Chapter One

Bimala's Story

I


MOTHER, today there comes back to mind the vermilion mark [1] at
the parting of your hair, the __sari__ [2] which you used to
wear, with its wide red border, and those wonderful eyes of
yours, full of depth and peace. They came at the start of my
life's journey, like the first streak of dawn, giving me golden
provision to carry me on my way.

The sky which gives light is blue, and my mother's face was dark,
but she had the radiance of holiness, and her beauty would put to
shame all the vanity of the beautiful.

Everyone says that I resemble my mother. In my childhood I used
to resent this. It made me angry with my mirror. I thought that
it was God's unfairness which was wrapped round my limbs--that my
dark features were not my due, but had come to me by some
misunderstanding. All that remained for me to ask of my God in
reparation was, that I might grow up to be a model of what woman
should be, as one reads it in some epic poem.

When the proposal came for my marriage, an astrologer was sent,
who consulted my palm and said, "This girl has good signs. She
will become an ideal wife."