How a Childhood Lie About Colorblindness Became My Family’s Decade-Long Secret

I was barely twelve, a scrawny kid with a mischievous glint in my eyes, when I painted myself into a corner, quite literally. It was for a geography assignment – a big map of India, to be coloured vibrantly, state by state. In my haste, or perhaps just plain carelessness, I grabbed the wrong crayons. Rajasthan, instead of its desert yellows, became a rather lush green, and Maharashtra, usually a warm orange, ended up a startling shade of blue. My teacher, Mrs. Sharma, a stern woman with spectacles perched on her nose, looked at my masterpiece, then at me, her gaze piercing. “Beta,” she asked, “are you red-green colorblind?”

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