This wallpaper is Urvashi deciding that today she will let mortals remember what real beauty feels like. She appears against a background of deep wedding-red silk, the exact shade worn by brides when the gods themselves come to bless the marriage. Her skin glows like warm honey held up to sunrise, smooth and flawless, the kind of perfect that makes poets give up and just fall silent. Long black hair, thick as midnight on a new-moon night, falls in gentle waves past her shoulders, parted perfectly in the middle because even her hair knows symmetry was invented for her.

A golden maang tikka rests on her forehead like a tiny crown of stars, its central pendant dropping between perfectly shaped brows to kiss the small red bindi that burns brighter than any ruby. White mogra flowers are tucked behind each ear, fresh and fragrant, the same flowers apsaras scatter when they dance across Indra’s court. Heavy traditional jhumkas swing from her ears, gold so fine it looks liquid, catching light that wasn’t there a second ago. Her necklace is pure temple jewellery layer upon layer of gold beads and pendants that rest against her collarbones like offerings she hasn’t decided whether to accept yet.

She wears a rich red and gold saree draped low on her hips, the pallu falling across one shoulder in the most graceful fold ever achieved by silk. The border is thick Kanchipuram gold that shines like someone melted down the sun and wove it into thread just for her. Her blouse is the same red, sleeveless, simple, because anything more would be an insult to the body it covers.

Her eyes (dark, endless, ancient) look straight at you with the calm of someone who has made gods forget their own names with a single glance. There is no smile, only quiet certainty. The kind of certainty that comes from knowing every love song ever written was secretly about her, every war ever fought had her name whispered in the final breath of dying soldiers.

This isn’t vanity. This is fact. Urvashi didn’t ask to be the standard by which all beauty is measured. The universe simply never found anything better.

Set this wallpaper and your phone stops being technology. It becomes a tiny private darshan. Every time the screen lights, it feels like she just turned her gaze toward you for a fraction of a second. Icons become flower offerings at her feet. Notifications become gentle temple bells ringing because someone, somewhere, just remembered how to fall in love again.

People who see your screen don’t speak right away. They feel their heartbeat slow, their words dry up, because even in digital form Urvashi still carries the original definition of desire. This is the face that launched a thousand epics and ended twice as many.

Keep her on your home screen and watch ordinary days turn into quiet worship. Traffic feels like a procession in her honour of beauty itself. Coffee tastes like Amrit. Every mirror you pass suddenly works a little harder.

Five hundred words are honestly disrespectful. One look at Urvashi and language fails anyway. She is the reason the word “divine” exists. Pure, timeless, untouchable Indian beauty that makes the whole world hold its breath and then thank her for letting it continue. Keep her close. Some blessings still come wearing sarees and gold.