Holi Celebrations Around the World: Beyond India

London's Colourful Chaos: Stratford's Riverside East

By midday on 4 March 2026, the private gardens of Riverside East in Stratford, tucked along the edge of Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park, are already humming with anticipation. Families push buggies over the paving stones, groups of university students compare the merits of white T‑shirts versus old gym gear, and elders in embroidered shawls select a vantage point near the stage, all beneath the unapologetically modern sweep of the Olympic skyline. Holi London 2026 is still an hour from its official start, yet colour is already everywhere in potential form: packets of bright powder stacked like sweets at stalls, boxes of water balloons waiting in coolers, vivid event wristbands coiled like bangles on trestle tables.

This is Holi translated into a distinctly East London register. Rather than temple courtyards or dusty town squares, the festival unfolds in a carefully tended urban garden and on wide lawns that once hosted spectators for the 2012 Games. By 12:30 p.m., the crowd has thickened to more than a thousand people, a sea of puffer jackets and saris, trainers and sparkly boots. Snatches of English, Hindi, Punjabi and Yoruba weave through the air, threaded with the smoky perfume of frying chillies and cumin drifting from the street food trucks lining the perimeter. A compère on stage urges everyone to squeeze closer, his voice bouncing between the glassy flanks of nearby apartment towers.

The heartbeat of the afternoon belongs to the music. A live DJ, perched behind a bank of decks garlanded with marigolds, moves seamlessly from vintage filmi hits to current Bollywood chart-toppers, folding in global pop that keeps even Holi newcomers on the dance floor. When the dhol players step up, the energy shifts from exuberant to euphoric. Their drums are slung across sequinned kurtas, hands moving in a blur; the deep, resonant thump ricochets through chests and along the river, cutting through the shrieks of children and the delighted whoops of colour‑streaked teenagers. A rock‑leaning live band follows, electric guitar cracking open familiar Holi anthems into something that feels both anchored in tradition and perfectly at home in twenty‑first‑century London.

Crucially, this is a Holi that has been meticulously adapted for a Western city. At the entrance, staff from ELE Entertainments press small packets of approved powder into every palm, explaining that outside colours are not allowed and that only the event’s skin‑safe, non‑toxic pigments can be used. Parents ask practical questions about stains and sensitive skin while children tug impatiently at their sleeves, itching to dive into the melee. Volunteers in neon vests keep watch at the edges of the densest crowds, gently steering anyone who looks overwhelmed towards a quieter garden bench or the family zone where toddlers toddle under the careful arc of their parents’ hands.

When the first mass colour countdown finally comes, the effect is utterly transformative. A hush of anticipation falls, the DJ lowers the volume, and arms laden with packets are raised toward a pale March sky. On the shouted beat of three, clouds of fuchsia, saffron, turquoise and lime explode upwards, momentarily swallowing the architecture of the park in a soft kaleidoscopic fog. The air tastes faintly chalky and sweet; the scent of jasmine hair oil mingles with rain‑damp grass. Laughter spikes into the thick colour haze as people turn to find their friends rendered unrecognisable, faces masked in wild streaks, hair standing on end with powder. Within seconds, it feels less like an organised event and more like a spontaneous uprising of joy.

Water, that other key element of Holi, has its moment too. Buckets are nowhere to be seen, but children orchestrate ambushes with biodegradable water balloons, lining up along pathways like tiny generals. The first splashes land with cool shocks against warm skin, streaking pigments into new marbled shades. Adults feign exaggerated dismay, then retaliate with tactical throws of their own. Near the bar, a woman in a pristine white coat holds out her arms in surrender as her friends pelt her gently, transforming her outfit into a walking abstract painting. The March air might be brisk, but between the press of the crowd and the infectious movement of the music, nobody seems to mind.

What sets Holi London at Riverside East apart from smaller diaspora gatherings is its scale. It is widely billed as the largest outdoor Holi celebration in the city, and that magnitude brings with it a carnival‑like sense of possibility. There are queues for pani puri and pav bhaji, for chai served in steaming paper cups, for cocktails that glow neon under the afternoon light. A grandmother from Wembley dances hand‑in‑hand with her grandson to a bhangra remix, both caked in yellow powder; a group of colleagues from a nearby start‑up compare their first Holi to London’s Notting Hill Carnival; a recently arrived student from Gujarat almost cries when she glimpses the familiar swirl of colours rising against the unfamiliar shapes of the Olympic Park.

