He appeared with a tap on my shoulder, cutting through the jostling crowd at Madurai’s Chithirai Festival. While chaos swirled around us, he stood calm, his face a riot of colour—deep devilish pink, adorned with glinting trinkets.

He smiled and held out a vessel. Ah, money, I thought. It paints the town red. Or, in this case, a shade of pink that refused to be ignored.

Carefully, I wrestled my wallet free, handed him a few notes. His eyes widened.

Was it the amount?
The act of giving itself?
Or my awkward attempt at wallet gymnastics in a jostling sea of people?

Surprise gave way to a grin, and suddenly—out of nowhere—he blessed me with a peacock feather.

I asked for a picture. He stood, smiled, then vanished into the festival, dancing to a new tune, swallowed by the crowd.

But his azure blue eyes lingered long after.

And a question stayed with me—Do we all wear paint to earn a living?

(at Madurai, India)