Walking Towards Ourselves

by Catriona Mitchell

  We find our way out of the crowded neighbourhood onto a large street, and a shaken Tej finally relaxes.

  ‘Does this happen often?’ I ask.

  ‘Sometimes,’ he says wearily.

  ‘Why did he go crazy?’

  ‘Because Ram is dark and also because he is South Indian,’ he replies.

  Responding to my shocked silence, Tej says, ‘In these parts being dark is like being a leper. Also, South Indians are looked down upon because they are typically dark.’

  ‘Despite all of Ram’s money?’ I ask.

  ‘They’ll marry her off to a wife-beating drunkard. But that’s okay, as long as he is fair and Punjabi,’ he says.

  Tej skips the next two meetings in Bathinda – he doesn’t want to stick around these parts, so we begin the three-hour drive to Ludhiana. I too am relieved to be leaving Bathinda. I keep looking over my shoulder, paranoid that a livid Punjabi father will emerge from the shadows to take down poor Tej.

  We arrive in Ludhiana, where the local priest, savvier than the last one, has already shortlisted and emailed Tej biodata. We head straight to the homes of potential brides. At the prospect of a potential husband for their daughter, Indian parents are at their obsequious best and, despite the fact that we have informed them only two hours before our arrival, they are happy to welcome us.

  On the drive over, Tej is moody and anxious. I suspect that it is because of the recent fractious encounter, but he reveals that something else is on his mind. Tej is worried that he may never find Ram a bride. This is Tej’s seventh trip to Punjab, bride-hunting for Ram. He has been inculcating priests for several years, and Ram has paid him over US$100,000 in fees. Tej has never had this much trouble with a client; he attributes the difficulty of finding a bride for Ram to the colour of his skin.

  In my research of the matrimonial market in India I had seen how important it was for women to be fair, but here in Punjab, the mecca of fair skin, I realise how pervasive the obsession with fair skin is. In every single permutation and combination of India’s complicated class equation, Ram qualifies as high class. He belongs to the high-caste Brahmin community and he is rich and well educated. But in the eyes of the father we just encountered, and so many others like him, class rests in the colour of the skin, and he considers it a stain on his family’s honour to give his daughter in marriage to such a dark-skinned man. It is also ludicrous that South Indians are looked down upon by Punjabis because they are dark-skinned. As wealth, caste and class lines become increasingly blurred in India, fair skin is more important than ever before, and the beauty epidemic in India has become so pervasive that even men are falling victim to it.

  A priest I met in a Gurudwara in Chandigarh with Tej told me that fair skin determined class in a time when nothing else did. Low-caste farmers have become millionaires in months because of booming land prices; caste doesn’t hold as much status as before, since high castes are poor and poor castes are rich, so because of the lack of any other metric, people are using skin colour to judge class.

  I suggest that maybe we should look for a bride elsewhere for Ram, but Tej tells me dismally that Ram is set on a fair-skinned Punjabi bride. Nothing else is more important to him.

  ‘This,’ asserts Tej sadly, ‘is the only way.’

  In Ludhiana, we cross a busy market place, pass through a few gargantuan structures – malls, which have become all the rage here in Punjab – and make our way to our destination. Our G.P.S. leads us to an apartment building on the outskirts of town. We park and cross through several dank, winding corridors till we finally find ourselves outside apartment 14B, block C, wing E.

  The door is opened by an elderly couple, Mr and Mrs Singh, who are friendly and welcoming. Their flat is surprisingly charming – especially after the horror of the Bathinda encounter. They seem to be quite religious: there are pictures of Hindu gods and gurus everywhere.

  Pleasantries are exchanged, tea and samosas are served, and then Tej begins his usual sales pitch. Mid-pitch, the doorbell rings and Mrs Singh leaps up to open the door. A chubby, fresh-faced, smiling girl comes into the apartment.

  She greets us in perfect English, and her parents ask her to sit down with us.

  Tej has done a quick expert survey, and from the glint in his eye I can see that he approves.

  ‘Tell them about yourself,’ urges Mrs Singh in Punjabi.

