Shweta Aggarwal's The Black Rose Recalls Painful Memories Of Tackling Colourism

For hundreds of years, Indians have harboured the notion that being fair-skinned is a ticket to superiority. That’s right – white supremacy doesn’t just exist among white people. Sadly, this is still the case even in modern, ‘liberated’ India.

I have mostly had a wonderful, blessed life, growing up between India and Japan, and now living in the UK, there are elements of my past that are painful, to say the least. Painful because I happened to be dark-skinned, born to fair parents. And this was seen by some Indians as an open invitation for taunting and derogatory comments.

My memoir is about who I was and who I have become. As it is a collage of extracts from my memory, digging deep from the tender age of six, the rendition is not as clear-cut as black and white. There are several shades of brown in between, no pun intended! Unravelling my story, I discovered more than I was prepared for, many buried secrets, some darker than colourism.

Here is an excerpt from Shweta Aggarwal's The Black Rose

‘That’s all there is. Let me show you my classroom,’ I pulled Papa’s hand, dragging him out before Payal could slip in any nasty words. But instead of heading to my classroom, Papa led the way to the matron’s office.

‘Let’s get permission for you to come with me to Karol Bagh for the night,’ he said. It wasn’t yet the end of the month when we could go home for a family visit. The matron’s mood, as varied as the four seasons, was generous and giving that spring. I sprinted back to my room, stuffed my pyjamas in a bag, and dashed back to the office.

At Nani’s, all the aunts and uncles surrounded Papa, wanting to pamper him. The family treated their son-in-law like royalty. I didn’t want to leave his side, but there wasn’t any room for me among all the adults.

‘Have a look in Nani’s room. I’ve brought something for you,’ Papa said. He knew I wanted all his attention, but he had to give a share to the in-laws.

On Nani’s bed lay a big plastic bag from Daiei, a Japanese department store. Gift wrapping and ribbons were also not a thing in our family. There was no fuss over presents, which were rare in any case. I shoved my hand into the bag, opened it wider, and rummaged through the items. Another Hello Kitty nightie and a white dress with layers of netting underneath, like a princess frock. Grinning, I thanked Papa and slipped into the dress. He was still surrounded by family, so I tagged along with an aunt heading to the kitchen to make tea. She asked me to serve it to an elderly man in the living room.

This man was Nana’s best friend; he visited for a tea break daily from his shop of Indian accessories opposite the family restaurant. He stood six feet tall, very tall for an Indian man in those days. He had a deep, hostile voice, and his features were so sharp, they looked unnatural. Like a man-witch. A white kurta and white dhoti, tied in a manner that resembled loose trousers, softened his foreboding aura. I never understood why my Nana was close to him, honouring him with the title of ‘the best friend’. I called him The Wicked Man.

I edged towards the living room, balancing the full cup of tea and saucer in both hands. He took a quick glance. ‘This tea is too weak. Look at its colour. Go and tell your aunt to brew it for longer. I want it as dark as the colour of your skin,’ he said, pushing the cup and saucer away. I stared at him, hoping that if I stared long enough my wrath would burn him.

‘Go!’ he barked. ‘What are you looking at?’

‘Papa!’ My cry for help didn’t reach him although he was in the neighbouring room. As usual, the noise level there had reached a saturation point.

‘Papa? Go ask your Papa where you got your colour from!’ The Wicked Man grabbed my wrist hard, making it impossible to wriggle out. Some tea spilt into the saucer and onto my new dress. ‘Your Mummy and Papa are ashamed of your colour. That’s why they have left you here in a boarding school.’

‘That’s not true! They love me!’

I bit his hand and scurried out, spilling more tea on the way back to the kitchen. I cried harder on seeing the tea stains on my dress. After telling the aunt to make more tea, I vanished and hid in Sona Mami’s room until The Wicked Man left.

When Sangeeta Mausi returned from college, I told her about The Wicked Man.

‘Don’t let it bother you, beta. He says such things to me too,’ she said.

‘He does? Like what?’

‘He says I look like a Madrasi.’

‘What is that?’

‘South Indians. They generally have darker skin like ours.’

‘Why does he make fun of our skin when his colour is not any different to ours?’

‘You’re right, it isn’t. But he’s a man. It’s very different for men,’ said Mausi, drawing me in for a hug. ‘Now, did I tell you how beautiful you look in that dress? Like a fairy. Take it off and I’ll wash those tea stains for you.’

Excerpted with permission from The Black Rose by Shweta Aggarwal, published by Notion Press. You can also join SheThePeople’s Book Club on Facebook, LinkedIn and Instagram.

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