It was an afternoon two years ago when I looked myself in a mirror for more than 30 seconds at a time for the first time in all my born days. It was the consequence of something that had happened that morning, when I was seated across a cup of tea in a restaurant with the man who confessed his love to me. I made every effort to wear a don’t-give-a-damn expression, and shot the question. Why me?
“I like your hair, your long neck, and feel like I wanna kiss you on your gum when you smile,” he answered. I kept a no-way board inside and a deadpan expression and asked my wits to come up with something more convincing. Actually everything else would go – except to say that I was physically appealing.
I remember an old photograph with my cousin, who is six months younger to me. We both wore the same orange-yellow frock, the same set of hair bands her father had bought from one of the numerous stalls that were set up on the school grounds every year for three days during the feast in the church. We were brought up like twins.
But despite all efforts made by our parents we remained at two poles. I was dark, she was fair. I was lean, very lean. Anyone who saw me all alone would definitely offer me a coin as alms! Plus I had a set of front teeth that had started growing when I was nine, and finally when it stopped growing anymore it impinged on my lower lips, which made it impossible for me to shut my mouth properly.
These factors were all supplementary to the gummy smile I inherited unfailingly from my maternal side, that disclosed all of my mouth mercilessly even when I made the slightest attempt to smile. Every time I was photographed, people never forgot to comment on it. I was bad-looking, and anyone who saw me for the first time gave me that look.
As time passed I started accepting it as a fact of life; when people said it to my face I gave an I-know-it expression. And that’s how I was, for all these years. Being spotted in a picture was a concern. I never coloured my eyelids black, lips red. Neither did I bother about the arch heights of my eyebrows or the blemishes that took turns. I denied myself everything that was of a girl. Combing my hair was all I did, whether it is to the market or to a wedding reception.
I never judged people by how they looked, thanks to all who taught me how awkward it will be. And thanks to the protagonist of this little part of my story who could hold me back for more than 30 seconds in front of a mirror successfully, because there, I started loving myself.
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