We use the word "canary yellow". But who has ever seen a canary in Mauritius? We say "pistachio green". Here, our pistachios are certainly not green. Who can describe the shade of mole in "gray-mole" as they do not exist here? In colour as in other things we still encounter an inheritance of our colonial history that begs deconstruction. So I started asking myself "Why do we use color names borrowed from others? And what would happen if we began using our own images and references?" We might talk about a bilimbi green. A decidedly tangy green. Or a gray "bake ferblan" gray echoing a bygone era. Close your eyes and imagine the rose of "napolitan" pastry in your mind—not the cute little pastel pink cakes, but the bold almost fuschia ones sold at the bus station. "Napolitan pink", now there's a color that speaks to us, to our collective memory.
One idea led to another, and I wanted to name dozens and dozens of new shades. I got caught up in this game. Inventing colour names and also reflecting on what they tell us about ourselves. This playful exercise became more than a poetic exercise; it revealed insights about our collective identity. If "kalamindas pink" reminds me of sweet memories, I'm sure it reminds you of tender moments too. Because these colors that are mine are also yours. These colors are ours, describing the shared tapestry of our lives. These colors are our collective narrative, representing our daily life, our childhood emotional landscapes, and the socio-political fabric of our lives. They speak to us about local politics, school uniforms, religion, our homes, flora, our animals, and of course, food. They make us who we are as Mauritians.
Linguists like to remind us that we live in language. So giving Mauritian names to the colors we see becomes a way of fully appropriating our territory and reclaiming our identity, who we are. I truly believe that naming our colors is an exercise in self-affirmation, in affirming the Mauritian in us. By naming them, we also create connections amongst ourselves. They bind us through shared symbols and experiences. These colors have always been there, all around us. The first step is to speak their names aloud. Ver sousou, maron mangous, ble lapas, rouz latab formica, nwar vie bisiklet, gri lagrin sipay, maron dipin mezon… By naming them, we give them life. We can then use them, share them, and above all, delight in them.
Recognizing and affirming that Mauritius has its own palette is long overdue. Thinking, developing, and using a Mauritian color vocabulary is not a trivial act; it is a poetic & political endeavor.
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