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Sabyasachi talks about luxury in Indian fashion [X]

Dear Ma, I’m sure the news has reached you by now. I hear the police cars outside, their deafening sirens a welcome change from the dead silence in the classroom. I don’t think I will make it. It’s getting harder to breathe and I am feeling drowsy. I wish you were here. Fussing over me like you do when I hurt myself. You’re probably outside the school gates right now. I am hoping you can hear my thoughts. We were in English period when they stormed into the class. It all happened so fast I didn’t have time to think. They shot ma’am first. “Get under your tables” she yelled before she fell to the ground. We scrambled to hide under them. I sat still, my eyes on the floor as a pair of black shoes got closer and closer. His shoes were a lot bigger than mine. I was too afraid to look at his face. He shot me twice. One in each leg. I fell to the floor in seconds. Ahmed who sat beside me screamed when he saw the blood oozing out of my legs. They shot him in the chest thrice. No one screamed after that. I lay very still and pressed my eyes shut. Pretending to be dead as I waited to get shot again. Each time I heard a gunshot, I would hold my breath and wait for the pain. But they didn’t shoot me again. “We’re done here. Keep moving” someone said. Their footsteps ringing in my head long after they were gone. I lay there, looking around the classroom. The silence interrupted only by the sound of the fan, that continued to spin as if nothing had happened. You know Ma, I realise that lives have no value. It makes me wonder why you insisted that I finish my homework before school. Why you spent hours teaching me geometry. Why you get angry when I chew loudly. Doesn’t it seem like such a waste now? To spend our time on petty things, like Potassium’s position in the periodic table, learning my mother tongue, or remembering to be a gentleman. None of it could save me. At dinner yesterday, you told me not to eat another jamun. That if I take care of my health, I would live a long life. Ma, it seems so ridiculous now, that we celebrated my birthday last week. The cake, the presents, my favourite caramel pudding. Like a prank we didn’t know we were falling for. In these 5 minutes I realised, that the world has no appreciation for beauty. For friendship. For laughter. It didn’t matter to them that Zara was to perform for us after class this afternoon. That Ahmed and I planned on buying ice-cream after school. That Samah was going to get the prize for being the Science topper. Everyone died anyway. You know ma, we invest in our lives with such a relentless passion, not once realising how fragile it is. You drive me to music class twice a week. Mark sums on my textbook for me to answer. You tell me to remember to be polite, learn my lessons and eat healthy. But ma, no one was spared. Not even the ones who finished their breakfast. The ones who handed in their homework. Or the ones who prayed this morning. Ma, I don’t think I can stay awake much longer. And I think I will breathe my last, lying on this battlefield of scattered bodies, shoes and stationery. My English textbook lies beside me on the floor. Still open on the same page it was at when they stormed in. I close my eyes one last time, because I cannot bear to look at it any longer. Seems almost absurd now, that a world like this, could inspire poetry.

- A note buried with a child victim of the Peshawar attacks.

[Edit: From a forwarded secondary source. Via online messaging. No primary source available so reliability under consideration.]

Second edit:

Poem entitled “A is for Apple, B is for Bullet” by Krshna Prashant

Thank you to there-is-no-utopia who located the source.

ohmybollywood

notfadedaway-blog

just-the-way-youre-not-blog

I saw this on Twitter and I couldn’t have said it any better.

makemehappyx-deactivated2026030

The “Fair” Treatment of Women in Modern Bollywood

Let’s talk colorism.

Discriminating against dark skin colors while praising light skin colors undoubtedly damages and divides our society. We like to believe that colorism is a strictly Western issue, but let us not forget how prevalent and insidious colorism is in Southeast Asian nations. India’s entertainment hub, Bollywood, is indeed guilty of perpetuating this glorification of white skin - deeming it pure, sexy, and a symbol of high class (or in this case, caste).

Bollywood has churned out images of light-skinned, almost white, actresses time and time again. When producers default white skin as the standard in their movies, millions of consumers end up swallowing this damaging view of what Indians, particularly women, look like. Not only do foreigners see this as a representation of Indian women, but Indian women themselves internalize that white standard. So when young girls say they want to be like Katrina Kaif, they want the long locks, beautiful light eyes, slim body, and subconsciously…the white face.

White skin has been pervasive and subliminal in nature with the inflation of light-skinned actresses in film. However, it also manifests itself quite obviously. Exhibit A is a song/music video from the Bollywood movie “Roy” called “Chittiyaan Kalaiyaan” (literal translation: White Wrists). Below are some of the lyrics from the chorus:

Mann jaa ve…mainu shopping kara de Please agree…take me shopping Mann jaa ve… romantic picture dikha de Please agree…show me a romantic movie Requestaan paayiaan ve.. I request you… Chittiyaan kalaiyaan ve White wrists Oh baby meri chittiyan kalaiyan ve Oh baby I have fair-complexioned wrists Chittiyaan kalaiyaan ve White wrists

So do the lyricists believe that white skin is a woman’s ticket to having a man “wrapped around her finger” so he can finance her material gain? By the logic of the lyrics, a man (particularly, an Indian man) would not be interested in spending his money on a woman unless she showed off her “white wrists.” So here we must realize that not only do men aspire to espouse a light-skinned woman, females can also perpetuate colorism by capitalizing on their own light skin privilege.

Of course the lead in the video, Jacqueline Fernandez (tracing her multi-ethnic roots to Sri Lanka, Malaysia, Canada, India, and Bahrain) to be light-skinned for the music video to bring its lyrics to life. However, Fernandez has what seems to be white backup dancers as well.

I would have expected other light-skin Indian women as props in a Bollywood music video, but clearly, actual white people would get the message across more directly. Not only should you have light skin to be desired and warrant the “male gaze,” you should surround yourself with white women to show you are as far away from the “typical” Indian female image as possible (as if Bollywood has not done that already for its industry by casting Katrina Kaif, Kareena Kapoor, and Priyanka Chopra in nearly every film out there.)

What about that confederate flag guitar in the music video’s introduction, though?

Did this slip through every crew member’s hands when filming on set? Arguably, we might not expect Indian filmmakers to be well-versed in every aspect of United States history. However, that a white supremacist symbol landed in a music video celebrating white skin is nothing short of appalling and almost eerily coincidental.

Perhaps we ought to excuse these actresses for participating in discriminatory media. We may argue that years of colonialism bred internalized racism and, therefore, Eurocentric beauty standards. After all, colorism has weasled its way into Southeast Asian society so pervasively, that skin-whitening creams like Fair & Lovely are openly advertised on television and insisted upon customers in drug stores.

However, is demanding diverse representation of Indian women too much to ask? I used to be proud of myself for having lighter skin than some of my colleagues and family members, but now I realize that it was all systemic and a result of consuming tainted, harmful, and inaccurate media. I am no better than an Indian woman darker than me because of difference in skin color. There is no excuse for deliberately silencing their voices and erasing their images. I demand dark-skinned women in my movies. I demand dark-skinned women in my soap operas. I demand dark-skinned women exist outside of a portrayal of the impoverished. I demand dark-skinned visiblity and celebration.