Wondering what I am about to write? Before you start showing me those wonder-struck looks, I want to tell you that I am not jumping in to any sort of serious discussions that you fear about. I promise I won’t make you doze off, but instead tell you yet another ridiculously annoying experience that I’ve had. But let me start off with a very simple question. Whom will you find beautiful, a very fair skinned girl or a little dusky one? By now, you might have got fair idea about what I am about to say. Yes, I am here to rant again about the clichéd topic that we’ve been hearing for decades, and here is the reason why I wanted to share my thoughts with you. Yesterday, amid a casual conversation, I was stunned to the core when one of those less than close friends defined my complexion as the typical identity of a ‘third world’ native. Third world or the underprivileged and underdeveloped, as how it is defined by the snobbish people like him who inhabit in the much acclaimed developed places in the world, was way too derogatory that it took me a minute to come back to my senses and realize what had happened. ‘Did he mean to say I am an ugly duckling?’ I really didn’t have the slightest idea about what was in his mind while he made that remark, and for this reason didn’t feel it necessary to jump in and counter or create a fuss about the comment. But yes, I did feel bad, though I hid it wisely from him.
For a moment I had the tempting urge to tell him that I better prefer being dark outside and fair inside than the other way round, but soon prevented me from making such a momentary and immature reply. Although the discussion ended very soon, the remark somehow remained in the back of my mind the whole day, and I couldn’t help but wonder why people, especially men, have a kind of blind admiration for fair women. I kept wondering why fairness is the benchmark to call someone beautiful, while dark-skin tone is always related to ugliness. It reminded me of those TV commercials where the dark-skinned girl is always the target of ridicule. I am not really dark like jet-black, but am not really fair either, and have no regrets for not having the kind of fairness that would make men like my friend blindly go weak on their knees for women who are fair skinned, only because of the skin tone. There are many impeccably gorgeous yet not-so-fair women out there, but some men, or men like my friend, hardly bother to notice them, or in fact, are brainless enough to see their real beauty. They keep disregarding women with substance, class, and integrity, and go on admiring those who have most whitish skin.
I’ve seen, heard, and read about many dark skinned women who tremendously successful in both professional and personal life, irrespective not are being one among the very fairer one that men would crazily fall for. So if men like him believe that light skinned women epitomize innocence, modesty, and goodness, I would call them stupidest of the lot, for having such silliest reasons to get allured by light skin and to keep mocking at dark skinned women. Nowadays, the concept of beautiful itself is so badly twisted and swirled such men fail to identify the real beauty, instead run behind those fake and heavily pancaked faces that are so badly deceptive, a kind of enticing mirage. The funniest part of the story is that most of the men who worship the fair women will have skin tones that are way far from white. Yet they go on worshiping fair women and keep poking fun at all the others that have abundance of melanin in their skin. White or dark skinned, women with self identity and strong personality will always stand apart from the rest of the crowd, but some dim-witted people like my friend always fail notice them.
As I was going through the Sunday news paper, I came across those matrimonial that read "Looking for slim and fair girl...” where I could again see the extreme obsession for fair skin. I couldn't help but pity the family for being fixated with surface level beauty, and not being bothered about the personality, intelligence and other traits that their ‘would be’ daughter in law should have. I really wanted to call them up and say that ‘White is always not beautiful and Black is always not ugly’.
Stuffed with love and care
If you can prevent yourself from bursting in to a loud laugh, and control the urge to make fun of me so badly, I have something to confess here, and that’s nothing but my uncontrollable love for fluffy and lovable soft toys, especially those medium and huge sized ones that are so cute and huggable, and never fail to induce a huge amount of positivity an pleasantness in to the person who owns one of them, or even watch them sitting next to one another on the glass shelves of those beautiful toy shops.
Although I have more than one stuffed toys, I sleep with a softy and plush teddy bear that I’ve not named yet, not because I don’t have any, but to enjoy the freedom to call him all those cute names that I know. He is my best friend, and by far the only one worthy of sleeping beside me, curling softly to my belly. If you see me speaking him while I am in my room, or when am back from the office, asking him how they are feeling and how his day went, you wouldn’t take even a second to call me downright crazy, but can never succeed in taking away my liking for stuffed toys. Sadly my friends and the rest of the world can hardly understand this, or are rather very much prejudiced about this love of mine, the reason why most of them call me child-like and silly. So I’ve never dragged him out of my hostel room, and always want him to comfortably remain in the privacy of my bed. He has seen me crying myself to sleep, waking up happily, shouting and howling crazily, staying up all night reading or chatting with people, and doing all sorts of nutty stuffs that no one else in my life would have even imagined in their wildest dreams.
