Red alert

I like red. For years I have always worn something red, even if it was only something not generally seen by anyone who didn’t know me intimately, perhaps not even then. It made me more energised, happy, positive and productive, even as it tended to blind people who saw me walking towards them. Perhaps my favourite outfit through college was a fashion faux pas – red mini, red tights, red boots, red sweater, red coat – but it did what I wanted it to do: make me happy. When I finally grew up and started working, I found that I had a temper to match most of my wardrobe, and I had no qualms about using it the way I was used to at home, where I was the family baby. So when I displayed my mean side, it came as a startling contrast to my round baby face and normally sunny demeanour. It so happened that I was wearing red jeans and T-shirt that day and I was instantly nicknamed: mirchi, aka chilli in Hindi.

While the temper is now cooled and the nickname has changed, the colour preference remains. My clothes designer stands there with a forbidding glower on her pretty face as I instinctively reach for any fabric that is red. My father laughs when I choose a car that I want to buy (in my dreams, more often than not) because it is red – I once picked a Beetle over a BMW for that very reason and have never lived it down since then. And somewhere along the way I suspected that I was not a person who likes peace and quiet, which is why I like red, which is why my life is always so full of drama and upheaval. In liking red, it is not that I do not like any other colour. Anything strong and sure, never soft and wimpy, is what I tend to gravitate to, with brilliant hues of green, yellow, orange and pink leading the way to my wardrobe, my shoe cupboard, my furnishings and, of course, my mood.

My preferences could be why I choose cats over dogs. Dogs are good creatures, which will be there when you want them to, obey, roll over, sit, stay and generally live for you, their master (note we do not specify any sexual domination here!). Cats, on the other hand, do what they want to do, because they want to do it, not because you have, as owner (or owned) any opinion on the matter. They play with as much fervour as they fight, love you as much as they will turn around and bite the hand that feeds them, just like our little orange furball at home does. Cats are sure of what they want and they are as sure of the fact that they will get it, when they want it. A strong personality shines from every whisker on a cat. A dog may be a force to reckon with, but usually only when it is allowed to. Which makes all the difference to me. It is not the I do not like dogs – any creature big or small but not human just has to cock its head slightly to the side and gaze at me with melting eyes and I crumble – but I have my bias, justifiably so.

Our little feline is a delightful shade of orange, with stripes along the sides of her eyes that make her look like a neatly made up Egyptian princess. And she is as spoiled a brat as a baby princess of whatever persuasion, with her vast collection of toys and gourmet cat-nibbles. She matches the décor of our home, merging into the orange and gold and cream upholstery with élan – if she sat still for a moment, she would be nigh invisible! Which means that, in my book, she is the prefect little kitten – she is almost red!