He never liked yellow; that was too bright and cheerful like Jigar. It reminded him of lollipops and rainbows, which, in truth, he told himself inwardly, were childlike wishes.
He never liked cream; that was too bland and faded into the background like his father. Cream represented insignificance and a being without a purpose, something he definitely was not.
He never liked burgundy; that was too passionate and danger-provoking like Kinjal.
Crimson reminded him of Anita, a person he longed to forget and ignore. Crimson was like death, the blood in an accident, the fire set by a volcano.
He never liked orange; that was too demanding and judgemental like his mother. He preferred to keep his opinions deep within his heart, locked securely, so that no one's key will work.
He never liked white; that was too pure and kind like his aunt, divine and bright like the tail of a shooting star. He was never one to find balance between the parts of him that was noble, if he ever had a part.
He never liked black; that was too dark and deceiving like Rashi, threateningly beautiful, intelligent and acts performed only in the darkness. He had his own darkness but it was never black.
His darkness was deep blue, like the ferocious waves of a restless sea, devouring all that had the misfortune of drowning into it. A sea so deep that one could never swim back up.
Yes, he hated blue because it represented all that was him: stoic, contemptuous and instigator of destruction. All his emotions were buried deep beneath the quick currents of his restive ocean.
His favourite colour was always green, the colour of healing and hope, the colour of Mother Nature...
Then one fateful day, the jingle of a bangle, the trailing of a sari disrupted his apprehensive thoughts. He turned to face a beautiful nymph, walking away from him. She wore a sari, green like the forests of the Promised Land and gold like the rays of the sun.
The busy background of Navratri preparations faded to that of a holy white and he felt himself drawn towards this celestial being, taking small steps, almost floating as if he was hypnotised.
Each step she took set off chimes, slowly fading with the breath of a gentle breeze.
His hand slowly reached towards her direction. He wanted to hold her hand, to turn her around and see who she is...
Just then, Hetal calls the nymph over and he broke away from the spell. He watched in slight shock, that the nymph he was enchanted by was none other than Gopi, his illiterate wife. The chimes that he heard were her anklets.
He gazed in their direction every few seconds only to look away instantly when Hetal catches his eye and sometimes he wondered, had there were no impediments between him and Gopi, things would have been different...
Shiv Shakti
