In the last few years, I have spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about how I look. I am bothered by it. I scrutinise myself with the same harshness that a nun at my missionary school did everyday at morning assembly - check the grooming of my nails, the height of my skirt, the stiffness of my uniform - leave no room for error or humanity. Every time I step outside my house, I either dress in the same oversized shirt that feels like skin or upheave my wardrobe because nothing feels right. Before an event, I will find myself panicking. My husband, Advaith, will repeat words of affirmation till I can find the courage to believe him.

I try to remember the first time I felt this way. It is recent. I did not have a hard time with my body growing up. I don’t remember staring at myself in the mirror scrutinising parts of myself I can never change. I would stare at the mirror only when I would watch my mother get ready when attending a wedding. She would open her Godrej cupboard that held all her ‘kanjeevaram’ sarees. She would use three products as makeup - a kajal, a foundation and a red lipstick. She never spoke ill of how she looked. She sometimes commented on how she was thinner before she had children. But it was not meant as regret.

I have always liked how I have felt in my body. I have been lucky to feel strength, know rest and be capable of doing what I really want. Sometimes I will stare at my wide, short fingers with a crooked middle one on my right hand. Fingers that remind me of my mother and grandmother’s. I like the colour of my skin. When I wash my face in the bathroom sink, I always like the woman staring back at me. But the mental image I increasingly hold when I think of myself is the one I see on my phone’s screen.