Rekha Jad rekhajad1969@gmail.com
Delhi never ceases to amaze—and at times, appall—especially during the frenetic season of exhibitions and social events that crescendo as the New Year approaches. A friend persuaded me to accompany her to a fashion exhibition in an opulent hotel nestled in the heart of Lutyens’ Delhi. The promise was of creativity and innovation; the reality, something else altogether.
The venue dazzled at first glance. Plush, ornate hallways and a colossal chandelier cast a glamorous spell. Yet, almost instantly, I felt out of place—an odd woman out amid the crème de la crème. The dazzle intimidated more than it delighted.
I belong, unapologetically, to the tribe of neighbourhood shoppers. Vast, extravagant spaces and excessively curated lifestyles leave me dizzy and claustrophobic. Here, both sellers and prospective buyers seemed cloaked in a jaunty but hollow veneer—artificial smiles stretched across heavily made-up faces, merchandise priced beyond reason, and an air of performative sophistication.
The excess was hard to ignore. Botox and fillers were abundant, yet the glib smiles failed to produce genuine laughter lines. Faces—ironed smooth and oddly crepey—remained expressionless. Missing crow’s feet, exaggerated lashes and brows arched with mathematical precision (straighter than Ram’s dhanush) could not conceal age, which quietly reflected in dull, stony eyes. Nail art was impeccable, but the elongated talons felt more predatory than elegant.
As the crowd swelled, the sartorial eccentricity grew increasingly surreal. Fashion, passion, and prestige paraded in gemstones, couture, and garish counterfeit appearances. Women flaunted messy bouffants or corkscrew curls in assorted hues, endlessly raking bejewelled fingers through synthetic plumage. The dishevelment appeared studied—almost as if they’d been yanked out of bed moments ago. Lips looked bee-stung, noses sculpted, and youth artificially preserved at all costs.
It dawned on me that I had barked up the wrong tree. This pursuit of artificial beauty and eternal youth made me restless and uncomfortable. The unfamiliarity gnawed at me.
Wabi-sabi—the Japanese philosophy that finds beauty in imperfection, transience, and flaws—clearly has a long way to go here. Must we punish our bodies to stay young? Can surgical interventions outwit time? Aging is not a curse; it is a privilege denied to many.
Certainly, no one advocates shabbiness or neglect. But why do we feel compelled to edit God’s will? The diversity of features passed down through generations is not a mistake—it is heritage. Why must we war-paint ourselves to validate beauty? This frenzied race toward longevity and eternal youth seems both exhausting and futile.
The ravages of time and life should be worn as badges of dignity, not hidden behind veils of artifice. We need more mirrors than filters. Trend-driven façades and glib smiles do not create trailblazers; authenticity, simplicity, and genuine warmth do.
After virtually dragging my friend out, we made a quick exit—and suddenly, I could breathe. Over an invigorating cup of tea at a ramshackled roadside stall, we laughed and agreed: we don’t need opulence; our run-of-the-mill life suits us just fine.
Follow our WhatsApp channel
