Happy Being Brown

Now I ask you, what kind of a race are we? I meant us, Indians, when I meant 'we'. I call us a race because, we have so much mixed blood and we don't belong to one particular race. We are a bloody 'mongrel race'.  

And there is one particular trait that is unique only to us. I mean what kind of people, are racist against their own. When we notice people darker than our own, we start ridiculing them, they become the butt of our jokes and we also have special names for them, for example, kaalu, kaalia...

I would have never realised it myself, until I went through the marriage market. It was fine that I was a pretty girl, it was fine that I was an engineering graduate, it was fine I was working, it was fine my parents had money, it was fine I would be married off grandly with enough gold and property, but...no, no, no, make that a BIG BUT!

"But the girl is a little dark, no?” the aunty would say, and the uncle would nod in agreement. Only their son would be staring with longing in his eyes. Only he would not have the guts to offend his folks, but hey who wants to marry a blind bat, who can't see beyond my colour.

And why I would I marry someone who is bald, has a bad nose, has a big forehead, and well who is darker than me. Well go ahead and have your prejudice, I will rightfully have mine as well.

It was then my mother suddenly discovered, I needed to become fair. So the tryst began, starting with lime juice, turmeric, honey, cream, almond paste, milk, curd, tomato juice, grated potato, mashed papaya, you name it, I have put it on my skin, and then she discovered the chemical bleaches...

Until we discovered something. I come from a healthy stock of dark South Indians, and you know what means...tee hee...I would revert back to being brown in a few weeks...So I would be wheat coloured a few weeks and cinnamon coloured a few weeks. And no I am not black or brown (how dare you) I am warm honey-toned or a spicy cinnamon colour...sigh what I can say...

There is a fairness cream,

there is a whitening cream,

there is a bleach,

there is a whitening powder,

there is a whitening this and a fairness that.

And now you are calling it radiance something.

I don’t care for your propaganda

and nor your racist ways.

It is funny that you are Indian.

That you are cream and I am chocolate!

It is funny that the pot

wants to call the kettle black.

You want ME to change

because I am brown.

But you can’t make me

feel ashamed of

this delicious cinnamon skin,

and you can’t make me hate for

who I am.

Coming Back to the Earth

What is the quintessential comfort food for Indians? Especially after a hard days of work, after a hard night of partying or even after a spending a lazy day at home! Especially what would you eat after you reach home after a second show movie, or a disco at 3 AM.
After talking to a lot of my friends, the following have turned up, Khichdi, Dal and rice, Curd rice, Rasam rice, Rajma chawal, Roti and Butter Chicken, Roti and Dal Fry, Biryani and even hot Idlies sold on the road side...some of the others have not made it to the list as they are in a minority. It seems the body needs a good dose of carbs, carbs and more carbs...

So the other day we had a chance to go overboard with the alcohol and low on food. And the choice we had was driving down quiet a distance to eat midnight buffet at this popular restaurant or check out the local bandi.
And believe me the sizzling tawa, the steaming Idli cooker and the smell of the Sambar was heavenly. But the immediate vision that followed was sheer torture, the scenes from 'Delhi Belly'. The man selling Tandoori Chicken!
Oh man....not again, not again...why am I cursed with this vivid imagination. But this one time I did not give in to temptation and remind my friends about the Delhi Belly! :)
Forgotten was the car we were driving, forgotten were the expensive togs we were wearing, forgotten were all fancy-shmancy things, for once the sizzling tawa had more power than anything else...Delhi Belly be damned....this is how the following poem came into existence.

Coming back to the earth

Vodka on ice and chilled beer

and a hundred other spirits

in a dark noisy hole.

A mad DJ and the floor

becomes livid with grooving bodies

and crazy laughter.

And come midnight,

the cavern spews out a crowd

into the unforgiving darkness.

More laughter as I try to

open my car, and a friend

chucks out her guts.

Weaving through the empty

roads with wine in our veins,

we seem like heroes for the night.

Only to come back home with

hungry stomachs, to realize

that the balm for our soul

lies in plain old rice and dal.

Memories

Memories memories

Like roller coaster rides

Going up and down, round and round

And then tumbling after.

Through a tunnel of blue cotton candy,

weird mirrors and haunted house

stories; memories that begin

with lazy summers and melt

with never ending winters.

This Ganesha Festival

Green mango leaves and

deep orange marigolds.

Wafting incense and jasmine garlands.

Rose petals and soft

sounds of the Veena.

Sweetmeats and savouries,

and a houseful of children running around.

And somewhere in between is a peaceful oasis

with one clay idol gazing serenely,

touching my soul.

Sita's walk...

Who is the first feminist figure in the history of India? For me it will always be Queen Sita. The woman, who willingly followed her husband into exile by giving up her comforts, brought her children up as a single mother and finally walked out on Lord Ram to live a life free of troubles and injustices.

For me, she epitomises the quintessential and long suffering Indian woman who represents resilience and patience.

Here is an attempt to read into her thoughts at various stages of her life. And I have picked the episode where she is banished to the forest and this time she is pregnant and she is alone.  

What could have been Sita’s thoughts in those moments of despair?

“Ram,” Sita thought as she walked

out of the palace and

out of his life,

“you walked over mountains,

crossed the seas,

and vanquished the demons to

bring me home.”

“Yet you could no more conquer

the demon in your mind than you

could an elusive deer

of the mystical Vindhyas.

And today you banish me

to the forest, you,

a ‘Purushottam’, best among men,

are nothing but a slave

to your immature thoughts.”

Standing in line....

I am standing in a line,
waiting for alms from you,
with my arms spread out.
But when you reach me,
you have nothing to give,
for you have already spent your love
on someone else.
Yet I am here day after day,
wearing out my patience and
wearing my heart on my sleeve.
While you profess
you feel nothing for me,
even in your handouts.
I may be a beggar today
for your affection,
but I am seeing cracks in my heart.
One of these days you will
come to me with an armful of gifts.
But I will be no more in the line,
for then there will
be a big gaping hole in my hand.
And my heart would have turned
to stone.

Your Laughter

Your laughter like a

ray of sunshine

slanting through the blinds

can only raise dust mites

in this empty room.

I, who waited, am

no more here,

and my shadows

have long disappeared