pretty

Amma never called me pretty. She called me strong-willed, observant, capable. Growing up between Chennai and Toronto, I learned beauty meant different things across oceans. My relatives praised fair skin; my Canadian friends celebrated confidence. Years later, I posted a photo in my grandmother's silk saree. The validation flooded in—hearts, comments, shares. But it was my mother's message that struck deepest: "You look like your paatti." Finally understanding. Pretty wasn't about reactions or strategy. It was recognition—seeing myself reflected in her face, in generations of Tamil women before me, in the community that shaped who I'd become.