Not Fair, Still Lovely: Navigating Colourism as an Indian Woman
In the wake of the worldwide protests against the murder of George Floyd, a Black man, by the Minneapolis Police in the United States in May 2020, several corporations “suddenly” discovered that their products and services were built on a history of racism, prejudice, and discrimination. It wasn’t shocking to see organisations reading the political climate and scrambling to seem overtly fair, just, and embracing diversity. What did surprise me was when Hindustan Unilever, a significant market player in my native land of India, made an announcement in an attempt to acknowledge the Black Lives Matter movement—Fair & Lovely, a brand that has exploited the insecurities of dark-skinned women for decades, would rebrand as Glow & Lovely.
To contextualise this landmark change to those unfamiliar with the brand, Fair/Glow & Lovely is a skin-lightening cream introduced to the Indian market in 1975. Exported to all countries in the Indian subcontinent and the Middle East, girls (and boys) as young as ten use the cream in the hopes that they can rewrite genetic structure. Like several million Indian girls, I had a casual affair with the brand in my preteen and early teen years. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t work, but a side effect is crippling self-esteem issues.
The Roots
India, as a country, has a torrid love affair with fair skin. Because a very minimal number of Indians are fair by European standards, the obsession with minor skin colour differences is commonplace. The foundations of colourism in India were set over 3,000 years ago when society was divided based on Varna. This term combines skin colour, class, and caste and is rooted in origin myths, legends, and identities. A social structure divided by caste has implications for skin pigmentation. Those belonging to lower castes often undertook hard labour under the sun, did not have proper nutrition, and could not take care of their appearance. Over time, sections of society began to look different from one another.
With the invasion of Arabic and Persian rulers who had lighter skin, the divide grew. Colourism ultimately attained its full, ugly power with the advent of colonialism. The British arrived in India in 1608 and subsequently ruled over Indian soil for over three centuries. Under the East India Company, Indians were reduced to servitude and forced labour in their own country. Even then, division rankled in the form of British preference for lighter-skinned Indians and providing chosen ones with privileges and advantages. White British “masters” manufactured a disdain for Indian skin, leading to associations of power, prestige, societal superiority, and beauty with being fair. Today, even after seven decades of independence, white skin is coveted, honoured, and powerful. Angrez, meaning white foreigner, is the highest compliment you can get paid.
Beauty = Fair Skin
I don’t recall the exact moment that taught me that beauty was synonymous with white skin. Still, the tenets of colourism were seeping into my self-concept long before I became conscious of it. The earliest awareness I have of feeling like an object under inspection was at age twelve when an extended relative expressed relief that I hadn’t inherited my mother’s skin colour. It didn’t help that my best friend at the time was deeply insecure about her skin and constantly told me that we would be more beautiful if we were fair.
While my middle school best friend and I ultimately drifted apart, her influence was felt long after we had stopped speaking. Although I felt accepted and appreciated by my new high school friends, I constantly compared my skin to theirs. In the company of those who were darker than I was, I felt relieved and smug; at least I wasn’t as dark as they were. My aspirational fantasies were inhabited by an impossible version of me with rosy cheeks, pink lips, and smooth, pale skin.
Unfair and Lovely
Thankfully, I am a different person today. I consider myself one of the lucky ones; I was raised by parents who didn’t prize white skin. Not everyone is as fortunate. Changing your brand’s name doesn’t undo decades of damage done to millions worldwide; it is nothing but a publicity stunt. Many South Asians asking how they can support the Black Lives Matter movement appear to not understand how they continue to perpetuate colourism within their own communities. I especially feel resentful when celebrities who have promoted impossible beauty ideals use social justice as a fashion accessory without wanting to be held accountable for their past actions.
Rampant colourism isn’t a problem that just India faces; several countries worldwide have an invisible barrier between those with light skin and the “others.” Of course, compared with the more blatant forms of racism and discrimination, colourism may seem less dangerous. But that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t fight it. Millions of women have been told that they are the aberration in a world that celebrates white beauty. When told that they are ugly for too long, people start to believe it.
There’s something so revolutionary about genuinely loving yourself for who you are. Today, I inch closer to loving my skin for all its golden warmth, honey hues, and everything in between. Although I carry the scars, I’ve unlearned a lot of what colourism taught me over the years. I am infinitely grateful to my mother, whose skin is darker by a few shades than my own, for being one of the most brazenly confident women I have ever known. Seeing fearless, unapologetic women of colour band together to create movements like #UnfairAndLovely, #MelaninMagic, and #FlexingMyComplexion that celebrate beautiful dark women and dark skin empowers the little girl inside me who’s been fighting for acceptance. I am unfair and lovely and so much more.
