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!