The other evening, I found myself in an unexpected emotional spiral, all because of eyeliner.
I was watching Joanna Lumley in the new season of Wednesday and I said to my partner, “Look at her eyes—so unwrinkled, she can put eyeliner so effortlessly. She’s older than my mother, and yet my mother struggles to apply eyeliner at all.”
My partner quickly pointed out that I shouldn’t be comparing actresses to my mother. I understood his point, of course. What I had expected was a conversation about how celebrities have stylists, makeup artists, and perhaps even plastic surgery, whereas my mother has lived through cancer, disease, and hardship—with a face that carries those battles. Instead, his response was, “You wouldn’t like it if I compared you to Hrithik Roshan or Anil Kapoor.”
And that hit me hard.
Because the truth is, I’m fifty. And for fifty, I know I still look good. I hear it often enough—just the other day, someone told me I looked 30, maybe 33 at most. And yet, coming from the person I love, the comparison stung. Perhaps it’s because we’re not as physically intimate as before. Perhaps it’s because I have gained weight, stopped going to the gym, and sometimes feel like I’ve “let myself go.”
The irony is, strangers often see me at my best—when I’m dressed well, energised, smiling. My partner, like anyone close, sees me at my worst—the morning face, the bad breath, the paunch that refuses to stay tucked in. And I wonder: why is it that admiration from the outside world cannot quieten the insecurities that come alive in love’s mirror?
Maybe this is my wake-up call. To do better, look better, feel better—not because I need to compete with Hrithik Roshan, who has trainers, makeup teams, and an entire industry polishing his image—but because I want to stand tall in my own skin again.
Ageing is strange. On one hand, I feel proud of how I’ve carried myself through fifty years. On the other, a single comment can undo all that pride and pull me into comparison. Perhaps the lesson here is that beauty is not a fixed point—it’s a moving mirror, and sometimes the hardest reflection to accept is the one shown by those we love most.
Hearts Still Care 