And all the women who heard it said: "No wonder, for she
resembles her mother."

I was married into a Rajah's house. When I was a child, I was
quite familiar with the description of the Prince of the fairy
story. But my husband's face was not of a kind that one's
imagination would place in fairyland. It was dark, even as mine
was. The feeling of shrinking, which I had about my own lack of
physical beauty, was lifted a little; at the same time a touch of
regret was left lingering in my heart.

But when the physical appearance evades the scrutiny of our
senses and enters the sanctuary of our hearts, then it can forget
itself. I know, from my childhood's experience, how devotion is
beauty itself, in its inner aspect. When my mother arranged the
different fruits, carefully peeled by her own loving hands, on
the white stone plate, and gently waved her fan to drive away the
flies while my father sat down to his meals, her service would
lose itself in a beauty which passed beyond outward forms. Even
in my infancy I could feel its power. It transcended all
debates, or doubts, or calculations: it was pure music.

I distinctly remember after my marriage, when, early in the
morning, I would cautiously and silently get up and take the dust
[3] of my husband's feet without waking him, how at such moments
I could feel the vermilion mark upon my forehead shining out like
the morning star.

One day, he happened to awake, and smiled as he asked me: "What
is that, Bimala? What __are__ you doing?"