Uniform

Narrators need not necessarily identify themselves, and easily get away under the paint of ink. But this narrator wants her readers to recognize her as much as they identify with her characters. I am speaking of Katha of course. What stories she narrated, and with such panache! Had a Penguin or a Bloomsbury had the patience to try her, they would be richer and Katha could well do with the royalties. She had a thing for uniforms. Her school skirt was grey, and gradually it travelled upwards into the depths of her creativity. Does it sound dirty, you dirty mind? I was only trying to build an image of her mind. But then some wise scholar had once said, 'seeing comes before words'. So, you are free to choose your own route. 

Some specific days of the narrator I would like to bring to your notice would be the particular day of Katha, dressed in red, when she was wedded. How she hated that colour -- "loud" -- that was all she had to her defense. Which failed by the way. Nobody quite understood her taste. Eclectic, some said. Quirky, classy, subtle, the rest. As you can well rationalize, these adjectives are all poles away from each other, which, in turn, made Katha feel that she was not just her. I don't mean to scare you. This is no ghost story. All I want to announce about Katha is what she feels. Not that I can assure you I am completely correct, but I think I know her. She felt there were other people residing within her -- Katha, in lime green; Katha, in hot pink, Katha in jet black; Katha in pristine white; Katha in royal blue. And Katha believed those were the original narrators, not her humble grey self. Those were the voices that yielded their plethora of words. If I know Katha well, she would have liked me to write 

palette of words instead of plethora. "Plethora is show-off. Palette is smooth." Yes, that is what she would say.

As I had earlier mentioned, Katha had a thing for uniforms. To think of it, she actually liked uniformity. Medically, one could categorise it as mild-OCD. I would not. She simply liked things uncluttered. This day that I remember, she was on her way to another publisher's rejection logic, when she chanced upon the usual spring yellow mornings clouded in olive. Teams of military men disturbed the essence of spring. To top it, they had guns and were performing antiques of inspection in the name of the upcoming polls. It was a disturbing sight -- the roads were getting cleansed, yes cleansed, not cleaned. The lights were burning bright. The traffic patrolling was near perfect. Ideally, this would be a dream expedition in uniformity. But to Katha, the uniforms working on their perfection were distorting her perception. She was used to the colourful misconceptions -- uniformally hers. 

What can one say about voices? She could not get the available guns out of her mind. I forgot another shade -- bloody red Katha. She wanted people to hear all those voices, see all that she saw. I felt bad for her and thought of bearing the flag for once. There she is, reading this, now wearing a turquoise smile. How else but to splash the red out. She agrees with this piece. Says "It has a uniformity in its disorder." I do not understand what she means. I never did.

I have always remained the much disliked red Katha. I speak of truths. I, too, am a narrator. Know.