  ‘My good name is Sheena Singh. I am a Master’s in Education and English from Khalsa College for Women. I am twenty-three years old. My dream in life is to become an English teacher,’ she recites in a singsong monologue.

  Tej seems sufficiently impressed.

  ‘Good to meet you, Sheena,’ he says, extending his hand, which she takes shyly with a smile. He seems to be in a glittering mood – so different from before that for a moment I wonder if he wants to marry Sheena himself.

  After an hour of banter, Mrs Singh invites us to stay for dinner and soon Mr Singh is telling us all about his family.

  Sheena is the third of three children. Her two older brothers, Manmeet and Gurmeet, are out of touch. They are addicted to drugs – apparently a common problem among the Punjabi youth – and have squandered much of the family property holdings to finance their addiction. Sheena is the Singhs’ only daughter, and because of the damage their sons have done, they have no money to pay for her wedding and are unable to find a husband for her.

  ‘Now you have! Ram is perfect for her,’ extols Tej. ‘He wants an educated wife, and Sheena can study further and pursue a career in the U.S.’

  Seeing the stunned look on the Singhs’ faces, Tej continues with a smile. ‘Ram is very open-minded and modern. Now, there are only two problems,’ he continues.

  All three Singh faces fall.

  ‘Well, three actually,’ he says. ‘First, he is divorced, which to be honest, nowadays, is not a problem. Second, he has an issue from his first wife. That is also not a problem, because he has plenty of money, and his daughter lives with his first wife. Third,’ continues Tej, a slight strain entering his voice, ‘Ram is from Tamil Nadu and he is dark.’

  I wait to see the look of horror on the Singhs’ faces, but thankfully they still seem to be hanging on to Tej’s every word.

  ‘In America, dark is considered very beautiful. Their President is black. His wife, also black, is thought to be America’s most beautiful woman. In America, where Sheena will live, black people have a lot of respect.’

  There is an uncomfortable silence, and Tej and I await their comments with bated breath.

  ‘Is that it?’ asks Mr Singh.

  ‘Yes,’ says Tej conclusively.

  ‘Can we see a picture?’

  Tej passes his phone to Sheena. All three Singhs huddle over the screen, appraising Ram’s smiling face.

  ‘He is a little black,’ says Mrs Singh quietly.

  I brace myself for disaster.

  ‘He is a little tanned in this picture. He was just back from visiting the beach, where there is a lot of sun,’ says Tej nervously.

  ‘If our daughter is okay, then we are okay,’ says Mr Singh with a gentle smile, looking expectantly at Sheena.

  ‘Is he a nice man?’ Sheena asks me, shyly but intently.

  I feel as if a mountain of pressure has been placed on me. I am taking too long to reply and I feel a kick underneath the table.

  ‘Yes. Yes, he is,’ I say finally, because I do honestly believe that Ram is a nice guy.

  Two hours later, at the stroke of midnight, Tej and I head straight to the only bar in Ludhiana. The Singhs have agreed to give their daughter in marriage to Ram on the condition that Sheena can study further in the U.S. and pursue her dream of becoming a teacher. Tej is keen to celebrate in whatever style Ludhiana has to offer.

  An ecstatic Tej calls Ram. ‘Broooo, we found your woman!’ he says joyously. ‘She’s beautiful, fair as milk, a real beauty, and a very nice girl too.’

  ‘Don’t you think Ram should meet her before he agrees to marry her?’ I a
sk, a little bewildered by this turn of events.

  ‘Nope,’ says Tej. ‘I know this man inside out. He’s going to love her.’

  ‘Maybe he should meet her just once.’

  ‘I’m totally sure. What’s not to like? She’s fair, she’s sweet, she’ll give him fair-ish babies, she’ll look great on his arm after he sends her to finishing school. That’s all he really cares about.’

  ‘What about her? Will she be fine?’

  ‘A penthouse in D.C. versus a village in India? Which one would any woman prefer?’

  I guess the answer to that question is pretty clear.

  Driving back to Delhi from Punjab I remember the truck full of goats we had come across on our drive over. In many ways, this matrimonial process reminds me of those poor goats. These girls, like the goats, have no clue where they are being shipped off to – a butcher’s hell or a pastoral heaven. But then again, as Tej said, at least they are lucky to have a choice, thanks to the colour of their skin.

