the Wall

Mirror Mirror On the Wall

MIRROR MIRROR ON THE WALL

KAVYA KAUSHAL

Age 5, Late Nights in the Middle of June

Mirror Mirror on the Wall. Who’s the fairest of them all? Of course, it’s me. I love my life: It’s so exciting and fun. My second home is the outdoors, and I play with my neighborhood friends all evening long until the crickets chirp louder than our voices, and the sky is a navy blanket speckled with white. When I come home, I wash my dirty hands and face until I’m squeaky-clean. My smile is so wide that it hurts my cheeks. I trace it, and now the reflective glass is wet. My mother will be mad at me for touching the mirror, but nothing matters because right now, with all of my friends and family, life couldn’t be better. Humming, I skip out the restroom door to the dining table, where my family members sit talking among themselves.

Age 8, In the Palm of Your Hands

My parent’s homeland, India, is vibrant and lively, even at nighttime. As I cross the bustling alleys, I grip my mother’s right hand so hard that our knuckles turn white. In today’s episode of Kavya Conquers the World, starring the one and only superstar me, I pick out what I should bring to my friends from a local bazaar. My fingers glide over the organized rows of bangles and hair ties. Suddenly, glaring sunshine blinds me. Disoriented, I search for the source. The light is radiating from the most detailed, beautiful boxes I have ever seen. They’re so tiny that they won’t even fill half my palm. The friendly vendor tells me they are coated and Lovely Cream bottle stands in her hand. Something about the way her skin glows creates a pang in my chest. It hurts inside, but I’m certain it’s not a physical source of pain. I rush to the bathroom and drown my face with water, lathering the same cream-based face wash endorsed minutes ago on the TV between my fingers. The more I aggressively rub my face, the more I hope that I’ll magically turn into someone more white and pretty. I close my eyes so I don’t have to face reality. Only once I wipe the last remains of the soap with a towel do I stare at my reflection’s dark skin. Why was I born brown? Why can’t I control the color of my skin? Why won’t this stupid face wash work? Why couldn’t I have been born “Fair and Lovely?”

with famous Jaipuri mirrorwork. My eyes widen in the hundreds of mini-reflections of me made in the delicate diamond-cut mirrors that span the entirety of the jewelry holder. I say, “I’ll have eight!”

Age 10, Don’t Forget About Me

“Okay, let’s see how many students want to volunteer. Everyone interested, raise your hands.” My arm shoots up in anticipation. My twin sister and I instinctively lock eyes, buzzing with excitement. It would be awesome to be a part of the student council with my second half.

My teacher starts counting students. “One, two, three, four, five — Kavya, why is your hand raised?” I look around, startled by all the eyes on me. Heat rushes to my face and I probably resemble a tomato. Why is the teacher asking me that question? Did I do something wrong?

“It’s just that Kriti already has her hand up… You two are basically the same, so could you please do me a favor and lower your hand to give your other peers an equal chance?” My face burns up, and I look at the ground, away from my classmates’ stares. Hot tears start pooling in my eyes. For the first time, I feel ashamed of sharing physical features with my fraternal twin. If only I didn’t mirror her face when I was born second. Maybe then I would finally be acknowledged as my own unique person. My sister tries to catch my eye, and although I see her visible concern, I whip my head in the opposite direction.

Age 14, Young and Beautiful

The stunning face of Yami Gautam appears on the television screen, her milky white skin stealing the show. The widely-known Fair Age 17, If “Happily Ever After” Did Ex-

ist

I stand before my senior portrait in my bedroom, adjusting my mother’s pearl necklace. I look in the mirror, and I don’t recognize the girl staring back at me. The girl clenches her fist and grabs a fistful of her hair. She tugs it, and pain erupts from my scalp. She clutches herself in her arms, breath stuttering as she lets out a scream that cracks midway and dissolves into uncontrollable sobs. Knock, Knock. She hears someone at the door. The emotion drains from her face, and a thin, wispy line emerges, replacing her scowl and furrowed eyebrows. Wiping her face, she notes the improbable flaws. That’s me? I’m an unoriginal mess of a stew of those around me. I will never be enough. When did looking at my reflection become this painful? Mirror Mirror on the Wall. When will I finally be ready to accept it all?