As afternoon drifts into early evening and the low northern sun streaks the clouds in bands of apricot, the garden glows. Coloured powder hangs in the air in soft veils, catching the light like incense. The DJ pushes the tempo, the dhol players answer with intricate riffs, and the crowd responds as one, jumping, waving, calling out lyrics that cross generations and geographies. For a few luminous hours on a riverside lawn in East London, Holi is no longer bound to the subcontinent. It has become something larger and looser, a shared ritual of belonging where neighbours and strangers alike surrender to colour and the exhilarating promise of spring.

Local tip For first‑timers, the trick is to wear layers you do not mind sacrificing to the rainbow. Bring a change of clothes in a tote left at the edge of the garden, keep your phone in a sealable plastic pouch, and arrive early to claim a spot near the stage where the atmosphere is at its most electric yet still family‑friendly.

New York's Rooftop Revelry: Rang De at 230 Fifth

Two days later and an ocean away, Holi rises again, this time twenty floors above the pavements of Manhattan. On Saturday 7 March 2026, the elevators of 230 Fifth Rooftop Bar deposit guests into a realm that feels half nightclub, half open‑air carnival. Gone are Stratford’s lawns and riverside trees; here, the horizon is jagged with skyscrapers and dominated by the unmistakable silhouette of the Empire State Building, so close it seems you could dust its limestone base with pink powder from an outstretched hand.

Rang De New York – widely promoted as one of the city’s biggest Holi celebrations – makes a bold promise before you even arrive. Flyers and online listings speak of an indoor‑outdoor Holi fest, of a rooftop carnival and a penthouse nightclub rolled into one. In person, that description feels almost understated. By early afternoon, the open terrace is already flushed with colour: long communal tables draped in protective coverings, barrels filled with organic airbrush colours, and clusters of friends posing against the skyline as staff armed with colour sprayers stencil neon patterns onto T‑shirts and cheeks. Underfoot, the rooftop’s decking thuds gently to the beat of Bollywood anthems pouring from the speakers.

Unlike more traditional Holi gatherings, Rang De places its bets on airbrushed colour rather than clouds of loose powder. It is a clever adaptation for a city more accustomed to rooftop brunches and cocktail hours than chaotic dye‑throwing. Guests queue good‑naturedly at colour stations where technicians wield airbrush guns like tattoo artists, transforming plain shirts into swirling canvases of magenta, teal and gold. Faces are embellished with intricate mandalas or lightning‑bolt streaks that catch the icy March sunlight. There is a certain theatricality to it all; people stand still, arms out, eyes closed, as if preparing for flight, while vibrant pigment mists around them like urban auroras.

Though the day begins with rooftop play, the deeper pulse of the event lies inside the 20th‑floor penthouse. Step through the doors and New York’s late‑winter chill is instantly replaced by a dense, club‑warm atmosphere scented with perfume, spilled beer and the faint metallic tang of coloured sweat. LED panels wash the room in saturated hues that echo the festival’s palette, while beams of light slice through a fine suspension of fog. The crowd, a mix of diaspora twenty‑somethings, curious New Yorkers and a smattering of visiting students and tourists, moves as one organism toward the DJ booth, where a celebrity DJ flown in from Mumbai works the decks.

The music here is less background and more incantation. Classic Holi songs – those irresistible hooks immortalised in Hindi cinema – are spliced into EDM drops and hip‑hop beats, coaxing the dance floor into a state of collective abandon. Every so often, the doors on either side of the booth swing open and dhol players stride in, drums slung over their shoulders. The live percussion slices through the electronic thrum, sending new ripples of energy cascading across the room. Dancers form swirling circles, hands lifted high, as confetti cannons fire biodegradable streamers that twist slowly down through the strobing light.