  * * *

  1. ‘Black’ in Hindi – a common expletive for a dark-skinned person

  BLACK

  ROSALYN D’MELLO

  Even as I write this, the charred remains of what was once skin is being shed; the thin peel, as black as the carbonised exterior of a roasted eggplant, slips off piecemeal, revealing a narrow strait of pink flesh. The wound is too prominent, poised precisely above the parting of my breasts, calling too much attention to itself. It no longer stings, is no longer raw, but along its periphery is a persistent itch. I need to keep it sufficiently greased.

  I’ve never been as determined to erase a potential scar. I’ve never before been ashamed of a burn. I’m known to wear all welts like souvenirs. If the circumstances were different, if I were not to blame for the singeing of my own skin, if I’d been a victim of another’s callousness, I’d be more at ease. But it was I who was responsible. I was not humble enough: I should have made the required intercessions to the gods that be, as I am usually wont to do.

  I’d done this so many times before that I deluded myself into believing the caramel custard had been perfectly steamed. I didn’t flinch even once when, holding both dishes too close to my body, I upturned the custard and the liquid concoction of milk, eggs and sugar splattered over the upper region of my chest.

  Without letting out so much as a squeal, I walked towards the sink, ran the tap and splashed water over my chest to contain the sting. My lover, who was beside me, salvaged the unsteady custard, making it presentable, quelling my fears about this last course being a disaster. He took the hurriedly made dessert to the table, poured two capfuls of rum over the caramelised top, setting it aflame, allowing it the privilege of a perfect rich glaze.

  It seems almost narcissistic to have to tend to my body so obsessively. It is not a practice I am accustomed to. I grew up learning to detest my skin. If ever I faltered and administered to it too preciously, the world around me was ever present to remind me of its imperfection. I was never accorded the status of being beautiful.

  In a country fixated on fairness, my unsavoury black skin has been a curse. The politically correct ‘dusky’ is an understatement when it comes to my skin tone. Mocha brown is more accurate. Its denseness makes me stand out wherever I go. If random bystanders do not call me ‘blackie’, ‘nigger’, ‘kali’, ‘black beauty’, ‘negro’ or ‘Kali Maa’, they ask me if I’m from Kenya, South India or Sri Lanka, often even when I’m in Goa, the land of my origins. Once, two women who were walking towards me on a street in Mumbai actually found themselves in a quandary: they noticed how my colour resembled a black cat’s and spent a fair amount of energy manoeuvring their gait so as to avoid crossing my path. Like these superstitious women, no one knows what to make of a confident, self-aware, dark-skinned woman.

  When I was twelve and self-conscious, I had a nightly ritual. I’d stand in front of the mirror, comb my hair, brush my teeth, wash my face, dry myself, then stare at my reflection, wondering if this was really me.

  Before sleeping, I’d say a little prayer. Always the same words coursed between my lips because there was only one thing I wanted most of all.

  Beauty.

  I prayed for beauty.

  When I woke, I’d walk to the mirror and face my disappointment. Nothing had changed. My skin was still as dark as roasted cocoa. I’d lament the day: my mother’s protest at my opposition to fairness creams, my dwindling self-esteem, my battle with choosing clothes whose colour wouldn’t contrast so sharply with the black of my skin.

  I was the misfit by default. I hated being different. I hated wearing my skin like a cloak of shame. Everywhere I trod I had to bear witness to petty humiliations. I wanted to be invisible. I wanted to be able to camouflage my body, but I seemed fated to stand out like a sore thumb.

  I was tired of derision. I wanted to be desired.

  This petitioning and the ensuing disappointment continued for two years. Until one night, when I decided to alter the texture of my intercession.

  I stopped asking for beauty. I asked for wisdom instead.

  It has made all the difference.

