A couple of years before I was born, my parents lost a baby to foetal maternal haemorrhage. So when she was expecting me, my mother was extremely apprehensive. She was scared of losing me, and would talk to me when I was in her womb. She read a lot, rested a lot, and prayed a lot. I was fortunate enough to be one awaited baby. So when I was born, it came as a shock to my dad when one of my aunts commented that it was unfortunate enough that he had a girl, but having a girl who was dark-skinned was just plain tragedy.
Neither of my parents took her comment very well. In my own home, I was a little princess. They tried to protect me from this vapid and shallow perception. My mother always made me believe that I was the most beautiful girl in the world. But the inevitable happened. As soon as I started going to school and interacting with the world, the color of my skin came up again. It haunted me in my teenage, when well-meaning relatives and family friends suggested “cures” for my dark skin. They taunted my mother for letting me play in the sun, and for enrolling me into a karate class, when she should have been rubbing some miracle ointments on my body in order to make me fairer. She was also accused of not doing certain things during her pregnancy which would have ensured a fair baby. It did not matter that I debated well, was a school captain, and a good student. I was still dark-skinned.
The color of my skin followed me into my marriage. In a family of largely fair-skinned people, I must have stood out like a sore thumb. Now I am well into my thirties, and it is still a part of the package. It does not matter that there is lots more of me, other than my skin. It’s the color of my skin that people see first. But there is more to me.
I love the color of my skin. It’s mine! I also love blue, and I have a blue themed bedroom. I also love the color red for all its fierceness. I love white meat over red meat. I love Asparagus, green and white. I like cheese with crackers. I like doodling, even though I am no good at it. I like candles, and I feel nothing beats their soft, dreamy light. I like ice-tea. I write poems sometimes, though I never
read them out to anyone. I don’t like the dark, but am not scared of it. I am fond of babies, and feel that all mothers are special and beautiful. I like fresh flowers in my house. I love the smell of Rajnigandha. I like Khus (vetivar) and find it to be the best summer drink ever. I love having friends over, and I am very proud of each and every one of them. I love with abandon, and I love much. I am no dancer, but I love dancing anyway. I am a strong woman, and people have admired me for my poise and strength. But I am also emotional. I can feel others’ pain. I never baby-talk, and am often guilty of calling a spade a spade. I cook. I like adding up the numbers on the number plates of auto-rickshaws around me, when I am stuck in traffic. I talk to my two potted plants kept in office. I talk to dogs, and cats, and birds. And sometimes to myself. I hate getting into a cab first because I hate sliding in on the cab seat. I hate going to the gym, but manage to drag myself there. I am scared of water, but managed to learn swimming. I like overcoming fears, and my biggest fear is insignificance. I have endured pain, heartbreak, grief, betrayal, manipulation, and I have survived, with my wit intact.
I like putting nail-polish on my feet and kohl in my eyes. I have always lived beyond my means, loved my food, and hated sycophants. I doubt this will ever change. I am sincere, mostly honest, mostly fearless, and mostly friendly. I can be a bit of a bully sometimes. I hate being bullied. I like cheesy songs. I like strawberry milkshakes. I also like chocolate milkshakes. I love Nigella Lawson for daring to the woman that she is. I am all this and more. Much more.
But strangely enough, sometimes, all people see about me, is the color of my skin.................
Neither of my parents took her comment very well. In my own home, I was a little princess. They tried to protect me from this vapid and shallow perception. My mother always made me believe that I was the most beautiful girl in the world. But the inevitable happened. As soon as I started going to school and interacting with the world, the color of my skin came up again. It haunted me in my teenage, when well-meaning relatives and family friends suggested “cures” for my dark skin. They taunted my mother for letting me play in the sun, and for enrolling me into a karate class, when she should have been rubbing some miracle ointments on my body in order to make me fairer. She was also accused of not doing certain things during her pregnancy which would have ensured a fair baby. It did not matter that I debated well, was a school captain, and a good student. I was still dark-skinned.
The color of my skin followed me into my marriage. In a family of largely fair-skinned people, I must have stood out like a sore thumb. Now I am well into my thirties, and it is still a part of the package. It does not matter that there is lots more of me, other than my skin. It’s the color of my skin that people see first. But there is more to me.
I love the color of my skin. It’s mine! I also love blue, and I have a blue themed bedroom. I also love the color red for all its fierceness. I love white meat over red meat. I love Asparagus, green and white. I like cheese with crackers. I like doodling, even though I am no good at it. I like candles, and I feel nothing beats their soft, dreamy light. I like ice-tea. I write poems sometimes, though I never
read them out to anyone. I don’t like the dark, but am not scared of it. I am fond of babies, and feel that all mothers are special and beautiful. I like fresh flowers in my house. I love the smell of Rajnigandha. I like Khus (vetivar) and find it to be the best summer drink ever. I love having friends over, and I am very proud of each and every one of them. I love with abandon, and I love much. I am no dancer, but I love dancing anyway. I am a strong woman, and people have admired me for my poise and strength. But I am also emotional. I can feel others’ pain. I never baby-talk, and am often guilty of calling a spade a spade. I cook. I like adding up the numbers on the number plates of auto-rickshaws around me, when I am stuck in traffic. I talk to my two potted plants kept in office. I talk to dogs, and cats, and birds. And sometimes to myself. I hate getting into a cab first because I hate sliding in on the cab seat. I hate going to the gym, but manage to drag myself there. I am scared of water, but managed to learn swimming. I like overcoming fears, and my biggest fear is insignificance. I have endured pain, heartbreak, grief, betrayal, manipulation, and I have survived, with my wit intact.
I like putting nail-polish on my feet and kohl in my eyes. I have always lived beyond my means, loved my food, and hated sycophants. I doubt this will ever change. I am sincere, mostly honest, mostly fearless, and mostly friendly. I can be a bit of a bully sometimes. I hate being bullied. I like cheesy songs. I like strawberry milkshakes. I also like chocolate milkshakes. I love Nigella Lawson for daring to the woman that she is. I am all this and more. Much more.
But strangely enough, sometimes, all people see about me, is the color of my skin.................
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