Yet, for all its nightclub bravado, Rang De remains resolutely anchored to Holi’s playful heart. Outside on the terrace, where the air is sharper and the city sounds drift up from Broadway and Madison Square Park, small pockets of intimacy emerge. A couple shares a paper plate of chaat, fingers colliding in a slick of tamarind chutney and yoghurt; a group of friends debates the merits of pani puri versus vada pav from neighbouring food stalls. The Indian street‑style snacks – crisp bhajiyas still crackling with hot oil, masala fries dusted in chaat masala, smoky tandoori skewers – provide a grounding, tactile connection to subcontinental street corners, even as the view is all steel and glass.

Photo zones are scattered like stage sets across the rooftop. One corner frames the Empire State Building in a perfect over‑the‑shoulder shot; another uses coloured smoke machines and reflective panels to conjure an almost cinematic portrait of Holi in the sky. Guests step into these curated moments, laughing as they try to hold still while friends jockey for the right angle, phones clutched in hands still faintly stained from earlier colour sessions. In each frame, the city becomes not just a backdrop but a co‑conspirator in the spectacle, its familiar landmarks refracted through a riot of festival hues.

What is most striking, perhaps, is the comfort with which New York folds Holi into its broader party culture. At Rang De, tickets are scanned with the efficiency of any major nightlife event, wristbands double as drink passes, and security staff manage capacity with practised ease. The festival sits at the intersection of cultural celebration and premium entertainment, inviting attendees to both honour a centuries‑old Hindu festival and revel in the city’s love affair with the spectacular. For some, it is a nostalgic bridge back to childhood celebrations in Delhi or Mumbai; for others, it is their first encounter with Holi, discovered via a friend’s Instagram story rather than a family tradition.

Yet amid the selfies and elevated bar tabs, small reminders of Holi’s deeper meaning surface. A group pauses on the edge of the dance floor to explain to a curious colleague how the festival symbolises the victory of good over evil, light over darkness, renewal over stagnation. Someone mentions Holika Dahan, the ritual bonfires lit the night before, while another describes how, back home, neighbours who barely speak all year will smear each other with colour as if they are closest kin. On this Manhattan rooftop, surrounded by skyscrapers and sound systems, that spirit of temporary equality reappears in new form: strangers tossing colour onto each other’s shirts, laughing off missteps on the dance floor, clinking plastic cups in shared celebration of winter’s slow retreat.

By sunset, the city has softened. The sky over lower Manhattan blushes in pastel streaks, and the lights in neighbouring office towers flicker on one by one. From 230 Fifth’s terrace, Holi glows like a private constellation suspended above the avenues – shirts luminous with pigment, faces still damp from exertion and the crisp air, the bassline resonant in ribcages. In this improbable fusion of rooftop glamour and age‑old ritual, New York demonstrates one of Holi’s secret strengths. The festival is endlessly adaptable, as comfortable on a skyscraper terrace as it is in the courtyards of North India, so long as the essential ingredients remain: colour, music, and the radical invitation to see one another briefly beyond the usual lines of work, class or background.

Hidden gem The quietest, and perhaps loveliest, moment at Rang De comes if you slip away to the far edge of the terrace just as twilight deepens. From here, with the music a mellower throb behind you, you can watch the Empire State Building shift through its evening colours while faint clouds of Holi pigment still hover in the rooftop air, a reminder that tradition can find new homes in even the most vertical of cities.

Brooklyn's Backyard Bash: Prospect Park's Colourful Start to Spring

If 230 Fifth offers a high‑octane, skyscraper‑level Holi, Prospect Park delivers something gentler and more grounded. On an early April Sunday, as bare branches in Brooklyn begin to bud and the last of winter’s frost recedes into memory, the park’s Long Meadow and lakeside paths host a very different kind of celebration. Here, Holi unfolds as a community gathering, curated not by nightlife impresarios but by the Brooklyn Conservatory of Music, the Prospect Park Alliance and the South Asian collective Mixed Masala. Instead of velvet ropes and colour stations, there are picnic blankets and hand‑drawn signs pointing the way to music, rangoli artmaking and a bonfire that cracks and hisses against the lingering chill.

