Ma!

My mother is the most beautiful woman on this earth. She is my history incarnate, my present support and my future likeness. I have a small part to play in each strand of grey and every wrinkle that dots her face. Her soft buttery skin, worn out with years of too much kitchen smoke and too little care. She wasn't always like this...
In their wedding album both my parents look like rockstars. Lots of hair and less flesh. The wedding mandap looks like a film set but my mother looks luminous- positively basking in the glow of a (much hushed about) love marriage.
Years later, I would see that glow again, when my little sister was born- a stunning replica of my mom.
And yet again, when both of us excelled at our chosen careers.
As a little girl, I would be fascinated by the neat rows of exotic lipsticks that lined our fridge- with foreign sounding names. I would watch, enthralled, as Ma transformed herself from a worn out lady to the gentle life of the party.  
Her silk sarees and matching slippers always made her look so elegant, so beautiful, so like Ma.
Now, I have the choicest international lipstick brands on my dresser. But I still prefer rummaging in my mother's makeup drawer to steal that perfect shade of pink- hoping it transforms me into a fraction of the wonderful woman who is my mother.