Buying the Colour, Missing the Story

Puce, and the Pink That Wasn't 

The day temperatures have already bounced to 33°C (91.4 °F) - quite shameless for the month of March. That also means conducting the annual exercise: woollens in, summer clothes out, for those in the northern parts of the country.

As I hung my salwar suits on hangers, that pink suit caught my eye again, the one that had rather trespassed into my wardrobe.

I had wanted a pastel, brownish pink. Not just pink, but a very particular pink. The readymades online either had synthetic fibres or designs I did not like, so I decided to get fabric and have it stitched. Two shops later, I still hadn’t found it.

In the third shop, I told the shopkeeper what I wanted. He disappeared behind a small door and emerged with half a dozen bolts of fabric in different shades of pink. Then he switched on all the lights. Spreading the cloth across his chest, he said, “Dekhiye didi, yeh igjactly wahi hai.” (See sister, this is exactly that colour.) At every no, he countered, “Aap sample layein to hum match kar dein… hamari dukaan ke ilawa itni choice aapko kahin nahin milegi.” (If you get a sample, we can match it. Except our shop, you will not get such a large choice anywhere else.)

It was getting warm, and I was running short on energy, hope, and patience. So, I chose what I thought was the nearest shade and bought it.

When the suit came back from the tailor, my colour sense pricked me again. Was this the same fabric? It refused to live in the background. Every time I moved the hangers, it popped out. I forced myself to live with it, pairing it with an off-white dupatta to subdue the brightness.

This Wednesday, while taking out a handbag, I noticed it was in the exact shade I had wanted. I finally Googled it. The moment of enlightenment arrived- it is called puce pink. A dull, pastel pink with tinges of purple and brown; not quite what I had bought. What I had, I realised, was closer to mulberry pink or cranberry pink, or deep hot pink or magenta twist -different sites told me different names for it.

The puce pink with a touch of silver would have been elegant, subtle as I imagined myself to appear. Instead, the whatever pink is louder, flatter and seems more insistent than invited.

Names like dusty rose, sunset yellow, antique aquamarine, they carry a soft promise. You might think it absurd, but I was trying to buy the story the colour told me, not just the colour.

But somewhere between the shopkeeper’s insistence, the harsh tube lights, and my own moment of compromise, that story had changed.

This was not the first time. In January, I went looking for moss green wool for a child’s pullover. The same shade seemed to shift across brands and yarns. In that case, however, I ended up liking what I bought more than what I had imagined.

Matching colours is an Indian woman’s quiet trial. You will understand this only if you have tried to match a blouse to a saree or a dupatta to a suit, checking under shop lights, then again in daylight. Or watched women hold up glass bangles to match, turning their wrists slightly, looking for that exact click of agreement.There is, I am told, something called the Purkinje effect- the way the cones and rods in our eyes distinguish colours.

Of course, this is not life-altering. In India, summer clothes do not last more than two or three seasons. They are washed often, they fade, they lose their sheen and slowly, their relevance.

Ever seen a group of policemen? They are all in khaki, and yet no two uniforms would be quite the same shade.

And yet, colours matter. In the past few years, I have learnt that what I once called brownish grey is taupe, that Barbie pink is different from bubblegum pink, that lilac and lavender are only distant cousins, and sand and desert are not the same. It is no wonder then that sometimes we look at a cup of tea and, without even tasting it, the mind quietly says, no.

During Navratri now underway, those who follow the rituals wear the colour of the day. Within that, there is still room—mustard, turmeric, lemon, mango, papaya, each person arriving at their own version of yellow. In those moments, colour is less about choice and more about participation.

Funny that, even a white is not just white. It can be off-white, pearl white, cloud white, ghost white, baby powder white, snow white, ivory, seashell white, cream.

I am trying to come to terms with the fact that my whatever pink is perhaps how most of us live a large part of our lives—with slight mismatches and quiet compromises. From a distance, you might squint and say it is close enough. But up close, you know it isn’t quite right.

And even if you live with it for now, you know it will not work forever.

White, with variations. Because nothing, it seems, is ever just one thing. Photo: Asian Paints whites

                                                                                                     - Anupama S Mani