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 the betel leaves for him, carefully wrapping them in a piece of cloth sprinkled with kewra water, when she would gently fan away the flies with a palm-leaf fan as he sat down to eat—her loving hands, the stream of nectar from her heart, into what ocean of wondrous beauty did it plunge? Even in my childhood, I could sense this in my mind.

Was not that note of devotion present in my heart? It was. Not argument, not the discernment of good and bad, but only a melody. If there is any fulfillment in making one’s whole life a hymn sung in the temple courtyard of the Giver of Life, then that morning melody had already begun its work.

I remember, in the early morning, when I would rise very carefully—

When I used to take the dust of my husband's feet, it seemed to me that the vermilion in the parting of my hair shone like a starfish. One day, suddenly waking up and laughing, he said, "Oh Bimala, what are you doing?" I shall never be able to forget that shame. Perhaps he thought I was secretly performing some pious act. But no, no, it was not my piety—it was the heart of a woman in me, whose love desires to worship of its own accord.

My husband's family is bound by the old customs. Some of their manners and rules are Mughal-Pathan, some of their regulations are from Manu and Parashara. But my husband is entirely different. He is the first in this family to have received a proper education, to have passed his M.A. His two elder brothers drank themselves to death at a young age—they left no children. My husband does not drink, there is no restlessness in his character—in this family, this is so out of place that not everyone likes it; they think that those who have no Lakshmi in their house are the ones who ought to be so utterly pure; "There is no broad space for blemish among the stars, only in the moon."

It has been many years since my father-in-law and mother-in-law passed away. My elder aunt-in-law is the mistress of the house. My husband is the necklace on her breast, the jewel of her eye. Even from birth, my husband had the courage to step beyond the bounds of custom. That is why, when he appointed Miss Gilby as my companion and teacher...

Then, all the flavors of home and the world turned to poison, yet my husband's resolve remained unshaken. At that time, he had passed his B.A. and was studying for his M.A. He had to stay in Calcutta to attend college. Almost every day, he would write me a letter—his words were few, his language plain, and those rounded, gentle letters of his handwriting seemed to gaze softly at my face.

I kept his letters in a sandalwood box, and every day I would pick flowers from the garden to cover them. By then,