T would never let a mirror pass. In the dark circle-hiding, blinding lustre of shopping malls, she would sneak across piles of kurtis on sale, rustle past shiny belts dangling off steel roulades and sift through unruly heaps of denims dumped between two mirrors. Look around and then slowly smoothen the crumples on the sea green linen blouse. Or lift one heel just enough to smile at the lilac nail paint against the slim silver bands of the slipper. And if no one's looking, take one lingering, teasing, audaciously blissful look at the girl in the mirror. Or the lock of brown hair curled against her neck.

The mirror at home was just a year younger than her mother. The size of her math book. Nestled between a small tower of dadu's hardbound budget notebooks and dida's half empty Pond's Dreamflower bottles resting on the top of a cupboard. Two bindis, one red and one maroon glowered back from the top left corner. In their rare absence, T would dip her handkerchief in soapwater and rub the stubborn ochre glue marks away. And wonder if she had brown eyes.

There was something strangely reassuring about vanity. About scoffing at little boxes of shimmer and colour women hover around in shops. About chuckling in silence as friends fussed around the pub washrooms. There was something strong, quietly comforting about not having to seek love. Or miss it.