  We all aspire to beauty, without adequately questioning its parameters. What constitutes an object/subject’s beauty? Is it its context? Is it Zeitgeist? Is beauty subject to the vagaries of trends and shifting tastes? Is it its transience? Or its apparent translucency or opacity? Is it its relation to truth, as Keats would have it? Is it subterranean, perceivable only to sagacious eyes? Does it lie at the cusp between vanity and humility? Must beauty only be defined by the beholder? Or can it possibly be something more inherent? Can something be beautiful if there is no one to admire its beauty? Can it be lived as well as felt? Is beauty a function of light?

  For years I’ve battled with the aphorism ‘beauty is only skin deep’. The world as it exists will not allow us the luxury of entertaining such a profound belief. A perfunctory glance at the matrimonials will show you the fact that all prospective brides, grooms and mothers-in-law in India prefer a fair-skinned alliance to duskier counterparts. For dark-skinned women to stand any chance in the marriage bazaar, they must disguise their darkness. Fair equals beautiful. Dark equals a hefty dowry.

  Our biggest misconception is that we see whiteness as synonymous with lightness. What we have lost, in our ignorance, is the metaphysical connotations inherent in the word ‘light’. What we have forgotten are the mystical inferences redolent in the word ‘black’. In our Aryan-Dravidian hegemony, we have completely suppressed the mythical significance of words like kali, referring to the black goddess herself, of time, doomsday, and death. Kali is a figure of defiance, her brazenly black complexion symbolising her transcendental nature, her nude body attesting to her state of being shorn of all that is illusory. I had been derisively called kali so many times I never once thought to investigate the nuances behind the word, always processing it as an adjective or a proper noun, rarely as the evocation of a divine, all-powerful entity.

  Recently, when I was perched on what could easily have substituted as a gynaecologist’s chair – legs splayed, hands spread outwards against each arm rest, dress hitched high enough to barely cover my delicates – I re-encountered the extent of my darkness. It wasn’t the state of almost nakedness that prompted this; two women, one on each side of my body, made a fair contribution. The one on my right lifted the powder puff from its receptacle and rubbed it over my ankle. The talc contrasted sharply against my skin. ‘Arms pehle karte hain,’ said the woman on my left. Let’s do the arms first. A firm strategy now in place, both women proceeded to first spread hot wax over my skin, after having powdered it, and then to rip it off with a white paper strip, removing, in the process, all the unwanted hair.

  At least two months had passed since I was last deforested, which meant there was a fair amount of hair to pull off. The women performed the procedure simultaneously, and, despite their dexterity, my nerves smarted from each erasure. When the ordeal was finally over, one of them wiped each of my limbs
with a wet cloth before baptising me with astringent. My skin gleamed.

  It was only later, in the bath, that I realised this was my most pleasant experience to date at a beauty parlour. As I revelled in the silken feel of my waxed body, I actually wore a smile. Apart from my epiphany about the density and extent of my darkness, there was nothing exceptional about this particular session, which is precisely what made it extraordinary. Perhaps the women were too eager to have lunch to be their usual inquisitive selves, or perhaps it was that they had mistaken me for a married woman (I was wearing a sari and a bindi when I had come in an hour before to make an appointment, something they asked me about later). Under normal circumstances, ten minutes into being waxed, I am usually asked one of two things: to either bleach my face or get a fairness-inducing facial. ‘Look at your skin, it’s all tanned,’ one such ‘professional’ once told me. ‘That’s the colour of my skin, you idiot,’ is what I wanted to say. Instead, I placed one waxed arm against my face to show her the colours matched. ‘Your whole body is tanned,’ she said, now alarmed. ‘We can make it lighter.’

  Having put up with this manner of inane observation for most of my life, over time I learned not to let it get to me.

  As a black-skinned feminist I’ve learned how the conjunctive ‘but’ can be used as a compensatory word to stinging effect: ‘You’re beautiful, but dark’ or ‘You’re dark, but you have great features’. The otherwise simple act of accepting a compliment continues to be fraught with anxiety, mostly the consequence of my mother’s conditioning.

  ‘You look so dark in this colour,’ she often said if I wore anything non-pastel.

  ‘But people have told me I look nice in this [navy blue] dress,’ I would say in my defence.

  ‘They’re just saying that, they don’t really mean it,’ she would assure me.