The power of uniforms

For most of us, ‘men in black' makes us think of the movies of that name, with flying aliens and weapons larger than ourselves fired casually by rugged heroes who barely break a sweat. And our ‘men in blue' are the willow-wielding ones who have the hopes of a mere billion people pinned on their besting the other team in 20 overs, 50 overs or a prolonged cricket Test match. But what about the men and women around us in olive green, khaki, navy blue, blinding white or camouflage? What do we think of them?

Do you steer clear of the traffic cop, whichever colour uniform he may be wearing, and whether or not you have broken the rules? Do you see a squad hobnailing down the avenue towards you and move out of the way, keeping at a safe distance, only letting out the breath you don't even realise you are holding when the clomp of their steps is out of earshot? Does the look you give them resemble the one you'd give the raised hood of a cobra holding you petrified from a few feet away?

Most civilians have this reaction at the sight of men (and women) in uniform. There is a feeling of guilt even when one hasn't committed a crime — you feel as you did when you had your hand in the cookie jar or you tiptoed into the house at well past your teenage deadline. Authority, law enforcement, any show of strength is looked at askance as we go about our daily lives, whether law-abiding or not. It is a reminder that there is a Big Brother somewhere, and most of us don't like the thought that there could be someone watching over our shoulders.

For some of us, however, uniforms are comforting. With a police officer father, we grew up with the sight of starched khaki and stiff salutes all around us. The scent of freshly polished brass buttons, stars and boots mingled with the aroma of baked delights from our mother's kitchen. The peak cap, the revolver at the hip, the night stick, the ribbons and medals ... we took them for granted. Whenever we needed help, we looked around for someone in uniform and on our crowded streets there was always some harassed cop to turn to.

It was only natural, then, that when a man in olive green showed up on a neighbour's doorstep one day, we welcomed him warmly into our homes and our hearts. For me — the smitten — green was infinitely more attractive than neutral khaki, and the black beret provided an earthshaking contrast, so it didn't take long to become a part of an even more uniformed state than what I was used to. Unlike police presence, which is negligible in the midst of everyday life, that of the military is confined to whole areas where one gets to see nothing but uniforms — and there was an air of professionalism and sheer magic about it that only new entrants could see and appreciate before routine took over and it all became mundane.

So accustomed did we become to this spit and polish, stamp and salute, that our pet, too, would allow anyone in uniform to walk in unchallenged. Like us, she was lulled into complacency, once allowing a vagrant in monochromatic tones to find his way in — just as we wouldn't have questioned an impostor in olive-green or khaki.

Perhaps, like her, most of us have an element of colour blindness that makes us trust outward appearances rather than question what could lurk beneath the surface.

Cheryl Rao is a journalist based in India.