Jiya would stop a stranger on the street and ask her where she got her nails done.
I knew from the moment that I saw her that my life was about to get more interesting. She was quiet like me, stylish like me; No offence but La chica was hot.
Jiya looked Lebanese and dressed like a British Indian. She had hair like a newscaster from Illinois and her composure was on par with a divorced London homeowner from Sri Lanka.
Jiya’s face always matched her emotion. Her eyes and brows always had something to say.
She’d smile like Somalian girls at a wedding but would only laugh at hidden jokes like Pakistani men anywhere. She had a brilliant side just like any Brazilian but behaved like a Nigerian from Senegal.
Jiya was beautiful but sa beauté a pris du travail.