Black Majesty

Shyama, a girl with skin the colour of monsoon clouds, lived in a village where tradition reigned supreme. Unlike the other girls who adorned themselves in vibrant silks, Shyama felt a strange connection to black. In their eyes, black was an inauspicious omen, a colour associated with circling crows and the smoke from funeral pyres. For Shyama, though, black held a different melody. It mirrored the vast, comforting expanse of the starlit sky, a canvas for a million twinkling dreams. It was the colour of the fertile soil that cradled their village, the lifeblood that nurtured their crops.

The girls in her village were confined to the traditional roles of daughters and wives. The halls of academia were a distant constellation, their light too faint to guide their path. However, Shyama was a rebel with a quiet fire in her eyes. She yearned for knowledge, a yearning that gnawed at her soul. Her thoughts, like her skin colour, contrasted sharply with the norms of society.

Every morning, when the sun like a curious child peeked over the edge of the world, painting the sky in fiery hues, Shyama would feel a familiar pull towards the village pathshala, a small school dedicated to learning. The pathshala, a sacred space for boys, was forbidden territory for girls. Yet, each day she would stand at the back, to absorb as much knowledge as she could. The Guruji, a man with a beard as white as cotton, would initially stop his teachings, his voice booming, "Unless you leave, child, there will be no lessons today!"

Shyama would stand her ground, her dark eyes pleading, her voice a mere whisper, "Please, Guruji, just let me listen." The other boys would snicker, their taunts like pebbles hitting her heart. But Shyama wouldn't budge. Day after day, she came, a silent, determined presence. The Guruji, his initial annoyance slowly melting into exasperation, finally sighed and continued his lessons.

But, by that time, whispers turned into murmurs, the murmurs into open criticism. "Look at her, defying tradition," they'd scoff. "A girl shouldn't be learning, especially not in the company of boys!" Their words were like icy needles, pricking at Shyama's resolve. But she held her head high, the yearning for knowledge a shield against their barbs.

One day, a few men threw pebbles at her, calling her “witch.” Women supported. They started mocking her for her dark skin. “As dark is her skin, so dark are her actions,” they'd hiss behind her back. Though initially strong, these constant taunts chipped away at Shyama's confidence, leaving her feeling increasingly self-conscious about her skin colour.

That night she couldn't resist her tears. She started asking her inner self, why couldn't she be like the other girls, radiant in their colourful clothes? Why did shadows seem to cling to her, whispering doubts in her ear? Why, in the mirror, did she only see darkness reflected back? The sting of their words threatened to extinguish the fire within her.

That very night, a strange thing happened. The stars seemed to fade away along with the night sky. The sun was not there, as it was mid-night, yet a glow in the sky washed away all the darkness that had enveloped the village. The village remained the same, but bathed in an unnatural, blinding white light the next morning.

That morning, the world looked… strange. The vibrant greens of the rice paddies seemed to scream at their eyes. Even the sky, usually a canvas of blue and white, appeared bleached and lifeless.

An unsettling anxiety settled over the village. The crops, deprived of the cool respite of shadows and the ability to release excess heat absorbed during the day, began to wilt. The animals, missing the cooler nights, grew restless. The villagers, once comfortable in their colourful clothes, felt strangely exposed under the harsh glare of the perpetual sun.

As the days turned into weeks, the true cost of their superstitions became clear. Black, the colour they banished, wasn't just the absence of colour; it was a necessary darkness, a counterpoint to the light. It balanced the world's colour, provided a haven for creatures of the night.

A wise old woman materialized from the white light, her face engraved with the wisdom of ages. "Child," she rasped, her voice as soothing as Krishna's flute, "Do you see the folly of banishing darkness? Black, they thought, was the absence of colour, an enemy to be vanquished. But it is the darkness that allows the light to shine brighter. It is the cool night that allows the earth to rest, preparing it for a new dawn. Black is power my dear. Black is elegant. Black is majestic."

Shyama woke up with a gasp, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The familiar darkness of her room was there as earlier. She gazed at the cheerful stars through her window, sending her positive vibes from the darkest corner of the universe, yet to be discovered. It was just a dream, a stark reminder of the importance of balance. Tears welled up in her eyes, but this time, they were tears of understanding.

The light of dawn seeped through her window, casting a soft glow across the room. Wiping her tears, Shyama looked at her dark skin reflected in the glass. It wasn't black that was the problem, she realized. It was the fear and ignorance that painted it as such. The stars, the most beautiful sight in the night sky, twinkled in the deepest black. Why couldn't her skin hold the same beauty? She was not a witch but a dark girl whose heart shone as bright as starts in the dark sky. A determined glint replaced the doubt in her eyes. She would continue to attend the pathshala, even if it meant sitting at the back, being a silent observer.

That morning, as Shyama walked past the well, she overheard murmurs. People spoke of a strange dream, exactly like the one that had plagued Shyama the night before. Astonishment filled everyone, including Shyama. How could an entire village share the same dream? Whispers turned into discussions, fear into a tentative appreciation for the darkness. No one knew if it was a dream or a past they all suffered. But one thing was clear - black, the ostracized colour, had awakened a newfound respect.

The village, too, seemed to be awakening. The collective dream had sparked a conversation, a questioning of long-held beliefs. Black, once banished, was being reconsidered. Women, inspired by Shyama's defiance, started wearing darker colours. Artisans began incorporating black into their crafts, finding a newfound beauty in its stark elegance.

Shyama knew the change wouldn't be swift. But a seed had been sown. Black, the colour ostracized for its darkness, was slowly revealing its power to inspire, to challenge, and to redefine beauty. It was a reminder that true elegance lies not in conformity, but in embracing the unique shades of who we are. And Shyama, the girl who dared to wear black, stood tall, a testament to the quiet power that resided within.