Nothing is fair about our obsession with light skin
While the controversy of the Sangita Kalanidhi award for the virtuoso TM Krishna is rocking the Carnatic music world, another unsavoury controversy has broken out in Kerala. A veteran Mohiniattam artist, Kalamandalam Satyabhama, made disparaging comments about another veteran artist’s skin colour and physical appearance without taking his name. The crux of her comments was that Mohiniattam should be performed only by ‘beautiful, fair-skinned female artists’ and not black-skinned male artists.
This led to massive outrage in the media, with social media flooded with memes and abuse against Kalamandalam Satyabhama. The venerated institute of Kalamandalam was quick to disassociate themselves from Satyabhama and clarified that the only connection they had with Satyabhama was that she was a student in the institute long ago. But Kalamandalam Satyabhama has remained steadfast in her opinion.
Satyabhama’s unyielding stance, however, further fuelled the flames of public criticism. What added to the fire is the fact that the artist targeted by her belongs to the Dalit community. Politicians have jumped onto the bandwagon, and tonnes of paper pulp have been consumed in printing their politically charged statements. They seized the opportunity to project themselves as champions of equality and social justice. There is a stampede in social media to prove how colour-neutral we all are or declare how black is a superior skin colour.
The public’s reaction to Satyabhama’s candid remarks has unveiled a deep-seated obsession with fair skin that is prevalent in Indian society. After all, she merely vocalised what many secretly harbour in their thoughts. The mirror she holds up reflects an uncomfortable truth—that Indians, perhaps more than any other culture, place immense value on fair complexion.
The obsession with fair skin runs deep in Indian society, a relic of colonial times when lighter complexions were equated with wealth, status and beauty. This fixation is glaringly evident in the matrimonial sections of newspapers and online platforms, where light skin is a coveted trait. Families aspire for fair-skinned children, believing it would secure them better marriage prospects and upward social mobility.
The first question that gets asked after knowing the sex of a newborn is about the complexion. Billboards and television commercials perpetuate this prejudice, bombarding the masses with advertisements for fairness creams promising radiant, flawless skin. Models with porcelain complexions grace the screens; their unblemished features held up as the epitome of desirability. The message is clear: to be fair is to be beautiful, and to be dark is to be inferior.
In households across the country, young girls face scrutiny from aunties and grandmothers, their complexions appraised and critiqued. “Stay out of the sun, or you’ll turn too dark,” they would caution, as if a tan were a curse. Remedies and home treatments promising to lighten skin are passed down through generations, their efficacy questionable but their intent unmistakable.
The entire North-South divide is based on this prejudice. ‘Kaala Madarasi’ is a usual epithet used to refer to people south of the Vindhyas. Some think, ‘but you don’t look like a Madarasi’ is a compliment they are offering and are offended when the receiver doesn’t look pleased. This racial profiling based on skin colour is not restricted to any geographic area. South Indian films also perpetuate this myth that white skin is equal to beauty.
Some out-of-work heroines or struggling actors from Mumbai end up working in ‘south films’ not because the character demands their talent but because of their skin colour. There is an element of caste prejudice in this obsession. Many Indians believe that the higher the caste hierarchy to which someone belongs, the paler her skin would be. In a tropical country where everyone is just a different shade of brown, this ridiculous obsession would have been comical if not for the pain it inflicts on those who are looked down on.
When did we start to obsess with fair skin? Most of our gods are black-skinned. Rama, Krishna, Shiva and Kali are as black as one could get. I have been working in the film and television industry for a long time and have written some of the most popular mythological serials. I have not found a director, producer or a television channel who dares to stay authentic to our texts and cast a dark-skinned actor as Rama, Krishna or Draupadi.
In the earlier years of the last century, comic books and calendars portrayed Krishna, Rama, etc, with indigo-blue skin, as they didn’t want to deviate from the scriptures too much but didn’t want to antagonise the inherently skin colour-obsessed casteist Indians by giving the gods a pitch black skin. Now, that pretence also is gone, and even in the children’s comic book, our gods look like Europeans wearing Indian clothes.
The black skin is reserved for asuras and rakshasas, with their obligatory horns and curly hair. Black is evil is the subtle message we are teaching our children. No wonder, this prejudice infiltrates the job market, where individuals with darker skin tones often face discrimination and are overlooked for opportunities. So what Kalamandalam Satyabhama expressed is not an aberration but a reflection of a deep-seated societal prejudice, an unspoken standard that lurks in the shadows of what is considered aesthetically pleasing and desirable.
It is a bias that goes beyond art forms and pervades all walks of life. Ironically, we worship black deities, (albeit, white-washed now) but frown upon the black skin. In the years to come, this controversy will likely become a forgotten headline, replaced by countless others. But the underlying issue will remain unless we address our society’s obsession with skin colour.
Anand Neelakantan
Author of Asura, Ajaya series, Vanara and Bahubali trilogy
mail@asura.co.in