Chapter 8: The Doctors botox
The confidence from the parlour lasted three days. It dissolved on Thursday morning, not with a bang, but with a slow, sinking realisation as she dressed. The new hair framed a face that now seemed to belong to a different, older body. She stood sideways before the full-length mirror on her wardrobe door, clad in a simple cotton sari blouse and petticoat. The reflection showed the gentle, inevitable sag of time at her abdomen, the softening of her silhouette that no facial could tighten.
She saw a mother’s body. Capable, nurturing, familiar. And suddenly, it felt like a uniform she had outgrown but was forced to wear forever.
Ritu’s voice echoed in her memory, casual over the whir of a blow dryer two days prior. “You should see Dr. Sneha, Auntie. Just next building. Not for problems, for… enhancements. Very discreet. Many of my clients go. For laser, for fillers. Even for figure. She does miracles.”
Miracles. The word had buzzed in Priya’s ear, a secret she hadn’t asked for but couldn’t discard. She hadn’t considered it then, flushed with the success of the hair. Now, staring at her profile, the idea returned not as a fantasy, but as a practical, clinical possibility. An enhancement.
The dermatology clinic was a three-room suite above a pharmacy, the air thick with the astringent smell of sanitizer and a underlying note of burned almond from a laser procedure. The waiting area held four plastic chairs, all occupied. Priya took the last seat, feeling conspicuously out of place. A young woman flicked through a magazine, her face smooth as porcelain. Another, middle-aged, had angry red marks dotting her jawline. Priya clutched her purse, the paperwork Ritu had scribbled for her feeling illicit in her hand.
“Mrs. Sharma?” A nurse in mint-green scrubs called her name.
Dr. Sneha’s office was small, dominated by a large desk and a severe-looking examination chair. Charts of cross-sectioned skin and before-and-after photos of noses and jaws lined the walls. The doctor herself was young, sharp-faced, with an assessing gaze that felt like a physical scan.
“So, Mrs. Sharma,” Dr. Sneha said, glancing at the intake form. “Ritu sent you. What can we do for you today?”
Priya’s mouth was dry. “I… I had a facial. She said you do… other things.”
“We do many things,” Dr. Sneha said, her tone pleasant but brisk. “Skin rejuvenation, laser hair removal, toxin injections for lines, fillers for volume loss. Non-surgical body contouring is also popular.” She leaned forward slightly. “What area is concerning you?”
The question, so direct, stripped away Priya’s prepared vagueness. Her hands fluttered involuntarily towards her own body, then settled in her lap. “Not my face, really. Just… everything feels… settled. Dropped.” The words sounded foolish, vain. “I look in the mirror and I don’t see… me.”
Dr. Sneha nodded, a practiced, understanding gesture. “It’s very common. The post-menopausal shift in collagen and fat distribution. Gravity is a relentless artist.” She stood. “May I?”
Priya nodded, her heart a trapped bird. The doctor’s touch was cool, professional, as she guided Priya to stand and faced her towards a well-lit mirror.
“Your skin quality is good,” Dr. Sneha said, her fingers tracing the air near Priya’s jawline. “We could define this with a little filler. The lines here, toxin would erase.” Her hands moved down, hovering, not touching. “For the figure… the traditional concern is loss of fullness in the upper body, accumulation in the midsection. We have cryolipolysis for the abdomen. For the breasts…” She paused, her eyes meeting Priya’s in the mirror. “Silicone implants are, of course, the gold standard for restoration of volume and shape. It is a surgical procedure, but with a very high satisfaction rate.”
Restoration. The term echoed. It wasn’t about being someone else. It was about getting back something that was hers. The shape she had when she was a wife, not just a mother. The shape that hadn’t been stretched by time and grief and the sheer physicality of raising a child alone.
“Hips?” Priya heard herself whisper.
“For the hips, we use filler. Hyaluronic acid. It adds curve, but it is temporary. Expensive, and requires top-ups.” Dr. Sneha stepped back, retrieving a tablet. “I can show you simulations. We can design a package.”
A package. Like the salon package. A transaction towards a new self. Priya watched as the doctor pulled up a photo of a woman with a modest, age-appropriate figure. With a few swipes, the image morphed. The chest lifted, became fuller. The waist nipped in slightly, the hips gained a subtle, rounded curve. The face remained the same, but the body beneath it was firmer, more defined. It was not the body of a twenty-year-old. It was the body of a fifty-five-year-old who had invested in herself.
It was plausible. It was possible.
“How much?” Priya asked, her voice thin.
Dr. Sneha recited numbers. Each figure was a blow. The total was staggering. It was Dev’s transfer fee, almost to the rupee. The money from the fixed deposit, the carefully hoarded safety net meant for his future, for emergencies. For a real change.
Priya felt dizzy. The sterile light, the chemical smell, the phantom image of that enhanced reflection superimposed over her own. It was madness. It was vanity of the highest, most irresponsible order.
And yet.
Dev’s face from three nights ago flashed in her mind. The shock, the raw admiration. ‘You look… incredible.’ He had seen the change in her hair and been captivated. What would he see if she changed more? If she presented not just a refreshed mother, but a woman rebuilt, revitalized? Would it close the strange, yearning distance she sometimes felt in him? Would it make the life they were designing—the two of them, in the apartment—feel less like a consolation and more like a choice?
“I… I need to think,” Priya managed.
“Of course.” Dr. Sneha handed her a brochure, the paper slick and heavy. “The simulations are saved under your name. When you’re ready.”
The city air outside was a shock, hot and smoggy. Priya walked without direction, the brochure burning a hole in her bag. She passed a store window and caught her reflection—the nice hair above the ordinary body. A project half-started.
She thought of the fixed deposit receipt, locked in her steel Godrej cabinet. She thought of Dev at the college, his shoulders hunched against the laughter of his peers. His future, or her body. A mother’s sacrifice, or a woman’s selfishness.
The phone in her bag buzzed. A message from Dev.
‘Ma, will be late. Group study. Don’t wait on dinner.’
She stared at the words. Group study. He hadn’t mentioned a group before. Was it true? Or was he avoiding the new, confusing tension that had settled between them since the hair, eating separately, retreating to his room? The lifeboat she was building felt suddenly unsteady, as if both of them were rocking it.
She typed a reply, her fingers cold. ‘Ok. Be safe.’
She put the phone away and kept walking, the weight of the decision a physical ache in her stomach. The path forked invisibly ahead of her. One led back to the apartment, to the familiar sag of the sofa, to motherhood as a monument. The other led back to the clinic, to the cold table and the promise of restoration, to a version of herself that might finally feel seen, not just by her son, but by her own unforgiving eyes.
She didn’t know which path she would take. But for the first time in decades, the choice felt terrifyingly, exhilaratingly her own.