I was 12 when she said “move, you brown thing”

Reality checks are painful. Once the harsh realities sink in, they can be quite liberating actually.

I fondly refer to myself as the brown one though many may argue that it’s more of a tan and/or attention seeking behaviour on my part. My “non-brown” friends find it funny, mildly inappropriate, and sometimes, downright annoying.

But truth be told – that is the truth.

I am brown.

The realisation of what it meant though took many years to sink in.

The first time I was told that I am brown was when I was 12. I was visiting family in Birmingham (England) for my summer holidays, incidentally, without my parents. My staple diet there primarily consisted of Fanta and Mars chocolate bars. I was fascinated with the corner shop and spent my money passionately on magical, edible items.

One morning, I was immersed in listening to Guns N’ Roses on my blue walk-man and pondering over which gummy bear to have from the wide selection. Oblivious, as I usually was, to my surroundings. I was blocking the way to the cashier when a lady said,

“Move, you brown thing.”

I did move, but I didn’t quite understand what she meant. I came back, called my Baba and regurgitated the incident – he assured me that I must have misheard.

“Keep the volume low on your walk-man, you do realise that all these chocolates will permanently damage your teeth, right? And next time don’t go without your sister,” he said.

I ended up not going to the corner shop for the rest of my trip. Some reprieve though, for both my teeth, and my dental insurance.

The great thing about uncouth people is that they are found everywhere. Their consistency in numbers transcends cultures, oceans, and countries. I was therefore never left un-reminded of the fact that I was brown. My sister and cousins are all much lighter in comparison to me. I was the least preferred one. I would often hear aunties referring to me as the “sanwali” (dusky) one.

I started thinking whether there was a manufacturing fault while God was creating me. Did He not have enough clay and end up mixing mud whilst creating me? I would often wonder.

I stopped wearing white because an aunty once said that it hides my features. The pedicure ladies would discourage me from applying pink or light-coloured nail polish saying my feet won’t look as “fresh”. What’s the correlation between colour and freshness, anyway? I wish I had asked.

So what exactly does it mean to be brown? I have often contemplated. Do my organs function differently? The left and the right ventricles in opposing directions, perhaps? Or is it the brain – maybe not fully functional? Or my feelings… perchance the flaw of being different disqualifies me from the right, nay, that’s asking for too much – the capability of feeling, sensing? It is the survival of the fittest when it comes to universal continuation they say – I survived. Isn’t that enough to accredit me as a fully functional human being? Would Darwin agree?

I wish I had the discipline and the drive to unfold these mysteries but I don’t. Instead, I like malls and shopping, and listening to my heart. With time, and countless shopping trips to Eaton Centre (Montreal) with my best friend, I unabashedly embraced my love for white kurtas, Ruby Woo and Russian Red lipsticks (God bless Mac), and of course, my shiny pink nail-polish. Thus, being brown became me.

So naturally, during my recent travels to a mesmerising terrain with magnificent history and grandiose architecture, I didn’t care much for the disdainful looks I got for being brown. It was like the hideous graffiti on city walls – annoying, but not potent enough to take away from the essence of the beautiful architecture.

You see, it doesn’t matter when others do it, what hurts most is when your own kind does.

Reality check – check.

I, therefore, find it extremely amusing when people in Pakistan complain about Trump. A part of me struggles with accepting that I may never be able to take some of my loved ones to my Karachi (due to the polarising impact of some of his policies).

I have a friend who makes me custom-made Don Corleone plaques and surprises me with Oreo cake on my birthday, and I cherish our friendship yet I know that I may never be able to share the experience of having nashta (breakfast) at boat basin or the awkward camel ride at French beach with her.

Another thing that troubles me is seeing my cousin in distress. She dedicated her life to medicine – a Mensa genius with a work ethic I envy. She put 10 years of her life into practising medicine in the United States, yet now she may be impacted by the new policies. It’s heart-breaking.

But who is to be blamed?

Certainly not Trump.

Why is it that the state of our countries is so despicable that we have to leave our homes behind and seek solace in foreign lands? Aren’t we responsible for our own plight? Do our leaders really deserve to be leaders? I’m sick and tired of hearing that there were and are imperialistic encroachments.

Tracing back to the Mughals, aren’t our leaders merely spineless, impotent, lethargic beings surviving on booze and virility pills? What have they ever done? Kill an elected prime minister in a sham trial. What have we ever done? Aren’t we equally responsible? What are we doing about our youth being wasted in the negative rupee telecom deals? What are we doing about stopping the widespread dogma and intolerance within our society? What are we doing about that corrupt officer who coerces an honest man into paying a hefty bribe to access his own assets? Are we even capable of leading? Rectifying?

A reality check is what we, as a nation need.