That Day I got marooned…. I mean it, I really got marooned.
As I take the laundry off the washing machine, I see a maroon jhamkhana, the maroon bed sheet, shades of maroon Kurta and Kurti’s belonging to me and my husband. Honestly I got flummoxed, for a breath of fresh air or should I say a new hue I opened my cupboard it was bare , just like mother Hubbard’s, except for saris and Yes they were maroon too. Maroon with black borders, gold work, or ochre bandings, but Maroon!!
It was like being put ashore on a desolated island or a coast and left to ones fate, where there were expanse of alluvial soil, but a place of isolation without any hope of ready escape to a brighter or damn it any other colour of any kind.
The texture the feel, the drape and fall of the fabric all eaten by the single hue Maroon.. Just like a school that forces unique individuals to think , act and look alike, my wardrobe has cast me in a mold.
Its like sleeping through a hundred million centuries I have finally opened my eyes on a sumptuous planet sparkling with colour, bountiful with life, within decades I am marooned, until I close my eyes again! No live organism can continue to long exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality. Coming to think of it, life is colourful. We can feel in the pink one day without bank balances comfortably in the black and the grass seemingly no greener on the other side of the fence. Then out of the blue something’s tiresome that make us see red turn ashen white, even purple with rage. Maybe controlling our varying emotion is just “colour management” by another name that renders us Marooned?
In a sense one could speak of the secret life of the colours. Despite its outward beckoning like true beauty colour is immensely hesitant in giving away its secrets, painter learn to respect the hesitancy of colours and endeavor to refine their skills to become worthy of its revelation. A painter learns the language of colours slowly. As with any language you struggle for a long time outside the language. There is a willed deliberateness to how you sequence the strange words to make a sentence. Then one day the language lets you into where the words can dance your thoughts with ease and fluency. Perhaps for the painter there is a day when colour lets him in, when his palette sings with synergy and delight, as for me I am still marooned.
Maybe its time I looked at other colours, like dusk, a grapy dusk over tangerine groves and long melon fields, the sun the colour of pressed grapes slashed with burgundy red, the fields the colour of love and Spanish mysteries
Wait a minute, when I said marooned what did you think I meant?
A fugitive black slave of West Indies or Guiana… that was in 1779, no neither did I mean the descendant of such a person. I meant a dark brownish red hue which takes its name from the French word marron or chestnut.