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By:
Melvin Durai
Dear Michael,
My name is Chandrika, an English teacher in Madurai and
your greatest fan in India. I started enjoying your music
many years ago, during the late ’70s or early ’80s,
back in the days when you didn’t look so much like
your sister LaToya. You were my childhood idol, Michael,
with your great voice, amazing dancing and wonderful Afro.
You were the epitome of the phrase “tall, dark and
handsome,” even if the “tall” part was
largely a result of your hair.
I was proud that someone as dark-skinned as me had
achieved so much and was adored by millions of people.
You see, even as a child, I was made to feel uneasy
about my complexion. My elder sister, Radhika, was fair-skinned
and all my relatives commented that she had “good
color,” while debating endlessly what had happened
to me. Some thought I had played too much in the sun.
Others wondered if my mother had sprinkled enough powder
on me as a baby. A few concluded that, given my sister’s
fair skin, all I needed was a good scrubbing in the
bathtub.
If you think that was bad, you should hear what happened
to me when my father, an Army captain, was transferred
north to Delhi. I was a teen-ager then and had to endure
all sorts of ridicule from the light-skinned girls in
my school. One girl said that I was the black sheep
of my family and that my parents must have bought me
on the black market. I wanted to give her a black eye.
Another girl kept saying I was as black as a crow. I
wanted to peck her eyes out.
Children can be cruel, but Indians of all ages are
obsessed with skin color. That’s why my sister
got married so easily. My father placed a matrimonial
ad describing Radhika as “extremely fair”
and she found a groom the very next day. (He runs a
tailor shop, but managed to impress my father by calling
himself a “softwear designer.”) I didn’t
have any luck at all with my ad, unless you count the
three proposals I received from Central Prison. Those
rascals must have missed the line in which I said “no
bars.”
My relatives advised me to try again, saying I should
put the word “fair” in my ad. So I wrote another
matrimonial ad and said that I had won first prize in
the science fair. But the men, they don’t care
about that kind of fair. It’s so unfair.
My relatives then suggested I try various methods of
lightening my skin. First I tried all the beauty creams,
including “Fair & Lovely,” “Fair
Glow,” and “Fairy-tale.” None of them
lightened my skin, though they did manage to lighten
my purse. Next I tried covering myself in a paste of
coconut milk, white flour and talcum powder. That worked
out well, but only until the paste dried and cracked
in many places. I looked like Sonia Gandhi’s great-grandmother.
It was during this time that I noticed something amazing:
You, Michael, had somehow transformed yourself from
black to white. I said to myself, “He’s a
great composer, wonderful singer, superb dancer. And
now he’s managed to change color. Is there anything
this man can’t do?”
When my relatives heard about your transformation,
they told me to experiment some more. For a few years,
I tried moonwalking, wearing a white glove and hanging
out with lots of children. I even got myself a pet monkey
named Bubbles. But my complexion didn’t change,
not even under the glove.
Then someone informed me that you suffer from some
sort of skin condition. If that’s true, Michael,
I’m sorry to hear it. I wouldn’t wish that
upon anyone.
My relatives, however, want me to ask you this: Is
it contagious? And if so, Michael, when are you coming
to India?
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