In the backdrop of an ever-evolving global beauty landscape characterized by the pursuit of fair skin, wide eyes, and plump lips, we often forget to celebrate the diverse and unique beauty standards of India.

It's undeniable that over the past year, Indian beauty standards have faced criticism and scrutiny. This dissection of beauty norms stems from a valid concern – the apparent narrowness of the ideal Indian woman's archetype. It's a concern I vividly remember as I paged through Indian magazines in my childhood home. The images portrayed an image of fair-skinned women, almost resembling a shade of white, with wide, doe-like eyes, and full, pouty lips. It often seemed as though the concept of Indian beauty had been shaped to resemble those who once colonized the subcontinent.

Despite my reservations about certain beauty norms, I find solace in many Indian beauty standards I grew up with, and they deserve appreciation.

Take, for instance, the outlook on body size. In the UK, spindly legs and bony torsos are frequently celebrated as the epitome of beauty on Instagram. A "hot body" often means a flat, slender midriff and a diet comprising beetroot salads. However, I've encountered Indian mothers who cherish the idea of their daughters possessing more rounded figures, reminiscent of well-fed calves (or perhaps prospective dowries).

I distinctly remember the disapproving glances from relatives when I ate sparingly due to feeling warm ("Are you on a diet?" they'd exclaim, almost taboo). It's worth acknowledging that skinny-shaming is as problematic as fat-shaming. Both are rooted in the historical perspective prevalent in the West until roughly fifty years ago, suggesting that slimness was attributed to a lack of means to afford food. Personally, I appreciate the emphasis on curves. My discovery of Bollywood films was revelatory because, unlike Hollywood starlets with figures that barely cling to bikinis, I witnessed women of more normal sizes dancing exuberantly, unabashedly displaying their soft bellies beneath their saris.

One of the most wonderful aspects of this celebration of curves is that, when draped correctly, a sari flatters every body type. It accomplishes this through optical illusions: the shimmering sari borders, layers of cotton and silk gracefully gliding over curves all the way down to the feet – the only part subtly revealed.

Furthermore, the sari's adherence to modesty can bring relief. Growing up in Essex, I often felt compelled to flaunt my legs and cleavage every weekend. However, in much of India, there's no such choice as it adheres to modesty by limiting the exposure of skin (except, curiously, for the midriff when wearing a sari).

Of course, the necessity to conceal oneself for the sake of protecting men from their predatorial tendencies is regressive and disheartening. Yet, there are moments when it's a relief to attend a party in a comfortable salwar kameez (resembling pajamas adorned with a shawl and sequins), knowing you need not fret over shaving your legs that morning.

Another fascinating facet of Indian beauty standards is the embrace of natural hair. While some of it can be attributed to necessity – individuals from the Indian subcontinent often have thick, dark hair covering various parts of their bodies – there's a remarkable lack of pressure to alter it. I vividly recall begging my mother to allow me to pluck my eyebrows as a teenager. Even Kajol, a prominent Bollywood actress of the '90s, sported a unibrow for much of her career. Except for reality TV shows like "The Real Housewives of Bollywood," it's relatively common to have a touch of frizz adorning one's forehead. There's no frantic effort to straighten or crop it, unlike the norms prevalent in the UK.

And then there's the unabashed love for bling, a prominent Indian beauty standard. For many Indians, dressing up is an art form, transcending even the most mundane occasions. A quick trip to the corner shop necessitates a fifteen-minute ritual, draping oneself in the equivalent of five shiny togas. After all, what would the neighbors think if they spotted you without a sari? In my Bollywood dance classes, the concept of streetwear, including caps and t-shirts, is utterly foreign. Instead, our dance teacher insists on bejeweled crop tops and skirts that capture and reflect every glimmer of light as we twirl.

In the UK, diamanté is occasionally regarded as distasteful. I still remember a girl in my primary school labeling getting your ears pierced at a young age as tacky (after I mentioned I had mine done at the tender age of four). A night out here in the UK typically discourages the excessive adornment of jewelry, evoking images of a child playing dress-up. However, Indians have a penchant for metallics. Perhaps the only shared belief between Jay-Z and Indian aunties is that your worth is measured by the number of chains around your neck and the bangles adorning your wrists.

Wearing gold is deemed auspicious, and earrings are considered essential. My mother's greatest fear during her teenage years was the possibility of her ears remaining unadorned.

Admittedly, Indian beauty standards can sometimes feel constricting, particularly for women, and many are undoubtedly ripe for revision. Nevertheless, I continue to hold onto several of them with affection. They are a part of my cultural identity and an integral facet of the diverse tapestry of global beauty standards. Embracing this diversity, we can collectively celebrate beauty in all its forms.