Black. Minima

I never had black clothes (Madras is too hot to have black. and well, if you can afford it, clothes). the little black dress was lost on me (I am a shapeless, thintotheextentofbeingtransparent-white top person), you see. When I have to be formal, I am unblack. When I eat too much and my face looks older, fatter and happier than it ought to, I tell myself I should wear black, but refrain. Preferring podgy to black.

So, no. I am not a black fan.

My room is filled everywhere with every sound, light, face, smile and frown that has made me all I am. I try the minima sometimes ("I really like neutral, basic tones. I want absolutely nothing in my room") and fail miserably ("Amma, where can I get more double sided tape? This part of the wall is too bare. And I am yet to paste Austria").

So, you know now that I am not minima either.

So, why do I begin my now-uncountable attempt at a blog with both?

My dearest, oldest jumper (not sweater. not pullover) is black. a soft black that hugs and holds me with knowledge that is inherent and kind, deep and wise.

and it is minimal. it is what i wear to every party. every theatre. over every staid gray 10 year old tee and every blue and yellow ritu kumar i own.

And these dearyous, are like that warm, black sweater.

Known. Undone in parts. Familiar. And yet, altogether new every time they are worn.