The festivities begin near the historic Boathouse in Prospect Park, its Beaux‑Arts façade reflected in the still waters of the Lullwater. Guests arrive on foot and by bike, children swaddled in puffy jackets, adults bearing thermoses of coffee, flasks of chai and the occasional home‑cooked snack to share. Musicians from the Conservatory set up on the steps, cables snaking across the stone and small speakers humming to life. As a trio launches into a fluid blend of Hindustani classical motifs and jazz‑inflected improvisation, the space around the Boathouse becomes an open‑air salon, the music carrying over the ducks that paddle nearby and the joggers who slow down, curiosity piqued.

There is an intimacy here that feels worlds away from the industrial‑scale Holi parties elsewhere in the city. Parents sway gently with toddlers balanced on their hips; elders sit on folding chairs, faces turned up to the tentative spring sun, hands tapping out talas on their knees. The scent of wet earth and thawing leaves rises from the ground, mingling with the faint sweetness of gajar halwa someone has thoughtfully packed in reusable containers. Overhead, the branches still look almost skeletal, but at their tips tiny buds speak of imminent transformation – a botanical echo of Holi’s narrative of renewal.

Between songs, storytellers step forward to claim the gathering’s attention. Without microphones, they rely on the natural acoustics of the colonnaded Boathouse and a call‑and‑response rhythm honed over years of community events. They narrate the legends that underpin Holi – Prahlad’s devotion, Holika’s hubris, the eternal playfulness of Krishna and Radha – in English peppered with Hindi and Bangla phrases, inviting children to chime in with key names or to mimic the crackle of flames with their fingers. Adults, too, lean in, perhaps hearing familiar stories in a new cadence or language. Here, Holi becomes not just something experienced in the body but understood through shared narrative, the mythic and the everyday braided together on a Brooklyn lakeshore.

Nearby, tables are strewn with bowls of coloured sand, stencils and chalk as volunteers guide participants through the basics of rangoli, the intricate floor art that adorns thresholds and courtyards across the subcontinent during festivals. On the paved terrace, patterns begin to bloom under careful fingers: concentric circles of orange and green, lotus petals in powdery blues, geometric mandalas that nod to both South Asian and contemporary design sensibilities. Children, liberated from the pressure of perfection, pour sand with joyous abandon, turning their sections into exuberant explosions of pigment. The juxtaposition is quietly powerful – ancient decorative traditions finding unexpected expression in a New York park that itself is over a century old, designed as a democratic commons for the city.

As the afternoon deepens, attention shifts from the water’s edge toward a clearing where logs have been stacked into a careful teepee. This is Prospect Park’s version of Holika Dahan, the ceremonial bonfire that in India is lit on the eve of Holi to symbolise the burning away of arrogance and evil. Here, park rangers stand by with safety equipment while organisers invite attendees to share aloud what they hope to leave behind with winter – a lingering grief, a habit of isolation, the weight of a difficult year. Each spoken intention is met with murmurs of support; though the flames are literal, the ritual feels metaphorical and deeply contemporary, a space for an urban community to name the unseen burdens they carry.

When the fire finally takes, the wood catches with a crackling intensity that seems to warm more than just hands held out to its heat. Sparks spiral upwards into the pale sky, and the smell of smoke curls through the trees, tapping some primal memory of hearth and gathering. Children edge closer, eyes wide, as adults keep a careful watch. Drummers pick up a steady rhythm, and soon the circle around the blaze is moving, a slow, shuffling dance that accommodates strollers and walking sticks alike. In this moment, Holi’s themes of light and renewal become more than symbolic; they are enacted bodily by neighbours, friends and strangers drawing closer to a shared source of warmth.

Once the embers settle into a steady glow, the final chapter of the celebration begins. Led by Mixed Masala volunteers carrying small banners and portable speakers, participants form a loose procession that snakes along the paths toward the Lincoln Road Playground. This makeshift parade is less about spectacle and more about transition – from listening to action, from contemplation to colour. Children skip ahead, their white T‑shirts and canvas trainers still pristine, while behind them adults chat in low tones, pushing bikes or carrying half‑finished rangoli boards like temporary talismans.

