Purple
It’s always been purple for me. That seductive tight-rope walk between red and blue, the horizon where passion meets melancholy.
I was first aware of its power when they did a general house-swap at school. The smooth, pale purple, heart-shaped badge I wore treacherously changed color, inspite of my crossed fingers and silent prayers. Entering the realm of blue that drowned me in its cool depths, I longed for the comfort of my purple patch. My color had betrayed me. I never forgave it for that.
Yet, it beguiled. The purple frock, with its orange smock pimpled with tiny french-knotted purple roses. The heady combination of flaming orange and docile purple. I loved the feel of the soothing cotton on my bony frame. And later, I swirled proudly to the rustle of my new silk lehenga, feeling like a princess. A royal purple with a rich brocade border, weighing me down like a chocolate dessert.
During my solitary afternoons, it was the delicate purple of the flowers, scattered in the unrestrained wilderness of our garden, that kept me company. Mimosa Pudica – the shy plant that drooped at my touch - captured in our biology lessons, and in a piece I wrote for our school magazine.
The color of my childhood stayed young while I grew. I admired the impossibly tender red of fledgling mango leaves, the warmth of wide orange brush-strokes by a setting sun, the blinding white of snow, and the ultimate unshackling – the crisp blue sky of a winter day.
I spotted the final reconcilation in a pristine white sari, with lilac and blue flowers entwined. I possessed it with a passion that I needed to purge from my system, and then gave it up in a hermitic moment.
Reminders surfaced like flotsam: “Deep Purple” etched deep into a college desk; an ethereal salwar that reflected the twilight; a wedding sari with gold threads drawn like my memories; a tricycle that my daughter refused to pedal and move forward…
Earth-tones keep me rooted now, the reds and browns speaking to me with a maturity, but purple will always be my Peter Pan.
I was first aware of its power when they did a general house-swap at school. The smooth, pale purple, heart-shaped badge I wore treacherously changed color, inspite of my crossed fingers and silent prayers. Entering the realm of blue that drowned me in its cool depths, I longed for the comfort of my purple patch. My color had betrayed me. I never forgave it for that.
Yet, it beguiled. The purple frock, with its orange smock pimpled with tiny french-knotted purple roses. The heady combination of flaming orange and docile purple. I loved the feel of the soothing cotton on my bony frame. And later, I swirled proudly to the rustle of my new silk lehenga, feeling like a princess. A royal purple with a rich brocade border, weighing me down like a chocolate dessert.
During my solitary afternoons, it was the delicate purple of the flowers, scattered in the unrestrained wilderness of our garden, that kept me company. Mimosa Pudica – the shy plant that drooped at my touch - captured in our biology lessons, and in a piece I wrote for our school magazine.
The color of my childhood stayed young while I grew. I admired the impossibly tender red of fledgling mango leaves, the warmth of wide orange brush-strokes by a setting sun, the blinding white of snow, and the ultimate unshackling – the crisp blue sky of a winter day.
I spotted the final reconcilation in a pristine white sari, with lilac and blue flowers entwined. I possessed it with a passion that I needed to purge from my system, and then gave it up in a hermitic moment.
Reminders surfaced like flotsam: “Deep Purple” etched deep into a college desk; an ethereal salwar that reflected the twilight; a wedding sari with gold threads drawn like my memories; a tricycle that my daughter refused to pedal and move forward…
Earth-tones keep me rooted now, the reds and browns speaking to me with a maturity, but purple will always be my Peter Pan.
posted by thoughtraker at 10:52 PM
2 Comments:
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hey buck, thanks for stopping by!
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