The writing is getting ruined—but in life, what has been written cannot be erased with a rubber. If it could, I would, with all my strength at this very moment, rub out the year 1930. Let that year fly away from the circle of my life like a dry leaf, just as my love for Mircea has gone. I no longer remember his face, and even if I do, it brings neither joy nor sorrow. It has been four years now—how much longer will I remember?

From the day of the blessing ceremony, I have started to cry. I am crying incessantly, unable to restrain myself at all. I do not even know why I am crying. If someone had said, “Well then, you don’t have to get married”—would I have agreed? Never. With such difficulty, I have finally found the door to leave this house. I will be able to be independent. If nothing else, at least I will be able to go to Santiniketan whenever I wish. Yet still, I keep crying—why, who knows? People think I am a devoted daughter, crying because I have to leave my parents. But it is just the opposite. Nothing feels good to me.

On the morning of the wedding day, the shehnai is playing. The Dadhi-mangal ritual is over. One of my Brahmo uncles sang very well. He had a beautiful inner life. I respected him. He sang a few songs. I told him, “Uncle, tonight you must sing me a song before you leave.”

The wedding took place.

At this time, the poet was in Ceylon. Father had sent a telegram asking for his blessings, and the blessings came by telegram. From the very moment of the wedding, I realized my life had become disordered—would I be able to gather it together and reach my destination in an orderly way? That night, in the bridal chamber, the kauri game was being played. I saw my uncle passing by the door. Leaving the game behind, I got up—I needed to hear a song much more than play kauri. Uncle could not believe that I would get up and come to him. He was surprised and delighted. Uncle sat on the veranda and sang—

“Who is our own, who is the other, Where is outside, where is home— O helmsman—looking at your face, With joy in my heart, I will bear all burdens— Our journey has now begun, O helmsman, I bow to you— Go, my child, go to your home— May your journey through life be smooth—”

Wishing my husband well and blessing me, my parents left, closing the door of the bridal chamber behind them. My husband is thirty-four years old, fourteen years older than I am. We are looking at each other. He is not good-looking, there are other flaws too, but I have realized he is a truly good man. I am not afraid, nor am I annoyed. I am wearing a green striped cotton sari, sandalwood paste