
Blue spreading across.
Your chest.
Not separate from you.
On you.
In you.
Part of you.
You're not wearing white anymore.
You're wearing blue.
Look at the figure who soaked you.
They've lowered their water gun and are smiling.
Look at their chest.
Same blue.
Same water.
Same source.
You're not separate anymore.
Not observing anymore.
Participating.
The boundary isn't at your skin anymore.
It's three feet wider.
Includes the person in front of you.
The laughter behind you.
The courtyard.
The sun.
You're not separate anymore.
Stay here.
Rest as this spacious,
Boundaryless awareness.
In the Bhagavad Gita,
Krishna speaks directly to this exact experience of the walls coming down.
He says,
He who sees all beings in himself and himself in all beings loses all fear.
For the one who sees me everywhere and sees everything in me,
I am never lost to him and he is never lost to me.
The water gun reveals this not as a metaphor,
But as a sensation.
The spray and the skin become one wetness.
You look at the blue on your chest and the blue on the other person in front of you and you feel the truth of Krishna's words.
You were never as separate as you believed.
You were just as one.
You're just too dry to notice.
Now,
Slowly bring your awareness back to your room.
Feel your skin dry again.
The boundary has returned.
It always returns,
But some things shifted.
As you go about your day,
Remember,
You can receive the color,
The water gun,
The feedback,
The connection,
The chaos.
You don't need to abandon all boundaries.
Just remember,
Knowing it's temporary,
Knowing underneath it,
You're not a fortress,
You're a membrane,
You can transform.
Take care.
