On My Skin

(Song: What was I made for- Barbie)

Often enough, I find myself tracing the evolution of my relationship with my skin—an organ that once served simply to encapsulate my being. I cannot quite recall when the shift occurred, transforming my perception from a vessel that housed my organs to a canvas that dictated how the world perceived me. The mirror morphed into a magnifying lens through which I examined myself with the critical gaze of a modeling agent, detached from my own body. I scrutinized every flaw as if a child was picking at a scab.

Yet, you cannot fault me entirely for I think how society taught me. Think of protagonists in literature, their skin described in paradisiacal hues—pale as snow, warm as honey, or rich as dark chocolate. Smooth as a newborn's or adorned with poetic imperfections like scars shining in moonlit nights or running in spider-like webs on the expanse of their skin. These scars come with a narration of battles and traumatic pasts, rendering the character into what they are. Yet, amidst this literary landscape, skin akin to the earth, marked with craters, rough edges, wrinkles, stretch marks, and the tales of a real, lived existence, skin like mine, is omitted. 

In the myriad of tales, where every author strives to write stories with an increasingly diverse cast,  I still do not find a single character I relate to. I have learnt that even diversity is selective.

-Dhriti Saraogi