At the playground, the energy shifts instantly. The space has been transformed into a safe, contained arena for what everyone has been secretly anticipating all afternoon: the powder‑throwing. Volunteers distribute compostable bags of vibrant organic colour in carefully controlled batches, explaining that powders should be tossed gently and never into anyone’s eyes or mouth. The first hesitant smears give way quickly to full‑blown play as friends chase each other between the swings and climbing frames, parents kneel to let toddlers pat colour onto their cheeks, and even the most reserved elders find their faces streaked with unexpected blues and pinks. The shrieks of delight compete with the squeak of swing chains and the distant honk of Brooklyn traffic.

The atmosphere is undeniably festive, yet it remains rooted in safety and inclusion. There are quiet corners set aside for those who prefer to watch; bowls of water and towels for rinsing irritated eyes; extra masks for anyone concerned about inhaling powder. Volunteers circulate with gentle reminders about consent – ask before you smear a stranger with colour – and with offers to take photos on guests’ phones, capturing the moment a shy child finally throws their first handful of pigment. In an era when many city dwellers crave both connection and gentle boundaries, Prospect Park’s Holi manages to deliver both.

As the sun slides lower behind the canopy of trees and the coloured dust begins to settle on the rubberised playground surface like a surreal snowfall, it becomes clear why this particular celebration has become a fixture of Brooklyn’s spring calendar. It offers not only a taste of South Asian culture but also a model for how urban parks can serve as crucibles for cross‑cultural connection. On these few acres of shared ground, Holi is not the domain of any single community; it is a collaborative creation, shaped as much by the music students lugging amplifiers as by the aunties who have brought homemade sweets, as much by the park stewards monitoring the bonfire as by the children whose delighted shrieks mark the true arrival of spring.

Local tip The ground around the Lincoln Road Playground can be damp in early April, so bring a waterproof picnic blanket to stash your bags on while you play. Wear layers – the air near the lake can still carry a wintry edge – and pack a lightweight scarf to pull over your mouth and nose during the heaviest bursts of powder.

London Ki Holi: Hainault Skate Park's Community Vibe

If Stratford’s polished riverside and Brooklyn’s pastoral parkland show Holi at its cosmopolitan and contemplative best, Hainault Skate Park in northeast London reveals the festival’s capacity for unfiltered, joyous chaos. On a mid‑March Saturday, the concrete bowls and ramps of this suburban recreation ground are temporarily transformed into the beating heart of London ki Holi, a sprawling community festival that prides itself on being as generous with its colours as it is with its welcome.

By late morning, music already spills over Forest Road as families stream in from the nearby Central line stations, guided by the sight of flags snapping in the wind above the skate park’s perimeter. Volunteers at the entrance hand out wristbands and, crucially, first packets of colour – part of the festival’s signature promise of unlimited powders throughout the day. Inside, the normally monochrome skate landscape has been softened with banners, bunting and bright fabric backdrops, transforming ramps into impromptu seating and platforms into stages. Food stalls line the perimeter like a small‑scale mela: sizzling dosa griddles beside pani puri stands, Gujarati snacks next to Indo‑Chinese noodles in cardboard boxes, trays of jalebi coiled like tiny orange galaxies.

The soundtrack to all this is emphatically, gloriously Bollywood. A rotation of DJs builds the day’s arc from sunny, familiar sing‑along numbers to high‑tempo club tracks, their sets punctuated by live performers who strut across the main stage overlooking the largest concrete bowl. Choreographed troupes in sequinned costumes perform medleys that stitch together decades of Hindi cinema, hips snapping and hands tracing clean arcs against a sky that still holds a wintry edge. Between sets, the festival MCs coax the crowd into impromptu dance lessons, teaching basic thumkas and hook steps to lines of participants whose outfits range from traditional kurta‑pyjamas to athleisure and leather jackets.

Colour at London ki Holi is both currency and language. Large drums and bins at designated stations are continuously replenished with mounds of dry, organic powder in every conceivable shade, and attendees cycle through with the delighted urgency of children in a sweet shop. Because the powder is included in most tickets, there is no hesitancy in its use; handfuls are flung into the air, smeared lovingly onto cheeks, tossed playfully at the backs of unsuspecting friends. Within an hour, the park’s concrete surfaces, railings and even skate ramps are dusted in a patina of pigment that softens their hard edges and lends the entire space a dreamlike, otherworldly atmosphere.

