Politics and presentation of colour

I wonder what it might have been like to grow up in a world where it is normal to see actors with dark skin dominate screen time

Some days ago a photographer I know posted a picture of Simone Ashley on his FB page with an accompanying observation, “Kate from Bridgerton… reminds me a wee bit of our Rosalyn… now mothering in Italy… what say?” Of course I was flattered. Ashley is ravishingly beautiful. I loved her performance in Sex Education and had recently finished watching Bridgerton. But the only real resemblance we have, if I’m being honest, is our shared skin complexion, though I am possibly darker than she. The comment reminded me of innumerable incidents through my childhood, adolescence, youth, and adulthood, when, during travel, I would receive comments from people about how I looked either like Nandita Sen or Bipasha Basu, two actresses with whom I bear zero resemblance. I never know how to react when I’m paid such ‘compliments’, because they don’t really feel like compliments, because I am aware of the underlying colourist attitude that marks them. The unspoken bottom line is, quite simply, that Indians are neither eager nor accustomed to seeing dark-skinned women on screen, or occupying space in any way. Telling me I look like either of the three actresses they know is the equivalent of suggesting that Deepika Padukone looks like Katrina Kaif. It’s both absurd and betrays the uniqueness of each of their features.

The other reason these comments are difficult to digest is because they trigger in me the memory of other such observations, how I was told time and again that even though I was dark, I had good features, like it was a compensation of sorts, or that I had lovely eyes which distracted from the unfortunate colour of my skin. This was of course better than the all-out insults hurled at me on a daily basis by strangers, especially on the street. I resented how my complexion was always a talking point among acquaintances, relatives, and other random people, because it made me feel not only undesirable but unworthy of being loved; and I always felt I had to compensate for my appearance by being a people pleaser. It has taken me years to disentangle my presumed kindness, sift through my behavioural patterns to understand whether it was genuine or programmed, or a way of manipulating people into tolerating me.

I relished the new season of Bridgerton despite how occasionally over-the-top the plot points seemed, because it satisfied a long-standing voyeuristic urge of mine to see a person of my skin colour take the centre stage and occupy screen time. The fact that the colour of her skin was not a point of contention was the most significant highlight. There have been serials in India that have tried to tackle the evils of colourism, but there the character’s appearance becomes part of the narrative—usually it is used to advance a plot line, to establish her undesirability. Bridgerton, which in any case is revolutionary for the audacity with which it infuses a range of coloured characters into what is usually depicted as a predominantly white set-up, thus queering our conception of English history, has Kate Sharma be Kate Sharma, where her tragic flaws are layered and are related to her family and childhood and not as circumstantial as the colour of her skin. She is feisty, sharp-witted, strong and athletic, besides being brazenly beautiful. She is, more importantly, well-lit. I cannot emphasise enough what it meant to see someone whose complexion is around the vicinity of mine being shown in this light on the most watched show on Netflix. It felt so immensely validating. Watching her dressed in different shades of green, white, purple, mauve, and pink; watching how the gold of her jewellery contrasted against her skin, how her features were illuminated by the right kind of light from the right direction, and having her be bold and witty but also vulnerable, seeing her perform not as a one-dimensional plot device but cast as someone with a backstory, a personality… All of this made viewing the second season richly rewarding.

When voices that have been historically consigned to the margins demand greater inclusivity and diversity, it is because they know the impact it can have on one’s sense of self to see elements of your personhood reflected in mainstream culture. While so much of Bridgerton’s drama felt Bollywood-ish, one had the distinct knowledge that no one in the Indian film industry would ever dare to cast such a dark-skinned heroine as a protagonist, that too, someone who has a mind of her own and who is also flawed and imperfect, but in a humanising way. 

I wondered what it might have been like if I could have grown up in a world where it was perfectly normal and everyday to see someone who had my skin colour dominate screen time, be a main character without having her identity tied to her appearance. Would I have been given less grief by the world for the circumstances around how I appeared? Would I have been more accepted? Would I have grown up with a healthier self esteem? These are among the many hypothetical questions I ask myself. Mainstream media has a long way to go before it can be daringly inclusive, especially of more radical perspectives, to have differently abled bodies star in shows, or trans characters whose story arcs are not only about their coming to terms with their identities, for instance. Indian Television has an even longer way to go.

Deliberating on the life and times of Everywoman, Rosalyn D’Mello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She tweets @RosaParx
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