In one of my earliest memories, I was five years old and sitting on the ivory, raw silk, tufted stool in front of my mami’s mahogany wood vanity. I was staring at her collection of lipsticks, a neat row of compact cylinders lined up between several bottles of face cream and perfume. There were photos of my siblings and me to my right, next to a fresh bouquet of jasmine plucked from my mother’s garden, and a picture of my grandmother who died before I was born.

Hindi music was playing in the living room, where my older sister, Kumudini, was engrossed in a book and snacking on titaura, a special treat made of Nepali hog plums. My brother, Pravesh, the responsible middle child, had already finished his homework and was now helping with household chores. Everyone was quietly in their own corners, including our housekeeper, who was in the kitchen prepping ingredients for my mother, an excellent cook, who always made dinner when she arrived home from work. My favorite time of day was when I was sitting with her and my siblings around the dining table, sharing stories.

As I sat in front of the mirror, I ran my fingers over the top of all those glossy tubes, pausing at a shiny gold cylinder with YSL etched in brilliant black on one side. My heart quickened as I picked it up, pulled off its top, and twisted the bottom to reveal the most beautiful dark ruby-​­red tip.

A light summer breeze danced through the window, making the ivory silk curtains flutter. My heart was fluttering, too. I looked in the mirror, puckered my lips, and began to smear the red tip over them, nervous and excited.

I’d watched Mami sitting in front of this very vanity countless times, mesmerized by the transformative power of lipstick and eyeliner, which took her from daytime polish to evening chic in a matter of minutes. I’d also witnessed her work magic with concealer and powder to camouflage the bruises and scratches from fights with my father, never once wincing or flinching. Stoically gazing into the mirror, she would apply the foundation, then powder, then blush, methodically making herself even more beautiful than she already was. Witnessing this nightly ritual made me believe she was invincible.