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I come from two Indias: one that worships Goddess Kali, one that taunts you for being dark-skinned (calling you kali (black) as a taunt). I come from two Indias: one that complains about being colonised, one that is obsessed with being fair-skinned and proximity to whiteness. I come from two Indias: one that beat colonialism, one that can’t seem to shake of colourism – inspired by Vir Das.
“The rose resonated with me in more way than I can describe. It was different in its rosebush. I was different in my family. And people around me didn’t hesitate to remind me. My complexion didn’t match the rest of my family’s, that was undeniable. But was it such a punishable crime to be different from them. Like the rose, was this the real reason for my exclusion from my family? I couldn’t help but wonder whether The Wicked Man was right, whether I was the black rose.” —from The Black Rose by Shweta Aggarwal
I was a mere 14-year old on the fateful night of 22 April 1993. The night that witnessed black teenager Stephen Lawrence brutally murdered in a racially motivated attack as he waited for a bus. The night that cemented my fear, that the colour of my skin does matter. The same night that confirmed my indifference as a British Asian in the United Kingdom