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I have always been a hopeless romantic. It’s something I am too embarrassed to admit to myself, but also a truth that becomes painfully obvious to ignore when I listen to 2000s Bollywood songs. All it takes is the percussive opening of ‘Pehli Nazar Mein’ (Race), the first few synth notes of Khuda Jaane (Bachna Ae Haseeno) or the breathy flute at the start of Hosanna (Ekk Deewana Tha), and I melt into a puddle in the ground. In an instant, however, I am reassembled by the voices of KK and Atif Aslam, and transported into the body of my 10-year-old self sitting on a couch in the living room watching 9XM, eyes glued to the television as if in a trance.

Getting dressed for school every morning followed a familiar ritual in most Indian households: before the school bus arrived, we would be dragged around the house by our mothers, hair being pulled into braids while hurrying to replace the books in our backpack from the previous day’s timetable. All of this happened at 8am while 9XM shuffled the most heartaching love songs one minute and electric party songs the next, with alien blobs Bade and Chote dutifully pitching in with their banter, and Bheegi Billi, a down-on-his-luck cat, strumming his guitar and singing plaintively.

Today, even though Spotify has us musically figured out through its sophisticated algorithms and YouTube Music occasionally sends an underrated banger our way, nothing comes close to the ineffable magic of 9XM playing a song just when we needed it. It’s probably why there’s a whole genre of playlists on YouTube titled “POV: It’s a 9XM morning” with millions of views keeping that nostalgia alive. As an only child with working parents, I remember spending most of my weekday evenings after school in front of the television without adult supervision, switching to 9XM during ad breaks on Sony Max or Disney and becoming so engrossed with the music videos that I would forget to switch back to my episode of Doraemon. Writer Srijan D believes 9XM was so popular because instead of defining itself by what it was, it defined itself by what it wasn’t: no reality TV, no audio or video sketches, no serious talk, no themed variety shows—just a workhorse jukebox that served and served. “When MTV became what it was and Channel V couldn’t decide what part of the globe it came from, there was a sudden vacuum of music video channels in India,” he says. “Hindi music fans who had evolved from Chitrahaar to Gaaney Anjaaney deserved a moment and 9XM delivered it, right in time as music videos began serving the youth and indie music was on the uptick. 9XM stuck to the wildly radical formula of… playing music.” For Srijan, 9XM was revolutionary in its recipe of ‘music, some patter, then more music.’ “You could switch it on and go about your day. Indeed, many households I knew had it on all day,” he recalls. “There was always music playing in the house and it wasn’t tragic if you missed Bade-Chote’s most recent disagreement on something silly.”

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Red needs no introduction in occasion wear, but Kajol’s deep maroon Torani sari set gives the colour a sharper treatment. Called Farishti Zareen, the look works because the richness sits in the construction and embroidery, not just the palette.

The sari set is pre-draped and cut in georgette, with a front-facing pleated skirt and a pallu that sweeps over the shoulder. Along the hem and pallu, a scalloped border carries intricate embroidery in antique gold. The blouse departs from convention, taking the form of a structured corset with visible boning that shapes the torso. It is fully encrusted with matching embellishment, featuring floral and geometric motifs that mirror the embroidery on the sari. The cape-style jacket adds another layer, with a sheer base and printed border that works against the heavier surface of the blouse.

Styled by Radhika Mehra, the accessories were kept minimal yet statement-making. The actor ditched predictable gold pieces in favour of a diamond-and-pink-sapphire necklace with coordinating drop earrings and a ring from Joyalukkas. Makeup, too, was deliberately understated, featuring a nude lip and smoky eye. Her hair, pulled into a sleek chignon, kept the focus on the neckline and the necklace.

The look works for occasion wear because it has drama without relying on weight. The burgundy tone and antique-gold embroidery bring richness, while the georgette sari and sheer cape keep the silhouette lighter.

From Kajol to Malavika Mohanan, this week’s best looks were wrapped in jewel tones and golden zari

Kajol’s Manish Malhotra gilded sari brings handwoven tissue and brocade together

Nita Ambani’s Jamdani sari was woven over 24 months by a Padma Shree awardee

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I was sitting in my friend’s kitchen, on one of those hard wooden Eames chairs, hearing about the slow unspooling of her relationship with a man in his mid-30s. As she told it, he didn’t seem to give much of a damn about her; in a recent argument, he’d admitted that couldn’t fake his feelings—a wild thing to say to someone you’re dating. Ultimately, what had once seemed like a “rough patch” clearly wasn’t ending any time soon.

