Bursts of vibrant powder explode in the air as Melanie Vella experiences one of India’s most inclusive, carefree festivals for herself – Happy Holi!

Locals perform a traditional stick dance.

Marking the beginning of spring, the ancient Hindu tradition of Holi celebrates love, life and colour on the first full moon in March throughout India and Nepal.

It is a festival of colourful, chaotic madness for Hindus and non-Hindus alike, where the streets burst into action with bright splashes of rice flour coloured powders made from natural ingredients.

This year I chose to spend Holi festival, which fell on March 17, in the sandy, desert town of Pushkar, Rajasthan.

Rajasthan is the state of colour, regal jewels and semi-precious stones. It is the heart of old-world India with bright tie-dye turbans, curly moustaches, incense and royal palaces.

Add a cloud of brightly coloured powder, a splash of festive cheer and bands of beating drums and stick dancing and you have the pinnacle of Holi festivities in one of India’s oldest settlements.

Street vendors sell anything from incense and essential oils to Rajasthani skirts embellished with mirrors and sequins, while cheering on ‘Happy Holi’ from days before. Tourists excitedly rummage through boxes filled with damaged white clothes that are sold for under 100 rupees or €1.20 an item.

Holi’s dress code is strictly white, to act as a blank canvas for the mountains of vibrant powder piled on small wooden carts along the streets.

This is one time when Indians and foreigners enjoy everything together, all equal

The celebration starts with a Holika bonfire the night before.

Young boys, dubbed the princes of Pushkar, bang out a rhythmic beat on drums, as others dance around the fire acting out a traditional stick dance.

Much like the village festa in Malta, everyone joins in jumping and singing to celebrate a new season, for no reason than merely to enjoy the jubilant atmosphere.

Pushkar is a holy city with a holy lake in its centre, where early morning prayer rituals known as puja are common.

Men and women unswirl their sarong-like lungis and saris to take a dip and cleanse their karma as part of their pilgrimage.

The drums, sitars and mantra chanting seem louder on Holi morning, as commotion rises through the humid air.

As I come out of my room, tooth brush in hand, one eye open, I am bombarded by the first handful of powder from Mr Singh, the overexcited waiter-slash-smiling-man at my hotel. The colour war is on.

Armed with bags of colour, waterguns filled with diluted powder, turbans and obligatory white washed attire, we head to the streets.

Two young Indian boys run up from behind, whack a palette in my hair and scream: “Happy Holi!”

Within minutes, everyone has turned the colour of the moment – pink.

As we run through the streets, buckets of water are tossed from rooftops without warning, and roars of laughter belt out from the amused Indians sneakily hiding on their balconies.

Cows in the road, minding their own business, have already been targeted as splashes of purple, yellow and green stain their muddy coats. It is a free-for-all.

We arrive in the main square. People are purple. Balloons of colour are being slung into the holi-hued crowd. Smears of pink, blue, green and yellow highlight faces and one thing strikes me – everyone looks the same.

Indians and pardesi (foreigners), young and old, friends and strangers blend together, all smudging colour on both cheeks and chin in the traditional way. Happy Holi, indeed.

The trance music that engulfs the atmosphere in the main square lends itself to a Westernised depiction of the festival, but this is one time when Indians and foreigners enjoy everything together, all equal.

Two young Indian boys run up from behind, whack a palette in my hair and scream: ‘Happy Holi!’

There is no difference – we celebrate spring, we celebrate life.

When the music eases at 4pm, rainbow-coloured soles flock to the closest dhaba restaurant for chapatti, Indian vegetable thalis and refreshing papaya or mango lassi drinks.

Others hop on to camel carts and watch the city go by, supposedly safe from the paint and buckets of water.

As the day winds down, we sit on the ghats by the lake and the sun settles our fiery excitement.

The sky’s colours match our arms, legs and faces. Pushkar draws in the talented and tireless – violins, sitars, hang drums and didgeridoos keep the spirit alive even as everyone’s feet ache.

We are all Holied out!