She danced alone at nights exhausting her passion for perfection with unrelenting practice. She slept after the tranquility of infinite exhaustion sprawled her legs.She wanted to exhibit her talent, not her body. Flaunting it for lusty eyes intending provocation was not her idea of respect for the body. She had unwittingly entered the photo studio of a noted model photographer, who was interested in the curves. He was a strikingly handsome man, his preoccupation with appearances stemmed from the fact that was all he had. Madhu was impervious to that kind of cultivated charm and elan. Her lens saw the invisible, glass pieces posing as diamonds, made no impression on her prism of clear conciousness.Men who appreciated only the surface,were extraordinarily lazy to admit there were depths, tired her.
Like her anatomy professor who sickened her on the very first day of human dissection saying ‘Bad luck, female body’. He had looked at her dispassionately as if he were looking at a walking female cadaver. Madhu had later learnt that because of the higher content of adipose tissue in the female body, the decomposing caused more fetid smell. So men here decided how much adipose tissue is beautiful between the mammary glands, how much in the pelvis, she was actually letting him tell her , how much of her skin and flesh should be shown to convince the invisible group of men that she was beautiful. This one visible man convinced her that what the thousand other invisible men thought of her appearance did not matter.
She had walked out of that studio with intact dignity, but to her chagrin he had posted her photographs, one with that embarrassing show of her unsuspecting pallu out of place. For weeks after that Madhu had spent covering every textbook in that severe khaki coloured, binding paper, hiding the precious titles.