Bardababu, along with Benibabu and Ramlal, has spread a blanket under a tree and is sitting there. Now and then, a couple of clerks approach him, speaking in hushed, conspiratorial tones about settlements, but Bardababu pays them no heed. To intimidate him, they say, “The Sahib’s orders are very strict—all the work is in our hands—we can do whatever we wish. Taking statements is our job—with a flick of the pen, we can turn everything upside down. But you need influence—if you want to make a move, now is the time. Once an order is passed, even we can do nothing to help.”

Hearing all this, Ramlal feels a twinge of fear now and then, but Bardababu, utterly fearless, replies, “Do what you must—I will never give a bribe. I am innocent—I have nothing to fear.” The clerks, annoyed, wander off to their own corners.

A couple of lawyers approach Bardababu and say, “We can see, sir, that you are a very respectable gentleman—certainly you have fallen into trouble. But make sure the case doesn’t go against you. If you need witnesses, we can arrange them right here—a little expense, and all conveniences can be managed. The Sahib is about to arrive—whatever needs to be done, do it now.”

Bardababu replies, “I am grateful for your kindness, but even if I have to wear shackles, so be it—it will not trouble me. I will indeed be humiliated, but I am prepared to accept that humiliation. But even if my life is at stake, I will not walk the path of falsehood.”

“Ah! Sir, you must be a man of the Golden Age—perhaps King Yudhishthira has been reborn!” they say, mocking him with a slight laugh, and then walk away.

In this manner, two o’clock passes—still no sign of the Sahib. Everyone is waiting with the longing eyes of pilgrims at a holy place. Someone asks a learned Brahmin, “Hey, astrologer, tell us, will the Sahib come today or not?” Immediately—

The Acharya is saying—“Name a flower, let’s see?” Someone says hibiscus—The Acharya, counting on his fingers, replies, “No, the sahib won’t come today—there’s work at home.” Trusting the Acharya’s words, everyone began packing up their books and exclaimed, “Thank heavens! Let’s go home and be at ease.” Thakchacha was sitting amidst the crowd, with three or four people around him—a paper bundle tucked under his arm, a cloth over his mouth—his eyes blinking rapidly, his beard hanging down, his head bowed as he walked along. At that moment, Ramlal’s gaze fell upon him. Ramlal immediately said to Borda and Beni Babu, “Look, Thakchacha is here—perhaps he’s involved in this case—otherwise, why would he turn his face away when he sees me?” Borda Babu looked up and replied, “I was thinking the same thing—he glances at us sideways, and if our eyes meet, he turns his head and starts talking to someone else—maybe Thakchacha is the ghost in the mustard seeds.” Beni Babu, ever the smiling face, often probed mysteries with his wit. Unable to stay silent, he began calling out, “Thakchacha!” at the top of his voice. Five or seven calls went unanswered—Thakchacha was busy unwrapping his paper bundle, looking very preoccupied—he heard but pretended not to, didn’t even lift his head. Beni Babu went up to him, nudged him, and asked, “What’s the matter? Why are you here?” Thakchacha said nothing, just kept shuffling through his papers—embarrassment was written all over his face—but he had to nudge Beni Babu aside too. Without answering, he said, “Babu! The sea is very rough today—are you all going to Surat for this?” “All right, but why are you here?” “Oh, why do you keep pestering me about that? I have a lot of work, after a little while I’ll talk to you—let me finish this cross-examination and come back,” saying this, Thakchacha hurriedly moved away and got busy in idle chatter with another fellow.

Three o’clock struck—everyone was growing restless, pacing back and forth, there was no end to the work in the suburbs—people’s lives are wasted walking the corridors of the court. The office had already dispersed when the sound of the magistrate’s carriage wheels began to be heard, and immediately everyone cried out, “The sahib is coming!” The Acharya’s face went pale—a few people said to him, “Sir, your predictions are remarkable!” The Acharya replied, “Today I ate some rather harsh food, that’s why my calculations were off.” The clerks… The bailiffs took their places. As soon as the sahib entered the court, everyone bowed their heads low to the ground and saluted him. The sahib, after giving a nod, seated himself on the bench—the hookah attendant brought in the hookah—he stretched out both legs on the table, reclined on the couch, and began to draw on the hookah, while dabbing his face with a lemon-scented handkerchief taken from his pocket.

The office of the nazir filled up with people—scribes were busily taking depositions, but as always, money talks—the head clerk, resplendent in his double-breasted coat, and the doorkeeper with his turban, recited the petitions before the sahib in a singsong, almost musical tone, leading a procession of supplicants. The sahib, meanwhile, perused the newspaper and wrote his own important letters; after each petition was read, he would ask, “Well, what happened?” The head clerk would explain however he pleased, and whatever verdict the head clerk gave, the sahib would echo as his own.

Borda Babu stood to one side with Beni Babu and Ramlal. Observing the proceedings, he was utterly bewildered. The way his deposition had been recorded by the scribe left no hope for his case—any favor from the head clerk was equally impossible; at this moment, he was truly at the mercy of fate. These thoughts ran through his mind when suddenly his case was called.

Thakchacha, who had been sitting inside, immediately puffed out his chest and, gathering his witnesses, marched up before the sahib. When the petition was read, the head clerk declared, “Khodayawand, the