I can sense that some confusion has arisen. The other day, I caught a glimpse of it.

Since my arrival, Nikhilesh’s drawing room had become a sort of amphibious entity, blending the outer and the inner worlds. From the outside, I had my rights there; from the inside, Bimala faced no restrictions.

If only we had enjoyed these rights with some restraint, holding ourselves a little in check, perhaps people would have grown accustomed to it in their own way. But when a dam first breaks, the rush of water is always at its strongest. Our gatherings in the drawing room began to proceed with such intensity that all other thoughts were swept away.

When Bimala comes to the drawing room from her own quarters, I sense it in a particular way. There is the faint sound of bangles, the occasional clink of this or that. I think she opens the door with a touch more force than necessary. Then, the glass pane of the bookcase is a bit stiff; when she pulls it open, it makes a considerable noise. When I enter the drawing room, I see Bimala standing with her back to the door, at the shelf—

She is extremely particular about selecting books to her liking. Whenever I offer to help her in this difficult task, she starts in alarm and objects—then the conversation shifts to another topic.

That day, on Thursday morning, I set out from my room, prompted by the familiar sounds. Halfway along the corridor, I saw a doorman standing guard. Without paying him any heed, I proceeded—when suddenly he blocked my way and said, “Babu, you must not go that way.”

Must not go? Why?

Ranimā is in the sitting room.

Very well, go and inform your Ranimā that Sandip Babu wishes to see her.

No, that will not do, I have no orders.

I grew quite angry, raised my voice a little and said, “I am ordering you—go and ask her.”

Seeing my manner, the doorman hesitated for a moment. Then I pushed him aside and advanced towards the room. When I had almost reached the door, he, eager to fulfill his duty, rushed up, seized my hand, and said, “Babu, you must not go.”

What? Lay hands on me! I snatched my hand free and gave him a slap across the face. At that moment, Mokshi...

As soon as I stepped out of the room, I saw the doorman was about to insult me.

I shall never forget that sight. My discovery is that Makhhi is beautiful. In our country, most people would not even glance at her. Tall and slender in build—what our connoisseurs of beauty disparagingly call “lanky.” Yet it is that very tall figure that captivates me—as if a fountain of life, surging upwards with force from the secret heart of the Creator. Her complexion is dusky—but dusky like a blade of steel—what brilliance, what sharpness! That brilliance flashed across her entire face and eyes that day. Standing