I am wearing my make-up for the 11th time this month. Clad in my aunt’s most expensive sari, I wait with my tray of teacups. I must enter the room full of guests, with short, silent steps. Not as easy as it sounds. I am summoned. As I offer everyone a cup, I can hear the women whispering; about me? At night the phone rings. My mother cries and blames God for my complexion; and me for not following all her remedies to become fair. No place for a dark girl – says the advertisement billboards, magazines, television commercials and mother.