In the 1990s, if you didn't come from a B-Town family, or have an established Godfather therein, the easiest way to enter the movies was via a national beauty pageant.

Hence my presence here, at this Miss Glamour Princess 1995 pageant, despite having tasted intense, absolute success in the glamour stakes already. Did I ever consider the possibility of losing the Miss Glamour Princess title to another— worse—a novice? Did it cross my mind even once, the hit my supernova career would take, were I somehow to fail in this venture? I would be lying if I said no.

But here's the thing—the benefit of competing still outweighed the risk of losing. There was no easier way to propel my career forward to tinsel town. Given that I had already bested all that modelling had to offer, I would stagnate without the momentum this contest promised. I figured I was prepared for the challenge, as equipped as I'd ever be. I hadn't failed so far, why hesitate now? My confidence only underlined my untainted upward trajectory—I was never more ready for greener pastures than at this time.

And my ambition wasn't subtle by any standards. The morning papers were proof enough of that—the lifestyle glossies loved that I had entered the contest this year, and splashed story upon story almost daily, all featuring me.

The mega media conglomerate, Eye India, which owned the contest, loved the publicity my visibility built up. It was win win for everybody. All I needed was the crown.

Lajjo, meanwhile, hadn't had as meteoric a rise as I, even though she had been a model as well, before entering the pageant. Her dusky complexion might have had to do with the sparse success in print and on TV, though secretly, I envied her unblemished chocolate smooth skin, so different from mine. Now I watched Lajjo's play for Avi's attention.

Lajjo might have remained an underground sensation, a wonder only in her hometown, had it not been for the ramp world. Unlike print and television, the catwalk in India followed its own rules. And height and gait had paramount importance, held more sway certainly, than skin colour—which to me seemed more egalitarian.

You cannot change what you are born with, but you can stand up straighter, give the impression of being tall. And you can work on your walk, so as to appear elegant. Needless to say, a majority of the reigning catwalk stars were therefore, and blessedly so, dark-skinned.

Noyna, Svetna, Shital, Carolle, Netra ... they didn't need their last names to be recognized, they were known by just their first. All firmly established and sought-after on ramp, their skin a burnished brown. Whether this was thumbing their noses to the suits who dictated ads on TV and print, or whether it was just a sign of those times, a massive consensual effort by designers, choreographers and the ramp industry at large—it was gratifying to see. Because honestly, it can get monotonous if everyone I walk with on stage looks exactly like me.

So here we were, Lajjo and I, both products of our ambition and our age. And then, it was the best of times for the contest itself. 1994 had seen two Miss Glamour Princess winners win international titles. Their victory thrust both the national pageant and the media conglomerate into the world's gaze.

On the national stage, recent liberalization meant international brands, and with them endorsements and ad campaigns, would be winging their way into the county soon enough. The world's eyes were on us. It was the heyday for glamour pageants and the fashion and beauty industry in India. And we couldn't be happier, because it meant wider professional reach, were we to win yet again on the international stage.

Keeping this in mind, this year, the year immediately succeeding the big wins abroad, Eye India had spared no expense to razzle-dazzle and upscale the proceedings. It would be a contest like no other, we had been assured of it by our minders, all representatives of the company. A made for- television spectacle as well, thrillingly extravagant and broadcast live all over the country.

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