the abhorred colour

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 42; the forty-second edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is "COLOR"

Raman was a 10 years old, school going boy who disliked the domineering kids at school, loved his family and enjoyed playing with the cars in his toy room. With a hefty hyper active mother, a lanky sullen faced father and a petite over smart younger sister, his family of four was unique. Raman appeared to be the only sane one. Being such different individuals the only thing that was common among them was their affinity to this particular colour. Their house was painted in this colour, the two cars they had were also the same colour. Moreover their wardrobe was filled with clothes in this same colour. Every time Raman’s parents visited school for a parents-teacher meet, the four of them together made for a sight. Due to this, the kids at school started teasing Raman. The churlish banter during his childhood days resulted in hatred for the family’s favourite colour. The phrase that the kids shouted used to scream in his head all the time.

As Raman grew into a 35 years old well settled man married to a beautiful girl he met in college, he had moved away from the figure of the colour that had shadowed his childhood. His house was painted in a chalky white and He, now, drove a silver sedan. His wardrobe was full of different colours except that one particular colour that had haunted his school days. Had one of those despotic kids met the handsome Raman now, they would have undoubtedly failed to recognize him.

However, even after achieving all he had dreamt of, there were those killing nights when Raman was woken up by the screaming kids from his childhood, pulling his leg. Ignoring the banter, all Raman missed in his life now was the joy of a baby. He and his wife had been trying to have a child of their own for the last 5 years. The doctors had given up.

One fine day, while planting a tree in his neighbourhood Raman got hold of a stone which had a something scribbled on it. On reading it closely, Raman realised that it is a riddle of some sort, the answer to which might take him to a secret place. The riddle went like

“Down the street, in a place discreet

Stands a building, tall and alone

With barbed wire, it is barred

Something hidden behind your favourite flowers in the backyard

The colour you abhor

Is the key to unlock life’s new door”

Out of sheer curiosity, Raman started a walk down the lane. He reached a dead end but could not see any building there. He had lost hope when he spotted an opening, next to the dead end, tucked behind a tree. The opening took him to a never ending narrow lane which Raman thought would take him nowhere.

After walking endlessly, a tired Raman, halted, closing his eyes and bending down, rested his palms on his knees. He got back standing straight looking at a dingy looking tall building. He saw the wiring done around it and wondered what was so special about the building that it was so protected. Not knowing how to get through that, he decided to walk back to his place when he noticed a ladder, with the help of the ladder he jumped onto the other side of the fence. With the pebble still clenched in his hand, he slowly walked towards the backyard and saw rows of blossomed daisies (his favourite flower) there. He was surprised to see such a well pruned garden at the back of such a shady building.

After sauntering through various rows, at the diagonally opposite corner, towards the end of the last row of daisies, he noticed a yellow coloured door. YELLOW the colour that he once adored and now simply abhorred. The colour suddenly brought all the ugly memories of school days flashing in his mind; kids yelling “yellow yellow, dirty fellow, your mother a buffalo”.  He closed his eyes, tried to relax and walked towards the door.

With a disgusting look on his face, he slammed the door open and found a basket with a bundle of happiness.

He found a baby girl sleeping in that wicker basket, tightly wrapped up in a pink blanket, her cheeks more red than an apple. He saw a note hanging from the basket. With tearful eyes and a dry throat he read it “your prayers have been answered; a gift for life”. He had never imagined that the yellow coloured door that he made a face at would open up to so much joy. He delicately picked up the little girl in his lap, kissed on her tiny little forehead and with a croaked voice said to her “you will surely change my life”.

He got back to his place and shared the new found happiness with his wife. Both Raman and his wife now felt that their family was complete. That night, laying in his bed, with his eyes constantly on their baby, Raman thanked the colour yellow for making his world complete. Since that day all his grudges with the colour yellow and the bitter childhood memories vanished into thin air.

It is best not to associate a colour with the past or bad memories or some superstition. You never know when that same colour becomes a blessing.

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