The hierarchy of colours
The very first thing you sense since puberty begins is perhaps the rich, earthy, sandalwood-induced moist paste being smeared across the apple of your cheeks, the nutty gram flour performing a coloured cleansing, from “wheatish” to pristine — a comparison that should have never been established, now a pinnacle performance rooted in bias being drilled into every stroke of that godforsaken ubtan.
Colourism is an uncomfortable word to utter in a South Asian household — preferring to meticulously label the pursuit of pristine whiteness as “skin care”. Yet what else could it be when the child starts to colonise her own skin, believing all shades of brown must succumb to something whiter — all in the name of tradition? Rarely announcing itself as discrimination, instead being written away along the lines of advice for what man would prefer: a darker-skinned girl to a more appealing white lamb?
The Colour of Being Chosen
“You’re pretty for a dark-skinned girl,”
The bidding follows a standard disposition, skimming past the display of individuality — straight to ripping the skin from their bones, owing it to their seasoned checklists, bodying forth their perception of what a perfect bride should look like; they lean in, too eager to scrutinise the way you laugh, sit, but most inherently the colour you adore. It comes disguised as preference, compatibility, practicality— ordinary words for a seemingly ordinary process that has somehow turned her into an object of ridicule.
The nail jams once — then twice, as if routine, casual cruelties wrapped in silk, twirling and twisting a loop of baseless conversations replaying themselves over and over. Snide comments eventually get tossed into the mix (“She’d be beautiful if she were a little fairer”), attenuating purposely to the idea of her hating the very skin she inherited, learning quite early what it takes to be a desirable piece of meat — a worthy contender of the “marriage market” for even a shade darker makes them hesitant to put in a bid. We inherit our skin, yet are taught to treat it as something that needs correction.
Over the last decades, we have become remarkably sly in crafting softer words for a hierarchy we would never truly claim existed, opting to use terms like “wheatish” or “dusky” to actively discredit a woman’s achievements, intellect, and character. Her skin tone presumes itself a defining factor in her appeal—a quiet poison shaping the way she carries herself when they give their final “no”.
The Embezzlement of Colour
The obsession had never sprouted overnight–it had its roots tangled long into our history, since colonial times, when the concept of fairness became deeply associated with a more supreme level on the hierarchical scale. A conventional way of thinking remains embedded in every fibre of our being, as colonial rule made our place quite clear.
Not entirely the handiwork of colonial ideologies but rather amplified through them–lighter or fairer skin was equated with high moral standing, power, and immense wealth and prestige. Young girls are subjected to the standard of the “fair-skinned” plastered on the front of whitening cream packaging, beckoning them to “clear their impurities” and supposedly “glow”. The excessive marketing of clear skin disguised as the erasure of tan induces an imposter syndrome which is bound to conjure an ever-present loss of identity.
From bridal treatments—scrubbing off the (میل), camouflaging the bronze under heavy patches of foundation whiter tenfold than their natural skin tone, imitating pale, ghastly faces enough to be considered otherworldly, as if selling their souls to a higher deity. The marketing splurges on advertisements — the constant reminders of getting fairer, plastered over billboards reminding everyone who passes that “fair,” “wheatish,” “dusky,” “good complexion,” “presentable”, words that appear harmless enough when spoken individually begin to reveal something uglier when placed beside one another.
Thus, how can you ever truly justify using constant comparison to guide the upcoming stages of her life? When leaving home to enter foreign territory, could she not succumb to their hunger; must she strip away the remnants of this land which has borne her so lovingly?
Men Are Judged Too—But Differently
The rishta decision does not fall easily on both pairs of shoulders, but definitely treads more lightly on one side than the other. Scrutiny has never been stopped at the basis of gender; it simply becomes more flexible when men are brought into its domain. For if a man may be considered “darker” by south asian aunty standards, there are certainly always other factors to fall back on and make the final decision. The men do not fall outside of the hierarchy. They can be mocked, judged, and rejected for darker complexions too. But the stakes are different when a woman’s complexion is treated as part of her eligibility for marriage.
What he earns, where he works, his qualifications, and the members who reside with him — all serve as his safety net. As he must’ve been under the sun, breaking his back trying to earn a living for his family—excuses, but not entirely untrue. The double standards are shriekingly loud for a dark-skinned man facing far less friction or social penalty in securing a lighter-skinned partner than a dark-skinned woman facing the reverse.
“A darker-skinned girl wouldn’t usually be matched with a lighter-skinned guy.”, the rishta aunty murmurs carelessly — unfeeling for the statue of poise trying to hold it all together under the gaze of her dismissal.
The Family Border
The complexion was plucked out since childhood, with the innocent belief that it was familial protection in its purest form, passed down from mother to daughter because she herself had been taught the same principles. To get their daughter even noticed by bidders, they had to respond to the market, but in doing so, they unknowingly breached and perpetuated the cycle of establishing standardised guidelines for their daughters.
“Stay out of the sun, or no one is going to marry you.” A stereotypical phrase, yelled over balcony railings, as cries of glee echoed before turning sour — grumbling as the young girl would trudge back inside, shielding herself from the very nature that blessed her. They unknowingly teach their daughters lessons of femininity, overlapping the discourse of dark-skinned prejudice, in their own naive way, instilling what a bride should look like; thus, long before she even sits in front of the prospects, her lips recite the checklist.
Can a Bride be just a bride?
“اسے اچھی طرح ملیں تاکہ آپ کی جلد اسے جذب کر لے۔”
Smear it properly so your skin absorbs it.
Her palm forces the ubtan deeper; the importance was never whether the paste finally reached her pores; it’s whether the colour finally washed out. The faint trace of sandalwood clings to her now — a bludgeoning reminder that being chosen requires being lighter. Colourism survives not only through cruelty, but through inheritance. By the time she is old enough to understand what a “good match” means, she has already been taught one of its first requirements: do not be too dark. Before she knows what marriage is, she has already learnt its supposed prerequisites.
So perhaps the question is no longer whether she is fair enough to be chosen. Perhaps it is why she was never taught that she had to be.
Let the sandalwood remain on her skin. Let the sun touch her face. Let her complexion exist without being translated into beauty, status, femininity, or worth.
She was never supposed to enter the marriage market as a colour. She was supposed to enter it as a person.