Beauty is skin deep. Not so prejudices. They permeate every layer of thought. This truth surfaced again when I read in this newspaper (IE, February 19, 2004), a quote ascribed to M.K. Hathi, director, Air-India: “Daughters of untouchables and cobblers can’t become airhostesses.” It brought back memories of an evening I spent 40 years ago with my late uncle. It was he who drove home to me the truth that beauty is as beauty does.Uncle Nagaraj was tall, “fair” and good looking, while Aunt Bhagya was short “dark” and stout, with a glowing skin and eyes shaped like those of a doe. Uncle proudly claimed, every time he got a chance, that it was he who had won Bhagya as a bride. What did he find in her? I didn’t dare ask him this, but the topic came up that evening. We were discussing Cleopatra. She was believed to be stout and not endowed with the charm one associates with her. Yet history tells us how daringly she smuggled herself into Ceasar’s camp, rolled up in a carpet. “Caesar,” boomed uncle, “was won over by her daring. I think there is something of Caesar in me. That’s why I married your aunt.”I listened more attentively. “In my childhood,” he said, “we lived in a village, some distance from Trivandrum, the then capital of Travancore. Her house was next to ours. She was a couple of years younger to me. We became friends. Time passed. One fine morning, when I was around 13, I went to her house to play. I was told that we were growing older and that it is best to keep away from each other. I thought it rather silly. Till the other day, we had fun, running wild, chasing butterflies; climbing trees, making a meal of salted tamarind. On the rare occasion, we did fight of course. Bhagya confined herself to verbal abuses while I would often turn wild and slap her or pull her long hair. Yet, the very next moment, we would be busy in a new game. She had become part of my very being. I knew our temperamental differences. I was impetuous; she was firm like the rock. I could be fooled! She was nobody’s sucker. I was wild; she was cool and unruffled. And her eyes! What eyes! One could see a million emotions sparkling in her eyes.“Yet I was told to keep away from her. I tried to obey the instructions, but couldn’t. I stood at the gate of the school to catch a glimpse of her. I grew up, got a job in the city. My parents said I should get married.“I was more than willing to do so. Many offers had come. A deputy collector was keen to tie me up with his daughter — ‘a sweet, fair girl’ my mother said. ‘What about Bhagya?’ I asked with some trepidation. ‘But she is short and dark. She is no match for you,’ said father. I insisted that she was the girl for me. My parents resisted but finally had to agree.”Then the old man said, “My Bhagya turned out to be my pot of luck.”
