It's a colour, not a disease.

[Note: Forgive me if what I've written seems too biased or if I've generalized too much. That isn't the intention. It's just something that's been on my mind recently.]


"Oke brandy diye chaan korao; theek hoye jaabe."
[Translation: Bathe her in brandy; she'll be alright.]

A 'concerned relative' suggested this to my mum back when I was little, as a remedy for the colour of my skin. Yeah. :L
You know, it feels rather shitty that everyone says these things about facing racism outside the country, when in truth you don't even have to look further than your own family.

Well, truth be told, it doesn't feel all that shitty now compared to back when my mum told me about the said incident. I was 10, and rather full of radical notions. Now I'm 17, and still full of radical notions, but most of them concern certain tv show fandoms and tic tac flavours.
Anyway. So a wide spectrum of emotions was felt along the course of that day, ranging from amusement to confusion to pure anger.
Anger at those relatives, who gave my mum so much flak for not producing a kid of a lighter complexion.

Anger, and frustration at myself, for not being a much more favourable colour.

As a kid, I always had a bone to pick with the colour of my skin. I'm not quite sure why, though. Society? Television? Other people? Probably. I thought there was something wrong with me. Why do I have to be so dark? Why me, God? Why me?
It was very unfair to me, in every sense of the phrase.
Apparently I used to ask my mum, "Ma, why is my skin heavy?"
You know, because the opposite of light was heavy and the word 'dark' was unknown to me then.
I find this hilariously sad.

As a country, we're all up in arms about 'Unity in Diversity' and the whole shebang. It's true, in that we're all united in the mutual hate we have for each other.
I just don't get the obsession with fair skin, and moreover, the disgust our country seems to have for dark skin. 
White is a colour. Black is a colour. Brown is a colour. Hell, blue is a colour. Why can't we just accept the fact that they're all colours and get along already?

I'll never forget what my mum told me with regard to my so-called identity crisis. It was something along the lines of:

 "You need to accept the fact that you're dark-skinned. You will face a lot of flak from society because of that, and because of your gender too. You have to learn to deal with it. You can't let the stupid comments people pass about the colour of your skin get to you. That's a weakness, and will be exploited to no end. You're the brightest kid I know. You'll do just fine. And promise me you'll stay miles away from that fairness cream crap forever."

So yes, I am dark-skinned. And yes, I am a girl. Nothing is ever going to change that.
And you know what else?
My skin colour is awesome. I am awesome.
Nothing is ever going to change that, either.

That sinking feeling...

Summer, 2000.

It had been 3 days since the torture began.
You couldn't stand it anymore; the screaming, the crying, the god-awful smell of chlorinated water and your fuhrer-esque father yelling at you from the other end of the pool.

"Swim, goddamn you!"

Easier said than done.
You knew what to do; Papa had shown you a dozen times, but when it boiled down to actually doing it you were hopeless.
All the other days were the same: You would cling to Papa and scream like the traumatized five-year old that you were. By the end of the lesson, he would be covered in red scratch marks and you would be howling to go home as soon as possible.

You were always such a drama queen.

Deciding that you'd had enough of this madness, you climbed out of the pool, half-sobbing and hiccuping.
"Swimming. Who needs it? I'll just never go near water ever again," you thought to yourself.

Meanwhile, Papa followed you out of the pool, dragged you over to the deep end, and flung you into it, without any warning.
There was a big splash, and then utter silence. Everything around you went hazy, and you could feel the water closing in on you as you sank. For some reason, you tried to breathe, and swallowed a big gulp of chlorine water.

Was this it? Was this how it was all going to end?
I could see it clearly:
"In memory of Snickerdoodle, who departed this life on the 5th of May, 2000, while learning to swim at the local pool, aged all of 5 years. All she got was this lousy epitaph."

And then, out of a fit of desperation from not wanting to die yet, you shut your eyes tight and started flailing frantically. You had absolutely no idea what you were doing, and you wouldn't know until later, but it was working! You continued thrashing around until your head hit the side of the pool, and you caught hold of the bar.
Between hysterically sobbing and coughing up copious amounts of water, you managed to yell out. "I hate you, Papa!" at the top of your lungs.

