It was a scorching Holi afternoon in the narrow gali of their old Delhi mohalla. Harshi, 26 and freshly back from college, had stepped out in a simple white kurti and leggings, thinking she’d just throw a few colors and escape back inside. But the uncles had other plans. Uncle Mohan (55, pot-bellied, always leering), Uncle Suresh (58, rough hands from years in the workshop), Uncle Rajesh (52, the loudest one), and a couple of their friends were already drunk on bhang and high on the festival spirit.

“Arre Harshi beti, kahan bhaag rahi hai? Aaj toh poori Holi khelenge!” (Hey Harshi daughter, where are you running? Today we’re playing full Holi!) Uncle Mohan called out, grabbing her wrist before she could slip away. The others closed in, laughing.