13 / Beautiful
In the eyes of my child
As a child, I was fascinated with my mother’s make-up drawer. She had a limited supply of products lovingly brought by relatives who travelled abroad. An eye shadow palette with colours ranging from light browns and rich gold to jet black. A thick tube of mascara with a bristle brush at the end. A vibrant pink blush with a fat and soft brush to apply it. Homemade Kajal made by her grandmother. And a few lipsticks with shades ranging from soft pink to mauve – and my favourite – a small blue case with the most beautiful shade of red.
I loved watching her get ready, carefully applying her makeup and ending with a touch of perfume under her earlobes and on her wrists. She always looked so beautiful, and I never failed to compliment her before she left. She would rustle my hair fondly, a smile lighting up her face.
Make-up, surprisingly, did not define my youth. I was happy with a good kajal stick and sometimes a little mascara. Perhaps young skin did not need beauty products to highlight or enhance.
My love for makeup and beauty products grew exponentially after I got married. This is when I began my search for the perfect red lipstick—just like my mother. I have probably bought almost all shades of red, researched skin undertones, and mixed two shades to make a better one. Yet when I look in the mirror, I see the little girl who tried so hard to apply that beautiful crimson shade to look like her mother.
My daughter has a similar fascination with make-up. Her favourite time with me is watching me get ready.
“What’s this thing for?” she asks, fidgeting with the various tubes and sticks I have lined up in my bathroom.
“That’s an eyebrow brush,” I respond, while trying to apply kajal without smearing it.
“And what do you do with this pot?”
“That’s a cheek and lip tint.”
“Can I try it?”
“Sure, go ahead,” I tell her with a wink.
She giggles, sits down on a stool and uses her little fingers to take some red out of the pot. After a few unsuccessful attempts she sighs and puts it down carefully. “You are so beautiful, Mama. I want to be just like you when I grow up.” I can’t help but smile and ruffle her hair. “Thank you, my sweet girl. You look beautiful just the way you are.”
After a pause, she asks, “Can I do your make-up on Saturday?”
I look at her questioningly. “Just for fun?” I ask.
She hesitates. “I was thinking I could do your make-up for your Naqab project.”
I smile, mulling over the idea. “I promise to make you look beautiful, mama!” she exclaims.
“Okay. Let’s do it!”
I look beautiful in my child's eyes. I am the queen, and she is my princess. No one will look at me this way, with such adoration and love. I am not sure I deserve it, but that’s what makes her compliments so precious. I will savour them, hold on to them, and remind myself on days of self-loathing that sometimes beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, and I must accept it with grace.
{My daughter did the make-up for this shoot. She wanted me to look dramatic & beautiful.}
On Motherhood / No. 3
This month, I am exploring the many facets of being a mother.
Motherhood is a labyrinth that preys on you. It heightens your fears, brings out your guilt, plays with your unlived dreams and haunts you while you sleep. It also gives you a winding path with many turns. It's up to you, though – how you navigate it. You can lose yourself. You can find yourself. You can see the magic in the maze. You can rest and heal. You can find your way out. All you have to do is allow yourself to fail.
Naqab (Mask) explores the many masks I wear as an Indian woman. It is my attempt to unravel, and discover my deep-seated conditioning, biases, strengths and weaknesses, one portrait at a time.
The project will span a year, with one portrait every week.
Head here for the entire series.
If you liked this project, please consider sharing or recommending my publication. It would immensely help a new writer like me reach a wider audience.
I would love to hear from you! Drop in a comment and let me know your thoughts.
I used to sit and watch my mother as she'd dress for work - the way she'd drape her saree, the exactness of each fold. And then carefully lift her bottle of perfume for a whiff long after she'd left home.
This was so beautiful to read, Samira. Love the nuance of your writing. And please tell your daughter I love her handiwork.
Oh I love your essays, your Naqaab project and everything you write, Samira. But this one's so precious! Tell your daughter we loved her creativity and you do look so beautiful :))