I remember my first box of crayons. Not vividly maybe, but I remember a fair amount. The standard box of crayons available to us in pre-school, had around twelve colours. The rich kids had imported sets (yes, in pre-school) with around double the number, but I remember having my standard twelve. One of the things we’d attempt to keep within the lines of most often, was usually outlines of people’s faces. Now for a child, especially a child with only twelve colours at his disposal, this is a tricky task. I’d spend entire art classes, pondering over the appropriate colour choice for the particular individual staring up at me from my hexagonal table with a wide and decidedly creepy grin (what in the world was he so happy about anyway?). In the furrowed brows and puzzled faces of my friends around me, I found consolation. In the hapless sigh of our designated mentor, I sought help. Help that inevitably came once half the unnaturally round face had been coloured in with meticulous precision. Yesterday’s barbs were still fresh in my mind. “No Ma’am, the person I’m colouring does not have jaundice”. “No Ma’am, there is no particular reason I chose Yellow”. “I thought that was the closest possible choice Ma’am”. “No Ma’am, I’m not colour-blind (what’s a colour-blind? I didn’t dare ask.)”. I’d never forget how Brown Hair Girl had laughed, while I sat humiliated in my seat desperately waiting for the sweet liberating melody that would end this torture they liked to call “Class”. But today was another day and another face. I was determined to get it right. I would achieve the unthinkable. Today, I was going to figure out, once and for all, what the colour of a human being was. Those rich dolts could fiddle with their fancy sets all they wanted, but this was my day. Carpe diem baby!
I determinedly steered clear of Yellow. I scoffed at the girls cuing up beside Richie Rich (sigh, it starts that early) to borrow Pink 18. No more trying to mix Red and White for these future gold-digger sluts (I wish someone had taught me all this then). I cast a jealous loathing stare at Richie, and searched on for the colour of my skin.
Minutes later, Richie submitted his work. An approving smile and nod from Ma’am contorted my face in a way I didn’t quite like. For the second time that rainy morning, I felt not-good. I didn’t like being sad when it rained.
I liked Rain. I liked it a little more than Winter and definitely a lot more than Summer. I still hadn’t figured out this Autumn phenomenon Ma’am had mentioned, but I could bet I’d like Rain better than that too.
Minutes later, Richie’s best friend walked to Ma’am, completed work in hand, and brought me back to my hell-with-fluorescent-lighting. Another smile. Another nod. Another of Richie’s friends marched to Ma’am. Then another. Then another. Hmm, I think I see a pattern here. I’m five and a half years old, I’m not stupid!
Then Brown Hair Girl got up. Ha! Richie was so predictable. The whole class knew he liked her. No one was surprised that she was the first one to lay her hands on Pink 18. Haha, I was going to see Ma’am make that all too familiar disgusted pig-like face, and it was Brown Hair Girl and her Pink 18 face’s turn today. Victory was mine (in part atleast)!
But it never came. Ma’am smiled down at her as she graded the paper. Brown Hair Girl sank smugly back into her seat. My heart sank somewhere into an unknown abyss inside me. Word spread quickly in hushed whispers. An A+, a Smiley AND a Star! I always knew girls were marked better than boys but this was preposterous! I was going to get to the bottom of this.
I got up from my seat, and took a casual stroll around to Richie and Brown Hair’s table, the one closest to Ma’am. The wicked witch looked up from her diary and silently dared me to loiter any more. I wasn’t foolish enough to take her up on that. My surveillance had already borne fruit anyway. I contemplated the wonders of foreign technology and for the first time realized that convenience could be bought at a price. Skin 23. A crayon made specifically for the purpose of colouring skin (God promise). Sheer genius! I asked Extremely Fair Boy and Spectacled Boy, friends of mine, if they knew how we could get hold of a Skin 23. They were as clueless as I. Richie Richerson, we were sure, would never lend us his own.
We decided there was nothing we could do. We had spent all our time looking at others finish their work and now we had to finish quickly with whatever we had, or face the feisty fiend. We had to do the only thing we knew, improvise. “Yellow?”, Fair Boy whispered with a resigned grin. “Yellow”, I replied with uncertain conviction. Spectacled Boy blinked.
Later, all our work was hung up outside the class in the corridor for everyone to admire Miss Witch’s supreme teaching skills. Most of the faces bore Skin 23. They were hung topmost. Brown Hair Girl's perfectly-within-the-lines-face was right at the top, immediately followed by Richie's carelessly scribbled disaster. I could see why Skin 23 was so popular. These faces looked exactly like the English speaking people on Cartoon Network (well, apart from the Adams Family), but they didn't look quite like us. I couldn’t really understand Skin 23. The privileged faces beamed straight ahead, proud in their “Skin”-ness, all looking exactly the same, and very comfortable with the situation.
The lowest rungs were reserved for the rest of us. Fair Boy, Spectacled Boy and Me included. Fair Boy had taken Yellow today, I randomly picked Brown, and Blinky even mustered up the courage to borrow Black in his desperation. If we were going to get Bs, then we’d atleast have fun getting it, and have fun we did. Our faces were smiling up at us too. The rest of the class filed in to their tiffin-boxes, while the three of us stood there, proudly admiring our handiwork. All three of us agreed that our faces looked happier together than all the Skins combined. Call it sour grapes, or call it something else that maybe we hadn’t learnt about yet.
