Motilal and his companions, each more flamboyant than the next, engaged in all sorts of antics, but to say which prank would be their last is a difficult guess indeed. Their thirst for pleasure and amusement grew day by day. One kind of entertainment might please them for a day or two—after that, it becomes stale, and unless a new flavor is found, restlessness sets in. Thus Motilal and his gang passed their days. In turn, each one had to open a new fountain of amusement for the group. For this reason, one day, Haldhar, wrapping Dolgovinda in a quilt and teaching the rest of the fellows their parts, led them all to the house of Brajanath the Kaviraj.

At the Kaviraj’s house, there was a flurry of medicine-making—here, Rasasindhu was being prepared, there, Madhyam Narayan oil was being boiled, elsewhere, gold was being incinerated into ash. The Kaviraj himself, with a medicine jar in one hand and a bottle of some sticky oil in the other, was just about to step outside when Haldhar appeared and said, “Rai Mahashay! Please, come quickly—at the zamindar’s house, a boy has been struck by a terrible fever. It seems the patient is at death’s door, but perhaps his life—and your reputation—may yet be saved. If you administer your famous medicine, he might recover. If you succeed, you will be handsomely rewarded.”

Hearing this, the Kaviraj hurried to the patient’s side. All the young gentlemen who were present cried out, “Please, Kaviraj Mahashay, save us! Dolgovinda has been bedridden with fever for ten or fifteen days—burning thirst, terrible restlessness, no sleep at night—he just tosses and turns, Mahashay, please—”

After smoking his hookah and tobacco, he examined the patient’s hand carefully. Brajanath Ray was an old man, not much educated—he managed his own affairs in a haphazard way, always agreed with whatever his elder brother said—so, he was not self-reliant, could not make any decisions or take any action on his own. Ray Mahashay’s body was frail, he had no teeth, his words came out slurred, but his moustache was still impressive—though even that had turned grey, yet out of affection he would never shave it off. After examining the patient’s hand, he heaved a sigh and sat silently. Haldhar asked, “Kaviraj Mahashay, why are you so quiet?” The kaviraj did not reply, but kept his eyes fixed on the patient. The patient, in turn, kept glancing at him now and then—stuck out his tongue a few times—chattered his teeth a few times—showed off his labored breathing a few times—and once or twice, even tugged at the kaviraj’s moustache. Ray Mahashay edged away, the patient rolled over and started pulling at his bottle of oil. The boys asked, “Ray Mahashay! What’s this?” He replied, “This illness is dreadful—seems like it’s a feverish delirium and has turned to heat. If I’d been informed earlier, I might have been able to help, but now, even Shiva himself could do nothing.” Saying this, the patient snatched