Caste
Here, it did not matter what color your skin was. It was impossible to tell, anyway, with the chalky pigments dying everyone’s skin until we blurred into a rainbow of people. This festival occurred once a year, celebrating the advent of spring. The bulk of the festival took place in Barsana.
Above, the sun beat down on the bodies, intensifying the colors. Children ran, stuffing the dye into each other’s hair. Adults kissed scandalously in public, their dyes mixing on their lips. I turned in circles, embracing any pigments which came my way, smearing it on my body and in my hair.
“Shyamala?” Somebody had said my name.
I turned, the dye spraying from my hair. I wondered if it was possible I had misheard. Or perhaps my name had been said, but was directed at some other girl with my name. Then I saw her.
“Shweta!” For a moment, I rushed towards her for a hug. Then I remembered we had not spoken for two years. Checking myself, I sobered my expression and looked her over. My stained hands fell to my side and I let a small smile settle on my lips. “I did not expect to see you here. It has been so long.”
“Nor I, you,” she said. “How is your family?”
“They. . .they are well, thank you. Makur has started at university. He is enjoying it very much and sends me letters to tell me what he has learned. He is studying to be a doctor and wants to go to America. It is very impressive and he has many opportunities. I almost did not make it here. Mother had me doing chores all morning and last week so I could come here. How are you parents? Is your father still ill?”
“He passed away, actually. A few months after he was diagnosed. The doctors were unable to do anything at the advanced stage he had reached. My mother is doing well, though. It was not easy for her but she is managing fine. Plus we received a fair amount of money for our loss.”
“Oh, Shweta I am so sorry to hear this.”
She placed her hand on my arm, the red dye on her palm staining the blue there.
“Sweet Shyamala. It is funny, you know. As children we did not realize how our names contradicted each other.”
“Shyamala,” I said my name, sounding out each part. “Dark-skinned.”
“Shweta,” she said, “light-skinned.”
I looked at Shweta seriously for a moment. Then I stared down at the ground. Some water had been spilt at my feet, darkening the dirt. It leaked into a small stream, infecting the surrounding lighter sand.
“Yes,” I agreed. “Funny.”
“Have you had anything to eat yet?”
“I am not very hungry but I was considering buying a thandaai. It’s so warm today. I got thirsty than I thought I would.”
“Would you mind if I joined you? I have not had a thandaai in so long!”
I shook my head. “Of course not.” I squeezed my little bag of money, trying to feel if I could even afford a thandaai. I thought how bright red my skin would turn naturally, bursting through my dark complexion, if we arrived at the vendor and I could not pay for my drink.
I found I had just enough to have a few coins change after. We found a rock to sit on, our knees knocking against each other’s while we sipped our drinks.
For a while we just sat quietly, watching the children throw colored dust at each other, laughing and coughing. One boy pushed a girl to the ground. For a moment, she looked as if she were about to cry. Then she stuck her leg out and swung it around, tripping the boy and letting him fall to the ground. He screamed, apparently in anger, and struck the ground with his fists. His eyes narrowed and he bared his teeth.
“We used to play like that,” Shweta said, rubbing her hands on her clothes. “Your brother, too. Running around and smashing each other up. So violent,” she said. Then she paused for a moment, staring into her drink. “Gosh, I’m such a mess.” She laughed. “You, too,” she said, running her finger down my cheek, exposing my true skin. She took it away and there was green powder on her fingertip. She stared at it quietly then wiped it on her clothes again, smearing the dust on the fine cloth.
I finished my drink, still staring at the children as if I were sleeping with my eyes open. It was comfortable in some way. To my left, dye flew through the air, creating hazy rainbow clouds overhead. The mess of bodies seemed to squirm together like a box of candy worms, flinging themselves about. I licked my lips, tasting remnants of the dust.
Over to our right was a small spout spitting out spurts of water.
“I’m going to go rinse my hands. I’ll be back,” I said.
“I’ll come with you,” Shweta said. She stood up with me and walked over to the fountain. We rinsed our hands together, bumping them. My hands ached with the icy water. Still, this did not distract me from the incredibly noticeable difference in our skin colors. It struck me that I had been foolish not to have noticed it as a child, even. I should have known that our relationship would not last.
“I think I’ll go back to the festival,” I said. “It was nice seeing you.”
“Yes,” Shweta said. “Come and visit soon!”
We both knew I would not. I would not be welcome in her neighborhood and she might be attacked in mine for her wealth.
“Please send my respects to your mother,” I said.
“And mine to your parents and brother.”
Then I nodded and left Shweta sitting on the rock where we shared our last drink. When I turned around to look one last time, the clouds of dye had already fogged the space between us and I could not see her anymore.
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