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.