My favourite colour is black. There I said it! That’s not a
colour, right, you’re thinking, didn’t she do her light spectrum in school...
black is the absence of all colours. Black is the uncolour.
I love black. Black hair. Which I never missed as much as
now that it’s turning – well, not black.
I love black clothes. You look like you’re in mourning,
mourns my Ma. You look like a crow, snaps my aunt. You look like an extra in a
heavy metal band, said a friend. You look like you fell into ink, said a
not-so-well-meaning in-law.
And so I stubbornly black on... I even buy my lil boys black
clothes. Hey – black shows no dirt from the 15th fall down the
stairs, black shows no blood from scraped knees, black shows no darn marks from
the tear in the trouser crotch that all boys seem mysteriously to get. Black’s
wash n wear n no-iron.
I bought a black Kancheepuram sari for my bro-in-law’s
wedding in Kerala, and was promptly escorted off to buy a more ‘auspicious
colour’ which turned out to be blistering maroon with a golden pointy blouse
that would make Madonna’s iron bra pale in comparison.
Nah, black is definitely me. Literally. I am the colour of
burnt toast myself and so proud of it. And I don’t wanna look like the million
other pink-is-in or pasty pastels you get a dime a dozen. After all, I’m the
only mourning black crow in a heavy metal band who fell into ink – and wow, that’s
a self-image I love enough to live with!
