I would never like to endorse a fairness cream. I believe in

Host: The city shimmered under a pale moon, its lights rippling against the glass river that cut through the heart of the night. A faint mist drifted along the water, curling like forgotten thoughts. Inside a dimly lit art gallery, the last of the guests had gone, leaving only the echo of soft footsteps and the faint scent of wine.

The paintings still glowed under their lamps — portraits, faces, shades of color and emotion frozen mid-breath. And there, beneath one large canvas, Jack stood, his hands tucked into the pockets of his dark coat, staring.

Across the room, Jeeny lingered near the window, her face lit by the silvery reflection of the moonlight. She held a small magazine clipping — a quote she had torn out and folded into her palm. She unfolded it now, her voice low and deliberate as she read aloud.

"I would never like to endorse a fairness cream. I believe in natural beauty." — Esha Gupta

The words fell softly, but in the silence of the gallery, they sounded like a challenge.

Jeeny: “It’s simple, isn’t it? But so powerful. To stand in a world obsessed with perfection — and say no. To say beauty doesn’t need a filter, a cream, a formula. Just courage to be real.”

Jack: “Real? That word’s lost its meaning, Jeeny. Everyone wants to be ‘real’ until reality doesn’t get them likes. Even rebellion’s marketable now. You say you believe in natural beauty — but even that has been turned into an industry.”

Host: The moonlight slid across the floor, glinting off the metallic edge of a sculpture — half woman, half mirror. Jeeny’s reflection shimmered beside it, fractured and bright.

Jeeny: “So what do you suggest — cynicism instead of sincerity? Because that’s what it sounds like. You think anyone who stands for something must be selling something.”

Jack: “No, I just think people underestimate how deep the conditioning runs. Fairness creams, beauty filters, surgery — they’re not just products. They’re reflections of something ancient: the belief that worth must be visible.”

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly why people like her speak up. It’s not about selling rebellion. It’s about shifting the gaze — from appearance to essence.”

Jack: “You can’t shift a gaze that’s built on survival. Don’t forget — for centuries, lighter skin meant privilege. Safety. Power. You can’t dismantle that with slogans about inner beauty.”

Jeeny: “But you start with them. You start where people can hear you. Every movement begins with words that sound naive — until someone believes them enough to live by them.”

Host: The air trembled faintly, like the room itself had exhaled. Jack’s gaze turned toward a portrait — a woman’s face painted half in shadow, half in light. Her eyes seemed alive, aware of being observed.

Jack: “You talk about belief as if it’s a revolution. But belief alone doesn’t change anything. We’re visual creatures. We define, desire, destroy — all through sight. That’s biology, not injustice.”

Jeeny: “No, that’s history, not biology. Beauty is learned. What we call ‘attractive’ shifts with empires, not evolution. In ancient Egypt, dark skin was divine; in medieval Europe, it was punished. None of that’s genetic. It’s psychological power play.”

Jack: “So you think people can just unlearn it? Flip a switch and stop craving what the world rewards?”

Jeeny: “No. But they can choose to stop feeding the lie. Refusing to endorse a fairness cream isn’t going to end colorism — but it chips at the wall. Every no matters.”

Host: The lights above dimmed slightly, leaving the gallery in a tender half-glow. Dust motes shimmered in the air like drifting snow.

Jack: “You always sound so sure. But the same industry that pushes fairness also pushes ‘natural beauty.’ It’s the same machinery with new paint. They tell you to love yourself — then sell you the tools to do it.”

Jeeny: “You’re right. The system knows how to rebrand control. But that doesn’t make authenticity a lie. The act of choosing to be seen as you are — that’s rebellion. Even if the system profits off it, it can’t own the meaning.”

Jack: “Meaning’s malleable. The system eats rebellion for breakfast. You can sell empowerment as easily as shame. All it takes is better packaging.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe what matters isn’t how the world uses it — but how you live it. When Esha Gupta said she believes in natural beauty, maybe she wasn’t talking about marketing at all. Maybe she meant the kind of beauty that isn’t for sale — the kind that survives scrutiny.”

Jack: “And where do you find that, Jeeny? In a world where everyone’s their own advertisement?”

Jeeny: “In the moments when no one’s watching.”

Host: A faint breeze slipped through the cracked window, carrying the city’s murmur — laughter, traffic, the distant echo of a siren. Jack moved closer to the portrait, his eyes tracing the brushstrokes along the woman’s face — the imperfections left deliberately unpolished.

Jack: “She left the lines visible.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because perfection kills story. Those small flaws — that’s where truth hides.”

Jack: “Funny, isn’t it? We spend our lives sanding ourselves down, only to realize the rough edges were what made us human.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what natural beauty is — not purity, not flawlessness, but presence.”

Jack: “Presence. You make it sound like a spiritual exercise.”

Jeeny: “It is. The body is just the surface. Beauty is the energy that leaks out from how you live, how you see others, how you carry your pain.”

Jack: “So beauty’s moral now?”

Jeeny: “No. Beauty’s alive. It’s moral only when it’s honest.”

Host: The clock on the gallery wall ticked softly — a slow, human rhythm against the stillness. The moonlight fell fully across the portrait now, revealing every shade of skin, every flaw in the paint, every stroke that refused symmetry.

Jeeny: “You know, this obsession with fairness — it’s just one more way we punish difference. We confuse equality with sameness. But what if beauty’s purpose isn’t to make us equal, but to remind us we never were — and that’s okay?”

Jack: “You think the world’s ready for that?”

Jeeny: “No. But someone has to start living like it is.”

Host: A long silence followed — not empty, but full, like a held breath. Jack’s reflection appeared beside Jeeny’s in the glass, two faces caught between light and shadow — neither flawless, neither pretending to be.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the fight isn’t to be beautiful — it’s to stop asking for permission to be.”

Jeeny: “Now that’s the first honest thing you’ve said tonight.”

Host: She smiled then — small, genuine, and unguarded. The kind of smile that didn’t ask to be seen, but simply existed. Jack returned it, faintly, his eyes softening.

The gallery lights dimmed one final time, leaving only the pale glow of the moon spilling across the painting — a face neither fair nor dark, but utterly human.

And in that quiet, where commerce and creed fell silent, beauty no longer needed to be defined.
It simply — was.