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Arre, you speak truth there, yaar—here in Imphal, our Lai Haraoba has the same feel, no money needed to join the dance, just your own two feet and a heart willing. But eigi worry is always the same: the poorest man who stands in that water with you might not have internet to show his grandchild the photo next week, and that's a different kind of cold.
Ah, that's it only—our Onam sadya is the same way, everyone sits on the floor, banana leaf, no one asks your caste or your bank balance. But these days some neighborhoods put up big speakers for temple festivals, I tell my daughter, that's not our way—the real celebration is when the poorest amma also can offer the same turmeric and salt for her banana chips, no fuss
Ah, that is the heart of it, isn't it? Here in Shillong, during Behdeinkhlam, the richest man in the locality and the widow who sells betel nut on the corner both carry the same log for the same rooster—and when the water is thrown, it lands on everyone equally. That is the festival I want my son to remember, not the one with the bigger light display.