Pushing the bucket of dirty water away with her foot in an unconscious imitation of her mother, she swiped the floor in a final wide arc and thought of her mother's words - after you've mopped the floor, you should be able to see your face in it. Can I, she wondered? No, there was nothing. That's just Ai's way of talking, she thought scornfully. And she didn't want to see her face, anyway. She remembered the day she had looked at herself in Anju's mirror- it was new then, Anju had just bought it with her first pay - and how startled she had been to see her face so dear in it. This square face with the thick eyebrows and frizzy hair - is this me? She much preferred the grey ghost the old mirror showed her. Anju never had enough of looking at herself in the new mirror, though. She would turn it this way and that to get the maximum light from the one small window set high in the wall. But then, Anju was pretty - her fair complexion, her straight nose ...
Deshpande, Shashi, The Homecoming, Kunapipi, 16(1), 1994.