My name is Ameya Joshi.

I’ve never been the kind of girl people stop and stare at in the street. And I’m okay with that. Truly. I’ve made peace with the fact that I don’t fit into the world's checklist of what a woman should look like.

I’m not slender or fair. I don’t have delicate collarbones peeking through chiffon sarees or a waist that disappears beneath a dupatta. I have thick thighs, a soft belly, arms that jiggle when I laugh, and a round face with cheeks people have been pinching since I was five.

My skin is brown—not caramel, not dusky, not glowing—just brown. Plain, like well-brewed chai without the froth. My nose is broad and unremarkable, and my eyes are deep-set and often tired behind my thick, smudged kajal. My hair? Long, wavy, and usually tied in a lazy braid or bun because it's too humid to do anything else.

I have stretch marks that lace the sides of my hips like silver lightning bolts. My upper lip needs threading every two weeks, and my stomach refuses to obey any diet longer than five days.

But I still love the way I look on certain days.

Like when I wear that black kurta with mirror work that makes my brown skin glow in the sun. Or when I do a perfect winged eyeliner on the third try. Or when I let my hair down and the ends curl at my collarbone just right. I look at myself and think, You’re not what they want, Ameya, but you are beautiful in your own way.

The world, though, rarely sees me that way.

Relatives say I have a "pretty face"—a phrase I've learned to decode. It means, You could be beautiful if you just lost a little weight. Shopkeepers assume I wear XL when I walk in, and bridal makeup artists insist on "contouring the face properly" as if they can mold me into someone thinner with powder and a brush.

Boys I’ve met for rishta never say anything cruel to my face. Their silence does the talking. They look me up and down, their eyes flicking to my arms, my stomach, the way my chest fills the fabric. They smile politely. I can feel the no forming behind their teeth.

And yet—every single time—I still dress up.

I iron my kurtas carefully. Choose the perfect earrings. Dab on perfume behind my ears. I even wear my lucky silver toe ring, the one I got at a temple trip in school. Because hope is a strange, stubborn thing. It refuses to leave me, even when rejection becomes routine.

I remember one meeting clearly—just last month. I wore a soft lilac kurta with a cinched waist that made me feel almost delicate. I had even curled the ends of my hair and applied a hint of plum lipstick. I thought I looked... lovely.

He barely met my eyes.

His mother asked me what my workout routine was.

I smiled and said, “I walk to my happiness every day.”

She didn’t laugh.

They didn’t call back.

Maa was quiet for a whole evening. Later, she said softly, "You’re such a good girl, Ameya. Why won’t someone just see that?"

I didn’t have the heart to say it out loud, but I thought it: Maybe because they don’t want a good girl. Maybe they just want a thin one.

But still, I carry on.

Because this body—my body—has carried me through heartbreaks and deadlines, laughter-filled sleepovers and anxiety-filled interviews. It’s danced in the rain, twirled in mirrors, held children close, comforted friends, and survived every no with grace.

I am not a transformation story.

I am not “before.”

I am not waiting to be loved after I change.

I am Ameya Joshi.
Brown, round, soft, average—and still worthy.

“Ameya, try wearing something a little more... forgiving today, hmm? That green kurta—yes, the one with the longer sleeves.” My mother stands by my bedroom door, a soft sigh in her voice, trying not to sound too harsh. But I’ve heard it so many times now, it doesn’t even sting anymore. Not in the way it used to.

“And maybe don’t go heavy on the eyeliner? It makes your face look rounder.”

I sigh, turning toward her with a half-smile. “Maa, I like that green kurta, but it makes me feel like I’m going for a job interview, not meeting a boy.”

“But this is important, beta. You know how it is. Boys want someone who... looks a certain way.” Her eyes drop to my midsection before she quickly looks away.

“Do you want me to wear a sticker that says Work In Progress?” I ask lightly, forcing a small laugh. She doesn’t laugh back.

At the breakfast table, Baba is already on the phone.

“Yes yes, Sunday works. Send the biodata and we’ll come to your place.” He hangs up and turns to me, beaming. “New boy. Software engineer. Just returned from Germany. Good family. Likes simple girls.”

I smile tightly. “Simple girls. That’s me, right?”

He nods, not catching the sarcasm.

I dress up again that Sunday. This time in a pale blue kurta with silver embroidery—simple, elegant, not too clingy. I even pull my hair into a low bun and wear the gold jhumkas Aaji left me. I stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes look too large, my stomach still refuses to stay in despite the best shapewear, and my smile? My smile is still there. A little tired maybe, but still there.

When the boy and his family arrive, it’s always the same script.

“What does she do?”

“She works in content writing,” my mother says quickly, “but she’s thinking of upskilling, maybe trying for a corporate job soon.”

I look down. That’s not entirely true. I love writing. I don’t want to “move up.” I want to write better.

“She’s a little on the healthier side, but she’s very caring, very loving,” my mother adds like she’s describing a breed of dog.

The boy smiles politely. Glances at me once. Twice. Then never again.

And two days later, we get the polite no.

Every time, the same reason in different words: not what they were looking for.

Sometimes it's "She's sweet but not a match."
Sometimes it’s "He’s looking for someone with a more stable career."
Once, brutally, "She’s too heavy. He’s very health-conscious."

And each time, I thank them, smile, and carry on. My mother sighs louder with each no. Baba says, “Your thirties are approaching, Ameya.” Like I don’t already know.

But I won’t break.

Because despite everything—every comment, every rejection, every sideways glance—I still look in the mirror and see someone I like.

I’m not waiting to be chosen anymore.

And maybe, just maybe, someday someone will sit across from me, see the roundness of my cheeks and the laugh lines near my eyes, and say—This. This is the girl I’ve been looking for.

But until then, I’ll dress up for me.