The shade cast over Delhi during the monsoons is a shadow blue (not, as you would imagine, blue-gray). Discarded Bisleri water cans—a troubling turquoise—scattered on street corners. Bottle on my desk— the colour of Capri—blistered and bruised after half a decade of use. Tiny azure notebook with its binding frayed from over-use sitting atop a stack of crisply printed sheets of readings that Lord knows when I’ll get to. Gel pens of varying thicknesses and hues—some, royal, others, navy. A powdery tunic marries its near-white translucence with indigo, paired with a striped infinity scarf interspersing midnight and steel blue, with intricate silver threadwork. A pair of indigo earrings dotted with crimson accents. Cobalt handle of a clear coffee mug, adding an effortless silhouette.
The light that the screen emits, simultaneously draining and forcing cognizance. The icons of the documents kept in abeyance—allegedly comprising Word blue, Picton blue, mariner blue, and navy blue—lining the bottom of the screen like dead flies on a carcass. Annotations of the opposing Party made in Trypan blue (or Klein blue—somehow, we never manage to get it right) that are picked apart and thoroughly investigated.
Back in my apartment, my grandmother’s limited edition watch sits awkwardly inside a drawer, its strap a navy blue now, but previously (i.e., before I had completely worn it to its end) the shade of a pigeon. Somebody had gifted it to Pati, but she gave it to me instead, saying she would rather have me wear it. If I’m being honest, I don’t remember what she said; I only recall her asking me if I liked it. That was how Pati was, anyway. Pati— with her saree collection spanning over four hundred drapes collected over eight decades, of which there were perhaps an entire spectrum of blues. Pati, who once bought me delicate turquoise earrings that I hardly ever wear. Pati, whom I had last spoken to almost exactly this month five years ago. I had tried cheering her up naïvely as she mourned the loss of her younger brother to Covid. In those months when we were locked in our homes with no end in sight, I challenged her to wear a new saree every day to keep her spirits up. In the week that she was steadily falling into the grasp of a disease that nobody knew anything about, I had asked her to wear something blue. Within days of this conversation, Pati was hospitalised. Her formal diagnosis for Covid-19, thus far, had been negative, so an uncle had paid her a visit in her hospital room and handed her the phone, while we took turns talking to her over a video call. I had walked into the room a bit later; Ma and Pa nudged me and whispered to offer her the courage to get well soon. Little did I realise at the time that it would be the last time I would ever speak to her, or hear anything she had to say. The sheen around her that made her the woman she was known to be was gone; once that of royalty, she radiated a mere pewter within a matter of days. I don’t recall our conversation from that morning; all I remember was being taken aback by how frail she was in her cornflower blue gown. When she saw me, she said, jokingly, “Look, I’m wearing blue”.
The bit about coolness was spot on! Made me think about how its cognate "chill" has become the measure of hangout-worthiness, and "super chill" the highest of praise.