A Slave to Loveliness

(Fiction)

I am a lover of beauty. Since childhood, I’ve been drawn to nature’s masterpieces—anything radiant, graceful, or perfectly formed. I confess: I am a devout idolater of beauty. Wherever I glimpse a beautiful face, my feet stop on their own. Even if I try, I cannot move forward.

This tendency of mine has, at times, earned me admiration—and at other times, deep embarrassment. Regardless of the consequence, I remain helpless before it. I no longer know whether it is a habit or an instinct.

Throughout school, college, university, and now at work, I’ve carried the same reputation: an admirer of beauty. Friends often ask, “What magical charm do you possess that you're always surrounded by attractive women?”

To which I smile and reply, “That... I shall never reveal.”

Before marriage, my passion for beauty was manageable—even amusing. But after marriage, it turned into a source of anguish for my wife. Whether she was with me or not, I would stop in my tracks at the sight of a beautiful face. At weddings or parties, she would often be left alone while I drifted toward some radiant figure.

During shopping trips, she would either lose me or find me trailing behind—always caught up in admiring someone, somewhere. More than once, I was scolded—and once, nearly slapped—only to be saved at the last moment by my wife's intervention.

But there was one incident that crossed all limits.

It wasn’t uncommon for me to get distracted before marriage. But after marriage, such episodes became disasters. Once, my wife and I were traveling on a bus. A stunning face caught my eye, and I became so entranced that when the bus reached our stop, my wife got off—but I remained seated, oblivious.

By the time I realized what had happened, it was too late. I reached home an hour later, and my wife’s fury was sky-high. She screamed, shouted, and I stood before her like a criminal, head bowed, saying nothing in my defense.

After that day, she made a firm decision: I was banned from accompanying her.

She stopped taking me to weddings, shopping trips, or even family gatherings. When I objected, she replied coldly, “Because of you, I have to bear people’s taunts and stares. I feel humiliated. That’s why you are no longer allowed at public events.”

I surrendered.

To my silent compliance, she responded with happiness. From that day onward, my life shrank to a triangle: office, home, and solitude. But my thirst for beauty never really died. Somehow, somewhere, I always found something to satisfy it. Quietly, discreetly.

Months later, we had to travel to her family's home after a relative passed away. This time, we took the train—far better than a bus, because one can walk around, stretch, and observe.

The train was crowded beyond belief. I managed to find a seat for my wife while I stood by the door. As fate would have it, she was seated near several gorgeous women. Meanwhile, I stood among hawkers and village women—poor, weary, their clothes torn. And yet, some of them were breathtaking.

On our return journey, my wife was especially cheerful.

“You’ve changed,” she said sweetly. “In the train, I saw you—you didn’t look even once at the pretty girls around me. I’m so proud of you.”

She hugged me lovingly. I stood there silent, listening, smiling faintly.

Inside, I whispered to myself:

“Fair skin alone doesn’t define beauty. There’s the shape of the eyes, the curve of the neck, the blush of the cheeks, the sparkle of pearl-like teeth, the cascade of dark hair. Without these, beauty is dull. And how could I turn away from the divine grace I saw in that train—even if it came dressed in rags?”