I was with my wife, shopping at a mall in Chennai. When we passed by a shop that sold cosmetics and personal care products, I went in, dragg...
The razor I had been using was outpaced by technology that made it essential for me to buy the newest one with twelve blades or so.
They come up with more advanced blades and razors quicker than my stubble grows. Still, I take my razors seriously enough to acquire them all as they come. Starting with the first razor my father had given me when I was thirteen. It was a vintage three-piece razor. It still would work. If only I’d used it.
Inside the shop, I could see the one I was looking for. A mean-looking power shaver with multiple blades and a trimmer attachment. The best a man can get, it said. If true, my quest for evolving into a finer, smoother human being would end there.
Someone had thought it necessary to put those razors in a glass cage under lock and key, behind the cashiers. I was in the middle of the shop and couldn’t get any closer as both the checkout counters were crowded. I had to be mindful of all the women milling around me, too.
Then it struck me that I was the only male specimen inside that shop. Luckily for me, I wasn’t wearing any deodorant for all those women to drop everything and climb all over me.
That’s when one of the salesgirls approached me. I told her I only wanted the razor. She said I would have to wait for either of the cashiers to be free, as only they could reach the shelf. She left us and I stood there waiting, while my wife went into one of the aisles.
Suddenly, another salesgirl appeared, clutching a small tub and a binder.
“Are you looking for fairness cream?” She asked. I said, “No”.
She was the kind who wouldn’t take no for an answer. She began rattling off names of whitening creams meant for men that guaranteed a transformation so dramatic it would pit me directly against the likes of Shah Rukh Khan. I was still not impressed.
“We have many male customers who use these products regularly,” She said.
“So?”
“You buy one and see how it works.”
“I told you I don’t need it.”
“How can you say that without trying it?” She turned coquettish.
I began slowly counting backwards from ten, silently. She took that for my being indecisive. She opened the binder to show how the magic happens.
It showed the transformation of a male face from dark to brown to white and glowing. All in a matter of weeks.
My scientifically-inclined mind was impressed. How could it not, when something similar to the evolution that took millions of years could happen in a matter of weeks?
“Now you’re like this”. She put her finger on the equivalent of our barely-human, mostly-monkey ancestor.
“So?”
Her finger slid to the other end of the spectrum. “You could be this lighter in a few weeks, she said.
“So what?”
“You will feel more confident with it.”
“So what?”
“Isn’t it a good thing to be fairer?” she asked.
“What do you think?”
“Of course, it is!”
“What have you done about it?” I asked.
She looked at me, clueless.
“Aren’t you a shade darker than me?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Don’t they have creams that make women turn fairer, too?”
“Yes.”
“Then why haven’t you turned into a Cinderella by now?”
She stood there gaping at me. Then said, “I joined only yesterday. This is my first job. I’ll call my supervisor.”
Sensing trouble, the supervisor had approached us by then.
An older, heavier, and darker version of the raw recruit. A virtual melanin factory.
“Are you ashamed of your dark skin?” I asked her.
That certainly took her by surprise. But unlike the other girl, she wasn’t born the day before. She took in the situation in a moment. She knew what was coming.
She said what was the only right thing to say, “I’m proud of my dark skin. I’m Tamil”.
This is Tamil Nadu where you take pride in your culture and language. You kept Hindi away for you thought it was being imposed on you. You ban some cola for their being foreign. “Then why the fuck do you make people feel ashamed of their own skin and make them think a whiter skin is better?”
It came out of my mouth at the top of my voice. Impossible as it may seem, she turned pale. The whole shop froze.
Someone gripped firmly on my arm and led me out of the shop. It was my handler. My wife. She started muttering under her breath about the need for my signing up for an anger management class.
Life certainly is not fair.
A deep shade of brown happens to be the colour of skin I was born with. I can live with it.
I’m vaguely aware that dark-skinned people are supposed to either claim that they’re proud of their skin or feel ashamed of their own skin, and secretly envy those with lighter skin.
I’m neither proud nor ashamed of my skin. It’s just a state of being.
The potent blend of discrimination and hypocrisy when it comes to skin colour[1] is something that every Indian must be ashamed of. It certainly makes me cringe when dark-skinned Indians themselves perpetuate the myth that having paler skin is something highly desirable.
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