I grew up the ugly duckling of the family. I wasn't as light-skinned as my mother or my older sister.
"She takes her complexion from her dad," my mother would tell friends and relatives or any stranger who asked. My dad is handsome, his skin flawless at 63.
Ethnically I am South Asian, or simply "brown," but my skin colour didn't mean the same thing growing up in India.
My sister was the fairer one, and in terms of arranged marriages, the women of my extended family had declared picking a groom for her wouldn't be a problem. But in my case, well …
Fair is beautiful in the larger Indian society, where dark complexions are considered "lowly" and being called a dark-skinned person can be insulting.
A light-skinned person is by default attractive, irrespective of facial features or figure. Women with lighter skin tones find a place in romantic folklore and popular culture. Indian matrimonial ads are full of demands for "light-skinned" girls, popularly dubbed as "fair."
Growing up, my skin tone would change colour, getting lighter in winter. Less sun was the plausible explanation offered by my mother.
When I got to college, I became a swan and started swimming with the others — just like the ugly duckling. Skin complexions ceased to matter and I joked about my skin tone that changed hues with the weather. But it wasn't the same for a lot of my cousins — some were light-skinned and others faced the same scrutiny I had.
Some were even worse off. I felt particularly sorry for one. She was my favourite cousin, older than me and a kind, loving and warm person. She had great skin — radiant and glowing — but dark, darker than anyone in the family.
Every morning, my aunt would make her rub fresh milk all over her face. More home treatments would follow, all in the hope of making her fair and eligible for a "good match." She married, but her chances of a much better match had been ruined by her skin tone, according to my aunt.
When I met my husband, we never discussed skin tones. We had lots of other things to share as we started a new life in Canada. But the subject wasn't going to leave my life so easily.
Stories of my husband's older light-skinned sister, who found favour over all the women in her marital home, became a teatime discussion ritual. No talking about her as a person, but only of her as a light-skinned woman and her light-skinned children.
Secretly I was happy her daughter was light-skinned and hadn't inherited the dark skin tone of her father's family. I remembered the disapprovingly looks I got growing up; I thought the little girl would be spared the same.
But on my recent visit to India, I saw a skin-lightening cream sitting on the girl's dresser. My sister-in-law makes the child apply the cream daily to get an even lighter complexion.
I was aghast. I felt blood rushing to my head and my voice trembling as I questioned my sister-in-law. I created an awkward scene, but she didn't understand and neither did I. We left it at that.
Skin-lightening creams are a huge industry in India, marketed by top movie stars. The message is that lighter skin will give you confidence, a good job, true love.
I wonder why the clichéd old sayings of inner beauty, hard work and selfless love come to my mind when I think of self-confidence, getting a job and finding true love.
As the mother of a 17-month-old daughter, I prefer the 
clichéd sayings.
When I held the 9.2 pounds of pure joy for the first time, I instantly fell in love with the tiny person who had kicked inside me for nine months. I remember how my husband and I were so overcome with emotion that we didn't notice what others were soon going to point out — my daughter's light skin.
As both sides of the family contend their case for my daughter's skin-tone inheritance, all I see is the sparkle in her eyes that makes her so beautiful. A sharp pain gnaws at my heart when my close friends and relatives try to dissociate my daughter from me based on her skin tone. Would I love her less if she were dark-skinned, or do I love her more because she is light-skinned? I love her for who she is, for the joy she has brought to my life. I love her for being my baby.
It's a challenge every parent needs to take on — to tell our kids that outer beauty does not matter, virtues do. A person's deeds reflect their true self, not their skin colour.
I want to raise my daughter as a strong, secure human being and not like Hans Christian Andersen's ugly duckling, who has to search for a place in a skin-colour-obsessed society. Like I did.
Anupreet Sandhu Bhamra lives in Vancouver.
