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With age comes wisdom, or so they say. Life, for this author, has become a riot of colours, a veritable rainbow, as she finds herself blossoming anew.
Red is the colour of my regained youth which does not depend on how I look, how many of my black hairs have been replaced with grey or how my skin is ageing; but is represented by my personality, vibrant with my curiosity to learn and enjoy things which I have never noticed before in my daily life and is now ready to take on new challenges just to explore. I am participating in a beauty contest not because I am beautiful but because I have imbibed the ‘beautitude’ (beauty + attitude).
Yellow is the colour of my courage, dug out of my bosom to question norms and taboos which I could never justify through reason but was just following meekly for ages. I am ready to wear shorts despite the fact that my battered, spotted, brown legs will be on display as they are past waxing, due to past surgery. I also know that I don’t need my neighbour’s approval to wear shorts. After all, she never asked my permission before wearing that red salwar kameez (which gave me the creeps)!
Blue is the colour of my newfound confidence, which is not ashamed to accept imperfection and shine brighter after each failed attempt. It says, ‘it’s ok, I am learning, this is what I am here for’.
Brown is the colour of my acceptance and love for myself, for I am no longer apologetic about my short height, brown complexion, and poor fashion sense, because I have qualities that only a few awakened minds can fathom. When has a rose plant given a damn about the great height of a mango tree?
Purple is the colour of my ambitious spirit which is no longer scared of falling behind in a race. It is confident of winning exactly on the appointed day and has learned to persevere among all odds and sneers for that moment to arrive.
Violet is the colour of my guilt-free mind. I no longer feel guilty for not taking my MIL for dental treatment as I have important work to do, just like her son. She can take herself if she wishes to.
White is the colour of my innocence, regained by unlearning a bit of my past as I re-learnt to appreciate small things and be happy for everyday blessings, deciding not to wait for big moments. Like the single blooming white flower in my balcony tended by me, birds chirping outside my window on a sultry afternoon, winning a prize in a video-making competition for the first time in my life.
Black is the colour of my hardened soul, which has learned to put reason before emotion while taking a decision, and enforce it once taken, no matter how difficult it is and how many frowns it earns.
Pink is the colour of my bliss, which shone as I learned to forgive even the deepest of hurt. I know now people who have hurt me were more vulnerable than me, they were fighting battles harder than mine and they deserved my love more than my hatred.
Orange is the colour of my renunciation, of the slow melting away of the pride I had in my accomplishments. As I explored the world and conversed with it, more mysteries and questions unfurled their beauty to me and this hue continued to seep deeper into my being.
Green is the colour of my rebirth at the age of 45, which reminded me that I am complete with my flaws and virtues, that I am strong enough to love the world and comfort it through my embrace, that I am someone with uncountable virtues which are nothing but the gifts I can share with my fellow beings to enlighten their lives, that I am someone with impeccable love which can stitch the fragments of society. Above all, I am someone who can bring God’s message to everyone through my awakening.
And lastly, Grey is the colour of my true self, a mixture of black and white, a concoction of beauty and beast, a patchwork quilt stitched through the terrains of perfection and imperfection which yearns for acceptance as it is.
My quest to discover other colours in my flesh and blood continues…
After all, colours are boundless but hidden deep
Mother Earth will reveal them
But only to them,
Their sanctity and glamour who can keep.
Previously published here.
Image by Murtaza Ali from Pixabay
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As he stood in front of his door, Nishant prayed that his wife would be in a better mood. The baby thing was tearing them apart. When was the last time he had seen his wife smile?
Veena got into the lift. It was a festival day, and the space was crammed with little children dressed in bright yellow clothes, wearing fancy peacock feather crowns, and carrying flutes. Janmashtami gave her the jitters. She kept her face down, refusing to socialize with anyone.
They had moved to this new apartment three months ago. The whole point of shifting had been to get away from the ruthless questioning by ‘well-wishers’.
“You have been married for ten years! Why no child yet?”
I huffed, puffed and panted up the hill, taking many rest breaks along the way. My calf muscles pained, my heart protested, and my breathing became heavy at one stage.
“Let’s turn back,” my husband remarked. We stood at the foot of Shravanbelagola – one of the most revered Jain pilgrimage centres. “We will not climb the hill,” he continued.
My husband and I were vacationing in Karnataka. It was the month of May, and even at the early hour of 8 am in the morning, the sun scorched our backs. After visiting Bangalore and Mysore, we had made a planned stop at this holy site in the Southern part of the state en route to Hosur. Even while planning our vacation, my husband was very excited at the prospect of visiting this place and the 18 m high statue of Lord Gometeshwara, considered one of the world’s tallest free-standing monolithic statues.
What we hadn’t bargained for was there would be 1001 granite steps that needed to be climbed to have a close-up view of this colossal magic three thousand feet above sea level on a hilltop. It would be an understatement to term it as an arduous climb.
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