By Nisha Susan
I like pink.
I like the Kancheevaram pink that your aunt thinks is Pink and your mother thinks is Magenta.
I like Rani Pink because one night in the train I rolled over in the upper berth and all I saw was a sea of pink lehariya turbans at eye level. And as the tall men milled about, my friend across the corridor, perched in another berth gave me a chin nod and a casual explanation: Rani Pink. Rani Pink! I repeated to myself with satisfaction because I now had a replacement for Bougainvillaea Pink.
Sometimes at the bus stop I see many families in party finery and all the little children in a froth and a slick of confectionary pink, a pink that my friend once called an Iyengar Bakery cake pink.
In the past I was loosely and forwardly associated with a campaign that was rather pink but let us move on rapidly from there.
And yes, I agree with Diana Vreeland that in India people wear pink like people elsewhere wear navy blue. It is a colour that knows its worth, it is filled with sobriety and optimism.
What I don’t like is Sarkari Pink. I don’t like governments deciding that Lady Autodrivers must now have autos which are Pink. It’s the thick pink of limitation-imitation give-girls-a-chance, of Gelusil, of unimaginativeness. Let Lady Autodrivers decide for themselves what manner of visual delight that autos like to be. Sober, trundling, turtling across cities in a black coat only to reveal rexine-relief art on the inside. Perhaps they will choose rexine murals of Ranveer Singh instead of Aishwarya Rai. Perhaps they will have so-much-better murals of Aishwarya Rai. Perhaps they will have diamond-shaped rear-view mirrors. Perhaps it will all be leopard print because leopard print is the new pink.
But whatever it is, please don’t let governments take pink. Don’t let idiots who think women should play pretty football throw pink at balls.
Don’t ruin pink, dudes.