They said, “Lucky!” Lucky that I resemble my father, adding “If only you were fair, you would look beautiful, marriage will be a great hustle for your father.” Do you know what that does to a child? To hear that your future, your worth, your very existence depends on the colour of your skin? The cruel society continuously slapped me with its words, words deeper than wounds, deeper than any scar, or should I say, darker than my skin.

My mother, with all her love, rubbed haldi and besan on me, saying, “It will make you fair.” That’s how it started, the battle, the very thought that I’m not enough. The belief that my skin is my identity, and I would never be loved. I grew up being forced to dream of fair skin. I applied creams, tried home remedies, consulted doctors, and whatnot. I began to fantasise that life would only change when my colour would.

This is not just about skin colour, it’s about my worth, my freedom and wellbeing. It carries the same suffocation that climate change brings with its scorching heat and dreadful calamities. Climate change is an evident result of human misdeeds, and my discrimination and struggle are a result of the societal stigma. Like the floods and the storms that keep returning, discrimination keeps showing in rejections, in taunts, and in silences.

At school, I was denied opportunities not because I lacked talent, but because I lacked fairness. I wasn’t allowed to anchor programmes because I would “look bad”, and was not even allowed to honour the guests in schools. The fashion shows? They all wanted beauty standards on their first line, on stage, on cover pages. Standards formulated by society brought me nights full of tears.

I loved dancing, I still do, but I don’t go on stage anymore. Back then, whenever there was a performance, I was pushed away from centre stage. I was painted with heavy makeup to hide my colour, the way we hide cracked lands, but climate change refuses to stay covered. And so does pain – no matter how many layers you put on it.

So I shifted to sports with a hope. Everyone was tanned, playing under the same sun. I felt I belonged there. I earned medals, made it to the school team, and made my parents proud. But even then, I was told, “Stop playing in the sun, you are getting darker.” They told my mother, “Why don’t you take care of your daughter? See how she looks.” That day she scolded me out of pain, and I saw tears in her eyes. Even pride, even talent, even discipline were not enough. My achievements were invisible to my colour. I lost my battle.

They say, “Don’t judge a book by its cover.” But it is judged by its cover. And if your cover isn’t appealing enough, change your content. That’s how I survived, I guess. I worked harder, cried in silence, smiled and spoke louder, just to be valued. All in search of acceptance, in search of love. Then I heard “Colour doesn’t matter to me, you do.” It was ironic; colour does matter, otherwise just a line, “You are beautiful” would be enough.

Just before joining college, I deleted my photos from Instagram and started chasing the fantasy of fair skin, terrified that people would judge me. I tried every remedy, creams again, desperately hoping to look fair, to walk into my cohort with confidence. Society said, “You’ve grown up; if you had done this before, you would have been prettier now”. Here’s the hardest truth – I never accepted myself. I don’t love myself. I dream every day of having fair skin. I cry every night after every rejection, every fight, believing that the reason is my skin tone, and why wouldn’t I? Every time I asked how I looked, people replied, “You have sharp facial features. Just fair skin … and you would have looked the best.” All I wanted to hear was, “You look good.” Even today, in malls, sellers approach me with skin-whitening products, “Ma’am, try this, it will remove your tan”. I smile and move on without a word, crumbling inside.

The pressure to “fix” skin colour feeds the massive beauty industry. These industries, producing fairness creams, bleaching agents, and layers of makeup, pollute the earth. My pain becomes their profit, and the planet pays the price.

I am tired, exhausted, and dead inside. Exhausted of carrying this forced version of me, I hate those sticky creams, I hate all your taunts. I want to ask for things without worrying about being judged. I want to live free.

Cover image by Suvi Honkanen on Unsplash