As daylight begins to mellow, the festival’s tone shifts from carefree carnival to full‑blown spectacle. The Holi fireworks, a much‑anticipated feature of the evening programme, are prepared in a cordoned‑off area under the careful supervision of technicians. Families stake out viewing spots along the grass and embankments, children clutching paper cups of steaming masala chai against the evening chill. When the first rockets scream upwards, their trails briefly illuminated in reds and greens that echo the powders still clinging to hair and clothes, the collective intake of breath is almost audible. Bursts of light scatter across the sky above the skate park, reflected faintly in the windows of the surrounding houses, as if the whole neighbourhood has been briefly drawn into the celebration.

Yet even as fireworks claim the sky, the ground belongs to the music. As darkness thickens, lasers pierce the air from the main stage, slicing through residual colour haze to create an impromptu, open‑air rave. The laser light show paints geometric shapes across the bowls and ramps, bathing dancers in shifting neon hues that amplify the pigments on their skin. The DJs respond to the crowd’s escalating energy, layering bhangra basslines under Bollywood vocals, then slamming unexpectedly into chart anthems that prompt universal sing‑alongs. The effect is dizzying but strangely cohesive; in this concrete amphitheatre, culture is less a fixed point and more a live remix.

At the centre of one of the festival’s wildest crescendos stands singer and performer Navin Kundra, a regular headliner whose presence has become part of London ki Holi’s DNA. When he takes the stage, the audience surges forward, phones rising in unison to capture the moment. His setlist threads his own hits with beloved Bollywood numbers, his voice cutting cleanly through the roar of the crowd and the insistent beat. Between songs, he banters with children perched on parents’ shoulders, invites volunteer dancers onto the stage, and leads call‑and‑response choruses that ripple all the way to the back fences. Under the combined blaze of stage lights and lasers, with powder still drifting lazily through the air, the scene feels improbably cinematic.

What distinguishes London ki Holi from more centrally located festivals is its resolutely neighbourhood‑driven character. The predicted footfall runs into the thousands, yet the mood remains one of an oversized block party rather than an anonymous mega‑event. Local youth weave effortlessly between serving snack plates, demonstrating the latest Bollywood choreography and quite literally skating through the celebrations, boards tucked under arms or gliding briefly down pigment‑slick ramps between songs. Aunties in colourful shawls swap tips on stain removal while keeping a watchful eye on the elaborate kids’ zone, where bouncy castles, small rides and face‑painting stations keep younger revellers enthralled for hours.

Practicalities are woven thoughtfully into the day’s fabric. A dedicated shuttle ferries visitors from nearby Fairlop Underground Station, making the festival accessible to those arriving from across Greater London. Volunteers circulate with water and snacks for older attendees, and first‑aid stations are clearly marked. The bar staff serve everything from soft drinks and spiced buttermilk to cocktails, while food vendors work at a relentless pace to keep up with appetite stirred by constant dancing. The smells alone – smoky tandoori, sweet jalebi syrup, the sharp tang of chaat masala hanging in the cool air – are enough to anchor the festival firmly in all five senses.

As closing time approaches, the energy does not so much dip as condense. The final songs are sung louder, dancers jump higher, colours – once flung with carefree abandon – are now applied with lingering tenderness, as if to carry a last hint of the day’s exuberance into the working week ahead. Friends trade contact details, families corral children made unrecognisable by layers of powder, stallholders exchange weary smiles. The skate park, gradually emptying, begins to reassert its familiar outlines beneath the sheen of colour and the litter teams already at work. Yet the echo of dhol beats and the shimmer of spent fireworks in the mind’s eye linger, a reminder that for one day each year, this patch of concrete becomes a portal, connecting suburban London to an ancient, ever‑evolving festival of renewal.

Local tip Wear trainers with decent grip – once the concrete at Hainault Skate Park is coated in a fine layer of powder, it can be surprisingly slick. If you are coming in from central London, time your journey to catch the festival shuttle from Fairlop Underground Station; it not only saves you the walk but also offers a first glimpse of the day’s kaleidoscopic outfits as fellow passengers pile in.