Black:
Before the dawn. The darkness of the womb. Unborn dreams, unborn voices. There I can be I. No mask. No paint. No metal. No role to perform. No form to assume. But now, it is time. To have a voice. A form to assume. To adorn the colours. To step out. The world awaits.
***
Orange:
The colour of dawn. The colour that holds together the skin worn out by life. Pigmented by the pain. Pain that had swirled for ages in this dark cauldron. Festering. Poisonous. The womb slowly starts slipping away. Taking with it what is mine. Leaving me hollow outside. Hollow that needs filling. Assume another face, another voice, another spirit.
***
White:
White that wraps the brown skin. Layers and layers of it, to subdue the glow of the darkness accumulated inside. It also gives me form. Shape. Size. I become. Slowly. It pads up the strength. The muscle to carry the burden of the masks that would be hoisted on me. They won’t cut my skin. The dark blood won’t stain the sanctity of the spaces where I perform.
***
Green:
Green is life. Green is vegetation. Green is all that is hope. Green strands bind my waist, powers my loins. Green flutter in the wind, in the dance of the words, the stories I sing, the pain I pour. Green are the forests that are fading. Green are the dreams of heroes in songs. Hope is green, even if it is shredded.
***
Silver:
Silver, the gleaming metal. Heavy and beautiful. It clangs as I move, give rhythm to my steps. But is also reminds me who I am, what my feet can’t do. The chains cut deep into the skin. A trickle of blood starts to meander down. Hundreds of years of memories. Embedded coals that simmer with fire, but never smoke. Never flames up.
***
Red:
Red is anger. Red is the blood of the heroes slain in the stories. Red is the colour of our babies unborn, the angry sun that drowns beyond the hills before its time. Red is my sweat mingled with the toddy that pours out of my pores. Red are the words that string out from my throat just before they almost strangle it.
***
Brown:
Brown is the naked earth and the naked skin. Skin on skin to the rhythm of the “Chenda”. The spirits that live below and beyond awaken, rise from the brown. The world in between. They speak of yesterday, today and tomorrow. Through the lips that are no longer mine. Through the voices that were never mine. Yes, I am ready. Let the drums roll.
***
Dark:
Darkness is not a colour, but the slow absence of it. It is the fragrance of the womb that calls me back. It is the energy that crawls my body like slithery snakes, reclaiming it. It is the call to retreat; it is that what is left to endure. It is the fatigue from the fights without victories. It is the acceptance of dreams that chase away sleep. It is a void where colours fear to enter.
***
Fire:
The last leap, the breath that is gasped, the skin that is singed, the heartbeats that race. From fire we are born, and to fire we return.
***
Photograpgy and Text: Prashant Sankaran
Photo Edits: Vishnu Vellimattom
