Riya was sixteen and tired of being told she was beautiful.
It might sound strange—most girls her age would love to hear those words. But for Riya, the compliments always came with conditions. They weren't about her smile, her kindness, or even her talents. They were always about one thing: her skin.
"You're so fair, beta. Just like a doll."
"Your parents must be so proud. She won't have trouble finding a good match."
"Keep her out of the sun! She has such nice color."
She had grown up hearing it from relatives, neighbors, teachers, and even strangers in the market. At first, it felt good. Who wouldn't want to be called beautiful? But over the years, Riya began to notice something. People didn't admire her for who she was, they admired her for what she looked like.
And not just any look—her fairness. Her light skin. It felt like an invisible crown they had placed on her head when she was born, and now she had to carry it, polish it, protect it.
Her cousin Meera, just six months older than her, had always been her best friend. They spent almost every holiday together—braiding each other's hair, sharing snacks, and staying up late whispering under the covers. But somewhere along the way, Riya started noticing how people treated them differently.
Meera had deeper brown skin—smooth and even, warm like roasted almonds. Riya always thought Meera was striking—her eyes sharp, her laughter loud, her presence bold. But when adults talked about Meera, their voices changed.
"She's so smart, but dark," they'd say.
"If only her skin were a bit lighter, she'd be perfect."
"Don't worry, there are still boys who don't mind darker girls."
Riya felt a knot in her stomach every time she heard these things. She didn't understand why it bothered her so much until one evening at a family wedding.
It was a humid evening in June, and the air smelled of roses, sweat, and wedding food. Riya and Meera stood side by side in matching lehengas, waiting for the photographer to click their picture. Just before the flash, someone whispered behind them, "What a contrast! One fair, one dark. Like day and night."
The words stung, and though Meera smiled for the camera, Riya saw her jaw tighten.
Later that night, as they lay on a mattress in the guest room, Meera turned to her. "Do you think I'd get more compliments if I looked like you?"
Riya didn't know what to say. She wanted to say, "You're beautiful the way you are." She wanted to say, "You're smarter, funnier, and kinder than most people I know." But all that came out was a quiet, "I don't know."
Meera gave a small, sad laugh. "It's not your fault. It's just… people see skin first. They stop there."
Riya didn't sleep much that night. She stared at the ceiling fan, watching its slow spin, and thought about how unfair the world seemed. Her cousin, who deserved to feel proud of herself, was made to feel small—just because of something she had no control over.