nor maya. She ever remained true to herself,—my Damini. Who dares to call her a shadow?
Had I known Damini only as mistress of my house, much of this would never have been written. It is because I knew her in a greater, truer relation, that I have no hesitation in putting down the whole truth, recking nothing of what others may say.
Had it been my lot to live with Damini, as others do in the everyday world, the household routine of toilet and food and repose would have sufficed for me as for them. And after Damini’s death, I could have heaved a sigh and exclaimed with Shankaracharya: ‘Variegated is the world of maya!’ before hastening to honour the suggestion of some aunt, or other well-meaning elder, by another attempt to sample its variety by marrying again. But I had not adjusted myself to the domestic world, like a foot in a comfortable old shoe. From the very outset I had given up hope of happiness,—no, no, that is saying too muc ; I was not so non-human as that. Happiness I certainly hoped for, but I did not arrogate to myself the right to claim it.
Why? Because it was I who persuaded Damini to give her consent to our marriage. Not for us
