BLACK

The following prose piece is written by Srishti Yadav, it was printed in Yamuna 83rd Volume.

Every colour wants to be black. The darkest shade of green wants to be black. The darkest shade of red wants to be black. The darkest shades of blue and purple also want to be black. They try to deepen themselves, create profundity and magnitude. But they can’t. Blue remains blue and red remains red. Black is insurmountable, cannot be duplicated.

Black is the epitome of all that it is. It is the most powerful, it cannot be toppled and nothing can replace it. It is the most enigmatic, it seems to have a multitude of layers and crevices, and yet, these layers and crevices are indistinguishable. Coming to think of it, black does not have layers and crevices. We like to think that it does, because to contemplate that something can be so absolute, so complete, so powerful that it doesn't require meanders and escape routes, is a thought so dizzying in its power and might that we shy away from it. It’s almost unbelievable. Or again, I want to think it’s unbelievable. Maybe because black is the most difficult to attain. Absoluteness is always difficult to attain and so absolute an absoluteness is almost frightening a notion.

Black doesn't have any shades. There is no light black or dark black. Black is the consequence of being complete. It is also the act of being complete.

Black emboldens. It emboldens me to soar, to leap, to try. It emboldens me to be it. It encourages me to lunge into that vast pool of thought that is unfathomable and very enticing.

Black is all absorbing. It grasps everything it wants and locks it in its chambers. Black reflects all that it doesn’t require. And somehow, the reflection that it creates is more appealing than the actual object.

Black shimmers in sunlight and glows in the dark. But it isn't dependent on any of these. It doesn't need anyone to give it an identity.

Black is enigmatic. It makes me want to ponder and glimpse beneath that veil of dense distance, and yet it also makes me want to stop prodding and let it be, not invading its privacy.

In my mind, black can never be shallow or fake. If anyone tries to turn brown into black, they fail miserably. And one can always tell if it’s black or not.

Black makes me write. But I don’t think I’ll ever be satisfied with what I write about it. There’s too much to write and there’s so much that I don’t know about it.