In all fairness

It is not unusual to find an Indian matrimony ad that would read:
“Looking for a (insert caste) well educated girl, fair and respects tradition.”

The ad might as well say, “Wanted a (virgin) woman who would serve as a sex slave and chambermaid. P.S. Blacks do not apply.”

In the same spirit Dhanashree M. gives her beauty tips to the brides to be. The article is titled ‘Whitening tips for you’ :

Fair complexion is a dream and achievement of everyone. In the marriage market
and dreams the first preference will be to those with a fair skin. Why should
you stay away from this perfect appearance? Try these handy beauty tips and see
the changes within a short period.

Growing up, I had come to accept that fairness of skin is the foremost standard of beauty. A song praising the beauty of a woman would inevitably have the word gori in it.

“Dhoop mein nikla na karo roop ki rani, gora rang kala na padh jaaye.”
Keeping in line with the lyrics, every well-adored Hindi film actress was fair.

Living in a white supremacist society, my lifesaver was that my parents did not hold the ‘white is beautiful’ outlook. But even so it was hard to keep me protected from the ire of the white skin worshipping neighbors.

The incident I am about to narrate happened when I was 5 years old. Being the first born child I was the apple of the eye…the star performer of the house. But after 4 years of my uncontested rule in the Blur household, my soon to be nemesis made his debut. I wasn’t a happy camper to find out that I suddenly had to share my fame and celebrity status in the household with my brand new brother who was a doodh ka dhoola, white complexioned baby boy.

My parents tried their best to keep the sibling jealousy (on my part) on the down low. But there were visitors and they came in waves. Comments about how pretty and fair the baby boy looks were made over and over. There was one woman (I fondly remember as the racist bitch) who lived in the house across from ours. She would make her friendly visits more often than I’d liked. She would say to me, “Oh how is it that your brother looks so fair and you look so dark?” I would feel very hurt and angry but I could never think of a good come back.

One evening, the woman paid a visit to our house and she sat on the couch conversing with my mother. I knew that it was inevitable that she will soon take a jibe at me. So the moment came. She decided to tease me a little differently. She said, “Crys, do you like your little brother?” Frankly, I would’ve liked the things to be the way they were before my brother arrived. Ever since my brother had made an appearance everything had changed for the worse. I did not answer. Then the woman continued, “I am going to take your brother with me”. This was it. This was my opportunity.

I quickly climbed on the couch and got hold of the woman’s hair and yanked it with all my strength. Even though I was five years old, I gathered enough strength to give her a professional hair yanking if there was any such thing. The woman started howling in pain. My mother tried hard to stop herself from laughing. She somehow managed to summon me in her best disciplining voice, “Crys! Let go…NOW!” I was determined to make a Jain monk out of that woman but my effort was thwarted as my mother pulled me away. The woman was visibly shaken. She said, “Bhaarich poolka aahe bhavacha.” (Loosely translated: My! I didn’t realize how attached she is to her brother). My mom escorted the woman out of our house.

The woman kept her distance from me but the social conditioning never stopped. I believed that to be appreciated by boys, I had to literally be the fairer sex. By the age of 12, I initiated the process of bleaching my skin in hopes of becoming a white princess. I bought a tube of ‘Fair and lovely’ dream cream which is doing just as well even today and is expanding its sales by marketing the ivory dream to Indian men.

I am not sure how I eventually opened myself to the idea that a dark skinned person can be beautiful too. Today, as I read the words of Maya Angelou in her book “I know why the cage bird sings”, my mind races back to my childhood.

Maya Angelou:

Wouldn’t they be surprised when one day I woke out of my black ugly dream, and my real hair, which was long and blond, would take the place of the kinky mass that Momma wouldn’t let me straighten? My light blue eyes were going to hypnotize them after all the things they said about my daddy being a Chinaman because my eyes were so small and squinty. Then they would understand why I had never picked up a Southern accent, or spoke the common slang, and why I had to be forced to eat pig tails and snouts. Because I was really white and because a cruel fairy stepmother, who was understandably jealous of my beauty, had turned me into a too-big Negro girl with nappy black hair, broad feet and a space between her teeth that would hold a number-two pencil.

The last time I visited India, a cute old lady who I love dearly gave me some advice, “Girl you have finished your education and now it is time you found yourself a good man and you should not be picky. You are not fair skinned after all.”

I laughed a hearty laugh when I heard her say that. I laughed the way I do when I hear nine year old Eric Cartman crack a racist joke.