Papa bought you a celebratory orange popsicle on the way home.

12 years down the line, you realize you never thanked him for either.

-----------------------------------

Does a baby bird thank its Dad for teaching it to fly? I highly doubt it. As soon as it learns, it's gone, never to return.
I guess Bird Dad doesn't hold it against him.
Baby Bird is eternally grateful to Bird Dad, and Bird Dad, just like any other Dad, in his mysterious way of knowing things, just knows.

#273.15: De boîtes à musique et d'autres choses.

You know how when you come across something you played with when you were younger and haven't seen in a long time, it opens up a chest of repressed childhood memories you had locked away in the darkest recesses of your mind, somewhere?

Today, while clearing the toxic wasteland that is my room, I chanced upon this contraption:

Yes, Instagrammed. I know.

For the clueless, that doohickey in the picture is the musical part of a music box.

I got the music box for my eighth birthday from my uncle. I remember thinking "Sweet Jesus that is the most magical thing I have seen" when my uncle first showed me how to play it. Picture a curly-haired 8 year old kid with a party hat on her head, mouth agape and eyes sparkling with wonder.

The box itself was black, and had red and gold flowers on the lid. There was a key under the box which you had to wind up (music boxes are powered by clockwork), and then if you opened the box you would able to hear the music. Under the lid of the box was a mirror, with a lake and swans painted around the bottom.  There was also a sort of podium in the box, on which a pair of pearly white ballerina figurines stood. When the music played and the box was open, the ballerinas would twirl gracefully round and round the little stage.

Ah, the music.

The box played a chiming rendition of 'Swan Lake', by Tchaikovsky. You might know it from 'Black Swan', or from 'Barbie of Swan Lake'. Or from the original ballet itself. Who knows.

I used to keep paper stars, friendship bands, feathers, badges and other oddities that I treasured, in the music box. And the box itself at the back of the cupboard under all the sweaters. I was very protective of it. [Read: If anybody touched it without my permission, rest assured heads would be rolling.]

And then I broke it, a couple of years down the line. I had already lost the ballerinas, and the mirror had fallen off and shattered. I remember wondering what made the music, so I smashed the box to bits. I received my answer, along with a nasty gash on my palm and a hole in my good shirt.

Serves me right.

I managed to salvage the musical part from the wreckage, thankfully.

So I was pleasantly surprised to find it resting quietly among all the junk in my drawer. I picked it up and wound the key, and as the tune played, nine years' worth of memories came flooding back. In other words, I nostalgia'd. Hard.

;A;

It's a lot harder than you think.

So, this is it.

The mere thought sends a chill down my spine. "Now or never, Molly. Get it over with!" My conscience speaks true words.
The people stare on in eager anticipation. There are hushed whispers all around me. "Will she? Won't she? Forget it, she doesn't have the guts."
I, however, am completely unaware of everybody present. There are slightly more pressing matters at hand.

The sky turns dark, right on cue. Time is running out.

I turn to face the Nefarious Mom-Lady. She gives me a cold glare as if to say, "Only one." I want to cry. It just isn't fair!
I take a deep breath. "Now or never, Molly. Now or never," my conscience eggs me on.
And so, with sweaty palms and shaky fingers, I reach out...


And grab the jar of Honey Roasted Chunky Peanut Butter. Almost as soon as I touch the jar, thunderous applause breaks out. I can hear people cheering, calling out my name. "Go Mollika! Woot!"
I turn to face the crowd, holding up the jar of P.B like a trophy, big grin on my face,
There's no one there. Just an old man pushing his shopping cart by.

"Enough drama, Molly. Let's go. It looks like it's going to start raining soon," Ma says.
"So this IS it," I think, depressed at the triviality of the situation. "Life does become more and more mundane as you grow older."

And then we make our way to the billing counter.

[Note: I was a nine-year old kid with delusions of grandeur when this happened. Don't judge.]