So firstly — colourism is alive and kicking in the South Asian community. I mean, we only have to tune in to watch Seema from Mumbai (Indian Matchmaking) and listen to her talk about the wheat(ish) colour chart in each potential partner’s bio — especially the girls. Honestly, it’s one of the few things I’ve “benefited” from — I’m on the right side of the colour chart.
I’m considered short, outspoken (not a “good girl”), and from a family of all girls — oh, and without dowry. Being from an all-girl family may imply we can only breed girls. And no one really wants just girls. Well, not in the circles I ran in. Only rich people celebrated a girl. But there would still be whispers: “It’s okay, this is the first one — the next one will be a boy.”
I’m considered closer to my Caucasian brothers and sisters than to my South Asian shades. And to be honest, it was a surprise to all of us. My sister just older than me was considered the “fair beauty.” It was only when I started removing my 12-hour “shade o’clock” that my actual skin tone became visible.
It still took a while to realise. I started off removing my (excessive) facial hair when I was about 15. I started off with waxing, which used to leave me with an angry red bump rash and hives. When I turned 18 and switched to laser hair removal, that’s when my skin colour finally revealed itself. It was such a surprise that family asked me if I was using Fair and Lovely. I also had to provide a full breakdown of my skincare — which, at 18, was washing it with soap.
When I got married, I inevitably ended up in that conversation. You know, the one about when we were going to have kids (we’d only been married three days!). It always included a reference to my skin tone and my husband’s. Comments like, “I hope the baby gets your colouring and his height.”
It was said with the same tone as, “What would you like to eat?” — normal and chatty, not laced with malice, just a kind observation. There would be a dig to me, but for once not aimed at me!
If you don’t want to hear home truths, don’t sit in a room full of South Indian aunties!
So when those newspaper articles came out about the colour of Meghan and Prince Harry’s baby, I didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. Surely that kind of conversation was normal?
I remember talking with a Black colleague about hair texture once. Hers was the most coarse in her family, and her relatives regularly berated her for it. So I’d say the quest for fair skin and Caucasian hair texture exists in every culture.
It always makes me laugh when I see Caucasians on their own quest — chasing tanned skin and textured hair.
My skin burns faster than anyone I know, even with factor 50. Give me 30 minutes in the sun and I’ll be redder than a tomato. I don’t really tan — I just look like I need a wash.
Out of all my sisters, I’m the fairest — and, like it or not, that holds value. My eldest sister is the darkest, and she hates it! I don’t get it. She has really beautiful skin. When she tans, she glows.
But her quest is to be fair — covering her body in the sun, wearing large floppy hats. And I have to do the same — terrified of burning my skin! Although I will get taken the piss out of: “Oh look at her, too scared to tan — look at her milk bottle legs.”
I don’t know when these comments will stop. I don’t think it’s going to be anytime soon.
My children compare the colour of their skin to mine. Their skin still gets commented on — not only by the usual suspects but their peers at school.
My daughter came home the other day, commenting that one of her friends had called her “Wasian.”
I know — I’d never heard of it either.
White Asian — mixed heritage.
She seemed happy about the comment. She told me that it was probably because she hadn’t taken her iron supplement for a while and looked pale. But she took it as a compliment.
I did get one negative comment about the colour of my skin once — someone called me kacha, implying raw. I quite liked it. It gave me immediate visions of a raw chicken breast , pink, white, with bluish undertones. It fit! What could I say back? “Well, you look like caramel?”
Every South Indian women has her shady story. What is yours?
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