I know I am well past the age where I could have had a huge number of soft toys around me, to play with them, to hug tightly while I sleep, to kiss them on their soft and tender cheeks, to talk to them when I am all alone, to tell them stories that I have heard, or to give them those adorable names like Pinku and Tinku. Still those lovely looking teddy bears, Winnie The Poohs, and large Penguins that sit hand in hand on the shelves of the toy stores always keep draw me towards them as I pass-by, extending their tender little hand through the glass window, welcoming me to befriend with them. I turn behind and smile at them helplessly, saying I am past that phase of life when I would have run towards them and grabbed them the very next moment. If I forcefully turn my eyes away from looking at them, I feel as if I keep hearing their sobs asking why I unkindly avoided them and walked away.
There is a really big toy shop just a few meters away from our bus stop, with glass panes on the first and second floor, where soft toys are kept neatly arranged one after the other, like sweetie little babies sitting next to one another, and smiling adorably at the passersby.
Soft, cuddly, and every smiling, softy toys make me happy like no one else can. I love being in their company, as they are always there for me whenever I need them, hugging me tightly, taking away all my sorrows and anxiety, and in return giving me immense happiness that no one else can offer. And above all, they never let me down or harshly judge me like the rest of the cold and cruel world. But given that I am in my thirties, as I said, my fondness for soft toys has always been a reason for constant laugh and ridicule, as people around call me crazy for loving the company of soft toys. However, I continue to keep giving deaf ears to all those who call me childish, as I have more than one good reasons to love my soft toys. Being alone in my room most of the times, they are the ones who keep me happy forever, the reason why I keep calling them the most wonderful friends on earth. More than the beauty of their softy faces and adorable little eyes, they are the absolutely trustworthy confidants and the ever-ready-to-listen friends that I have every had so far in this busy and fast paced world where no one, not even some of my best friends, can take out ample time for me.
Although I have more than one stuffed toys, I sleep with a softy and plush teddy bear that I’ve not named yet, not because I don’t have any, but to enjoy the freedom to call him all those cute names that I know. He is my best friend, and by far the only one worthy of sleeping beside me, curling softly to my belly. If you see me speaking him while I am in my room, or when am back from the office, asking him how they are feeling and how his day went, you wouldn’t take even a second to call me downright crazy, but can never succeed in taking away my liking for stuffed toys. Sadly my friends and the rest of the world can hardly understand this, or are rather very much prejudiced about this love of mine, the reason why most of them call me child-like and silly. So I’ve never dragged him out of my hostel room, and always want him to comfortably remain in the privacy of my bed. He has seen me crying myself to sleep, waking up happily, shouting and howling crazily, staying up all night reading or chatting with people, and doing all sorts of nutty stuffs that no one else in my life would have even imagined in their wildest dreams.
I know I am well past the age where I could have had a huge number of soft toys around me, to play with them, to hug tightly while I sleep, to kiss them on their soft and tender cheeks, to talk to them when I am all alone, to tell them stories that I have heard, or to give them those adorable names like Pinku and Tinku. Still those lovely looking teddy bears, Winnie The Poohs, and large Penguins that sit hand in hand on the shelves of the toy stores always keep draw me towards them as I pass-by, extending their tender little hand through the glass window, welcoming me to befriend with them. I turn behind and smile at them helplessly, saying I am past that phase of life when I would have run towards them and grabbed them the very next moment. If I forcefully turn my eyes away from looking at them, I feel as if I keep hearing their sobs asking why I unkindly avoided them and walked away.
There is a really big toy shop just a few meters away from our bus stop, with glass panes on the first and second floor, where soft toys are kept neatly arranged one after the other, like sweetie little babies sitting next to one another, and smiling adorably at the passersby.
Soft, cuddly, and every smiling, softy toys make me happy like no one else can. I love being in their company, as they are always there for me whenever I need them, hugging me tightly, taking away all my sorrows and anxiety, and in return giving me immense happiness that no one else can offer. And above all, they never let me down or harshly judge me like the rest of the cold and cruel world. But given that I am in my thirties, as I said, my fondness for soft toys has always been a reason for constant laugh and ridicule, as people around call me crazy for loving the company of soft toys. However, I continue to keep giving deaf ears to all those who call me childish, as I have more than one good reasons to love my soft toys. Being alone in my room most of the times, they are the ones who keep me happy forever, the reason why I keep calling them the most wonderful friends on earth. More than the beauty of their softy faces and adorable little eyes, they are the absolutely trustworthy confidants and the ever-ready-to-listen friends that I have every had so far in this busy and fast paced world where no one, not even some of my best friends, can take out ample time for me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)