“How do these look?” , she said. “They look good”, I smiled, looking at the jhumkas in her hands. 

What’s beauty? Beauty is that cheerful indecisiveness on her face when she holds those earrings asking me which one is better. 

What’s beauty? Beauty is those excruciatingly beautiful few minutes while I have to wait when she’s getting ready. 

What’s beauty? Beauty is her rose pink cheeks, her red lips, her caramel eyes, her fluttering eyebrows. 

What’s beauty? Beauty is that surprise on Diwali night when I saw her in a Saree, thinking she pulled it off so well.

What’s beauty? Beauty is that comparison I make between her and Mom when she comes out wearing traditional. They both look equally beautiful, wearing something so soothing, yet so illuminating.

What’s beauty? Beauty is her buying matching Kurtas, and waiting impatiently for me to put it on. It’s her knowing it must be black. 

What’s beauty? Beauty is when I get to lick her wounds. It’s the glow on her skin when she’s out in the Sun, making a statement—It’s either the Sun or her in that moment. I get to enjoy that confrontation, as I hold both of them close to my heart.

What’s beauty? It’s when she says she looks sick, looking in the elevator mirror, as I stand there, baffled at that thought. It’s brave of her to think a sickness can wipe that beauty off of her face.

What’s beauty? It’s her looking at the sea calling it a painting, while I wonder how could you miss out on the painting sitting right next to me.

What’s beauty? She is the fucking beauty.