Why is it that Yellow catches my eye more than any colour can, makes me experience a rush such that my lips spread as if to touch my ears on either side? Why do I feel the need to own every other Yellow T-shirt or kurta there exists in the world? Why do I grab every set of Yellow earrings which I see dangling in local marketplaces? You guessed it right, genius, it is indeed my favourite colour. You may now pat your back.
But it wasn’t always like this, you see?
There have been years in my life where this place was…someone else’s. Yellow was just another colour lurking in the shadows somewhere, existing but not so much. Back then, it was the majestic, the soft, the regal Purple that held my heart. But I had never thought of Purple in these terms. Purple was my shot at being different. Purple was a colour that wasn’t just not pink ( a colour that every girl liked), but also no less in its femininity. While pink was immature and petty, Purple was more evolved, knew what it was doing, not looking for attention.
I conceive Purple differently now. It lays in the darkness, always aware of its own splendor, that mystery which is second only to black. Always half awake, half asleep, half sane and half tipsy, always holding back more than it would ever reveal about itself. It makes me think of wine, maybe because of the Purple grapes used for it. “Wine” – the word itself exudes a knowing carelessness.
I do not know when the transition from Purple to Yellow happened, but it did. I knew something was changing when my eyes no longer looked for that mystery colour, when my hands no longer stretched to pick up the Purple pen or a Violet towel.
Maybe Purple was a bit too perfect for me, a bit too flawlessly sleek. I couldn’t relate to it, I only admired it and respected it now. And with a suddenness that is characteristic only of the next colour did I think, “What’s wrong with Yellow?” That was when the whole ball game changed. Yellow was my new love.
And it has stuck.
Yellow has this thrilling quality about it. It is not held back, it is uninhibited, spontaneous. It is like a child who jumps in your path from behind the bushes to scare you for play, sometimes funny, sometimes so alarming. It is like a teenager who is happy in the company of a few friends, who doesn’t consider it necessary to be compulsively rebellious, but has his own way of amusement. It is like an adult who works responsibly but lets it all loose on the weekends. Yellow is like the grandmother whose wrinkles around her eyes only reveal the number of times she has giggled and chortled and chuckled in her life, and still does.
Yellow is not an enigmatic smirk which makes you wonder, but a laughter which is at times overbearing. In order to uncover Yellow, you do not have to look too close or touch it, as you would do with a Purple.
And in these winters as I look for a spot of sunshine to soak through me, I absorb the Yellow. It runs in my blood now (maybe making it orange?). I exude yellow through my laughter and my voice and words, most of the times a shade too elated. I am Yellow now, and it feels good, like it couldn’t have been any other way. It feels yellow…