Mother, today I remember the vermilion in the parting of your hair, that red-bordered sari, those two eyes of yours—calm, gentle, deep. I see them now on the sky of my mind like the crimson streaks of dawn. The day of my life set out on its journey with that golden provision. And after that? Did dark clouds come racing down the path like bandits? Did they leave not a single particle of my light behind? Yet, that gift of the dawn, given in the Brahma-moment of life by the chaste morning-star—though it may be covered in calamity, can it ever be destroyed?

In our country, we call one beautiful whose complexion is fair. But the sky that gives us light is blue. My mother’s complexion was dusky, her radiance was of virtue. Her beauty would put the pride of beauty itself to shame.

Everyone says I look like my mother. As a child, I once became angry at the mirror because of this. It felt as though my entire being was somehow unjust—my complexion, as if it were not truly mine, as if it belonged to someone else, a complete and utter mistake.

I am not beautiful, but I wished with all my heart before the gods that, like my mother, I might gain the reputation of a chaste and virtuous woman. When my marriage was being arranged, an astrologer from my in-laws’ side came and, after reading my palm, declared, “This girl is blessed with good fortune; she will be a devoted and virtuous wife.” All the women said, “Of course she will—Bimala looks just like her mother.”

I was married into a royal house. Their honor dates back to the times of ancient emperors. In my childhood, I had heard tales of princes in fairy stories—since then, I had painted an image in my mind: the son of a royal house, his body fashioned from jasmine petals, his face slowly shaped by the single-minded prayers of countless maidens who, through the ages, had worshipped Shiva. What eyes, what a nose! The line of his youthful moustache like the wings of a bumblebee—dark and delicate.

When I saw my husband, he did not quite match that image. In fact, his complexion was just like mine. The self-consciousness I had always felt about my own lack of beauty was somewhat eased, but that...

Along with it came a long sigh. For my own shame, perhaps I could have died, but why did I never get to see, even once, with my own eyes, that prince who lived in my heart? Yet, perhaps it is better when beauty, slipping past the watchful eyes, reveals itself hidden within. Then it stands in the immortal realm of devotion—there, it needs no adornment to arrive. Everything becomes beautiful in the beauty of devotion itself. I saw this in my childhood. When Mother, especially for Father, would peel the fruit and arrange the breakfast on a white marble tray, when she would set aside