I was possibly on the bus back from the city of Bozen. It was pouring outside. I was supposed to meet a photographer who was commissioned to make a portrait of me. I’d woken up bright and early and draped my sari such that the pallu resembled a cape. I chose a burnt ochre-gold because I liked how it framed my skin. I wore the gold necklace my mother had gifted me sometime in my 20s. I’m always nervous about being photographed, because cameras rarely ever are able to capture my complexion and how it absorbs and radiates light. Usually, I am left with photographs that whiten me or reflect a white light that doesn’t do justice to my skin tone. However, when the photographer offered me a glimpse of his Hasselblad screen, I found I didn’t hate how I look. I wondered, then, if I was finally beginning to see myself more generously. I remember telling my therapist once about how I felt I had this ability to really perceive and grasp the beauty of the people around me. I told her that if I spent enough time with someone, I could enlist exactly what made them beautiful. Not in a superficial way. I could articulate the confluence between their physical expressions, their bodily features and the quirks that make their personality. She then asked what prevented me from doing the same for myself. I told her, at the time, that it was only when I saw myself in my best friend’s mirror that I genuinely liked how I looked. I wasn’t sure if it was the light or the mirror itself. But I concluded, after that session, that it had to do with revelling in the way she saw me, in her gaze. I decided, then, that I wanted to work hard to unravel from my perception of myself all the filters that had their source in other people’s perception of me. I wanted to begin a process of beholding myself that was purified of these excesses, these 
unnecessary distractions.

Every year, I would use my birthday to plan a life ‘after’. More often than not, I would try to lose weight so that I could ‘better’ my appearance. I thought that if I looked better, my life would change. In retrospect, I see how misogynistic and fatphobic this internalised conditioning was. That is what I think I have managed to undo, all these years later. A few days ago, at the community swimming pool, I thought about how I didn’t seem to care that my legs were unwaxed, or whether the two-piece bikini I was wearing flattered my body or not. I felt so much love for what I call my ‘muchness’, the little folds of my belly, the untoned arms. I exercise regularly, but in order to be fit and strong, not to lose weight and appear thin. I can walk long distances, but I am also so much better at knowing when to rest my body. I abuse it less. I no longer postpone joy, think of it as something I must deserve or earn. Next week, when the baker finally returns from his vacation, I look forward to eating my two croissants with butter every morning. I think what’s changed is that I like myself more and more and feel less apologetic about its flaws and eccentricities. It’s a great place to be in as one approaches the 40s. I don’t know if there’s anything better to aspire to than this cradling of one’s inner child, this tender loving of one’s fleshy excesses.

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Deliberating on the life and times of Everywoman, Rosalyn D’Mello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She tweets @RosaParx
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