My friend and I had been here many times before. While the details changed, the story was more or less the same: a small slight, then a larger one, then a period of uneasy quiet, followed by some brief reconciliation that erased nothing. It had almost become a ritual—listening to her version of events and then offering a few gentle suggestions that she wouldn’t take, both of us dimly aware that we were participating in something pointless.

After a few months of this, however, my sympathy had worn thin. As I watched her from across the kitchen table, waiting to deliver my line, I found I suddenly had very little interest in repeating myself.

So I changed my tack. “Maybe,” I said, after a long pause, “it’s time to get an older boyfriend.”

My own boyfriend is more than twice my age, which is either alarming or impressive, depending on who you ask. It’s my first time dating someone significantly older, and sometimes I joke with friends that I’ve been missing out my whole life.

There is something to be said for a man who’s simply had more time to get his shit together, and my much older boyfriend seems genuinely excited to be with me—not like he’s biding his time before he can swipe for someone better. He is fully aware that he’s one lucky bastard.

We met at a birthday party. I sat down next to him at a long table and started talking, as I tend to do when left unsupervised. I had just returned from a solo trip to Hawaii, where I’d rented a tiny cottage on the beach in a town so small most people have never heard of it. It turns out he has owned a house there for more than 20 years. It was a place I’d been returning to for the better part of a decade, and he had been there the whole time, just down the road. We joked about whether we’d ever passed each other on the same stretch of sand, or stood in line next to each other at the same health food store. As we kept talking, we quickly realised our lives had crossed in other ways too, an invisible string connecting us.

The age gap didn’t register at first. I had met someone interesting and magnetic; if anything, I assumed we’d just become friends. But when we exchanged numbers and made plans to get coffee, I called my best friend, the only person I knew who had dated much older.

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Anita Lal, founder of Good Earth, began her skincare journey as many others do: with a disaster. A woman at a counter made a comment that was not well timed, and she bought a cream that she probably shouldn’t have. She was in her mid-30s when she was told by a beauty adviser at Selfridges that she was “already acquiring wrinkles”. Lal purchased the cream, which cost PS200 at that time. “This is what we go through, the panic,” says Lal. She spent almost a year without using anything on her skin after her skin had reacted badly a few days later. She read Absolute Beauty, by Pratima Raiichur, at her home in the hills. This book pushed her to look beyond what beauty counters offered. She began to make her own preparations, using rosewater, pure oils and simple ubtans. It began as a way for Lal to recuperate, but soon became something she returned to, both for herself and for family and friends who wanted to do the same. ITI by Good Earth was the public face of the private practice Lal carried for many years. It expands the sensory vocabulary of Good Earth, which has been defined for years: scent, color, texture, and an emphasis on material quality. She says, “I live for my senses.” This time, the same sensibility is applied to the skin. Lal is blunt: “The place’s full.” Lal says that the overabundance of information is not about products but rather about information. The sheer amount of advice, routines, and supposed fixes have made skincare feel more complicated, even burdensome. Her response is to step back, not reject, but to stop the urgency that often comes with it. She says to stop thinking about magic bullets. Do it for the long-term. This long-term view has shaped how ITI was built. Lal’s characteristic practicality justifies the choice to launch the line as a complete system, rather than a set of tightly edited hero products. She points out that skin is not uniform. It changes with age, environmental factors, and sensitivity. Any attempt to reduce this to a few products feels incomplete. “There are so many different skin types that I can’t have just four products,” she says.

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This week I finally asked Kate the question directly. She replied, in denial, “I wasn’t scary at all, was I?” “I was a task-rabbit. I was a task rabbit. I did everything: coffee, lunches, dry cleanings, shopping, party planning for kids, logistics, book, ran down to fetch people to meetings. She made herself seem much lower than she really was: “I smoked in cool editors’ offices while Anna wasn’t in the office to figure out how I could be more like her. I was second for a year. Leslie was the first assistant and Lauren was the second.” (As is shown in both the book and movie, there is an actual hierarchy of assistants.) Leslie? Leslie Fremar was a person of great interest. I remembered her as a beautiful brunette who was stern and stern. Amy Astley in 2003Photographed By Abbey Drucker Teen Vogue, February/March 2002I immediately emailed fellow former Voguette Amy Taran Astley who was beauty director at the time I was there and is now editor-in chief of Architectural Digest. “I swear by my extensive Manolo collection from the 1990s that I never thought you could be Emily,” said she. I was relieved–momentarily–until she continued: “You might have developed some outfits that had cocktail-party vibes. You could have gone from low maintenance to high maintenance in the blink of an lash extension. You and Emily share a posh, brunette accent and are both sharp and clever. Okay, there’s a little bit of Plum in Emily.”