Uncolored

It is a cold dank day with the sky the color of a soiled mop. The kind of color that has seen much toil and no tenderness. The traffic light turns green, and the teal car ahead of me begins to move.

Teal has always caught my eye. I had read somewhere that it once symbolized status. Expensive dyes, rare pigments with a quiet call to the world “Look at me. I exist. I matter.”  I try to remember if I own anything in this color. A blouse, a saree, a dupatta maybe? No, not a single piece of clothing, I am sure. Mamma used to say teal does not suit my dark skin. It makes people notice me or rather my skin, she said.

The honking of the car behind me cuts into my thoughts. I need to get going. I try to lift my hand to release the handbrake, but my left-hand refuses to budge. It just lies there on my lap, totally disobedient. I try again, but no movement. Meanwhile, the honking car behind me gives up and manoeuvre’s itself around me, the driver’s face a concoction of frustration and irritation.

The traffic light turns red again. I relax. It is a ninety-second signal. Ninety-seconds feel like mercy. My hand will listen to my instructions and move to the handbrake.

I stare at the red light. The red light refuses to stay red. As I look, I feel the color receding, draining itself into pink, dots and dashes floating on the light. An images flashes of the bougainvillea flowers growing at Mamma’s place, color spilling over the gate.

The light turns green. My hand stays still.

The car behind me honks. Long, rude, angry. I try to lift my right hand, to wave, to explain, to beg, but it too has frozen. I am scared now. Really scared.  What is wrong with me? A stroke? Some kind of paralytic attack? I try searching my body for sensation.

I try to focus on the song playing on the radio. But all I can hear is a crackle. Much like sound of the crinkled aluminium foil of the Dairy Milk chocolate Dadu used to buy me from the kirana shop when I was a child.

Dadu died last year. He was sitting on the sofa, watching TV, not moving. They realized he was dead because he never moved again. I try to move. I wriggle. I wiggle. Anything that gives me the feeling of movement.

The traffic light turns green. Then red. Then green. Five times now. Five cars honk. Long, rude, angry. Five cars give up and manoeuvre themselves around me, the drivers faces, concoctions of frustration and irritation.

No one stops. No one gets out. No one taps at my window.

My lips do not move as I cry out, unheard, unseen, uncolored.

“Hey World! I do not wear teal. But please don’t pass me by. Look at me. I exist. I matter”.