Siddhartha Speaks@SAMaskeri
I was horrified when a close relative — whom I shall refrain from naming — casually remarked that Bhagwan Shiva was blue, probably influenced by comic books and calendar art. That one offhand comment revealed how far we have drifted from our own aesthetic vocabulary.
Almost instinctively, I found myself reciting:
कर्पूरगौरं करुणावतारं
karpūra-gauraṁ karuṇā-avatāram
He whose form is white and translucent like camphor, the embodiment of compassion.
Shiva, in our earliest imagination, is not blue in the literal sense. He is camphor-white — clear, luminous, almost translucent. His form dissolves into light the way camphor does. Somewhere along the way, symbolism became pigment, and depth became surface. That small moment stayed with me, because it opened up a larger question: how did our sense of beauty become so narrowly defined?
Before all this, India saw beauty everywhere
If we turn to our epics and poetry, we meet a civilisation that never believed beauty had to look one particular way.
Rama is described as:
श्यामः पीताम्बरधरः
śyāmaḥ pītāmbaradharaḥ
Dark-complexioned, radiant in bearing.
Krishna is loved as:
मेघश्यामं
megha-śyāmaṁ
Dark like a monsoon cloud.
Draupadi, born of fire yet dusky, is named Krishnaa:
कृष्णा मनोज्ञा
kṛṣṇā mano-jñā
The dark one, deeply captivating.
Sita, daughter of the earth, is remembered as:
काञ्चनप्रभाम्
kāñcana-prabhām
She who shines with a warm, golden radiance.
And Ulupi, the Nāga princess, brings in an entirely different geography and aesthetic:
नागकन्या रूपयुवती
nāga-kanyā rūpa-yuvatī
The beautiful young maiden of the Nāgas.
These descriptions are not just about skin tone. They speak of presence, grace, strength, virtue, and harmony with nature. Beauty was not uniform; it was regional, seasonal, and deeply human. Sangam poets adored ebony skin. Sculptors carved bodies full of vitality and sensual confidence. Nothing about our aesthetic imagination was apologetic or narrow.
Parvati, and the reminder that beauty is not skin deep
As I reflected further, I was reminded of the old adage that beauty is not skin deep — especially when I thought about Maa Parvati and how she has been described.
Parvati does not belong to one shade. She moves freely across the entire spectrum.
As Gauri, she is gentle and luminous:
उमा गौरी जगन्माता
umā gaurī jagan-mātā
Uma, the radiant mother of the world.
As Shyama or Kali, she becomes the deep, protective dark:
श्यामा रूपं धृतवती
śyāmā rūpaṁ dhṛtavatī
She who has assumed the dark form.
As Annapurna, she carries the warmth of grain and nourishment:
अन्नपूर्णे सदापूर्णे
annapūrṇe sadā-pūrṇe
O ever-nourishing goddess.
And as Tripurasundari, beauty transcends colour altogether:
मुखचन्द्रकला
mukha-candra-kalā
Her face shines like the crescent moon.
Parvati makes something unmistakably clear: beauty was never a single complexion. It was Shakti — strength, compassion, nourishment, radiance — expressed differently depending on the moment and the need.
When colonialism narrowed our gaze
Colonial rule quietly introduced a hierarchy where fairness became aspiration and power. Over time, this seeped into cinema, advertising, and even family conversations. Gods grew lighter on calendars. Heroines were softened on screen. A civilisation that once celebrated dark gods and earth-toned goddesses began to doubt its own reflection.
The loss wasn’t dramatic — it was subtle, and therefore deeper.
Coming home to our own way of seeing
India’s older imagination still whispers to us — in verses