Thakchacha: A man’s job is to fight his case—once the suit is won, all troubles will vanish! Why are you so scared at the slightest thing?

Becharam: Oh dear! What kind of advice are you giving? If we follow your counsel, Baburam is sure to be ruined—there’s not a shred of doubt about it. Well, Beni brother, what do you say?

Beni: In my opinion, it’s best to sell off a couple of properties to pay off the debts, and arrange things so that expenses don’t exceed income. Also, it’s necessary to settle the lawsuit with proper understanding. But all we do is sit and wail in the bamboo grove—whatever Thakchacha says, that’s what goes.

Thakchacha: I say this with my chest out—if the case is handled by me, it will be won, no question about it. I’ll cut off all the trouble at the root. If you’re a real man, you must fight—what’s there to fear?

Becharam: Thakchacha! You’ve always shown your valor. We saw your prowess during the boat wreck. At the time of the wedding, it was because of you that we suffered so much, and you showed great heroism by filing false complaints against Borda Babu. And whatever business you’ve handled for Baburam has always ended up in disaster. I bow to your feet. Just remembering all your exploits makes my blood boil—what more can I say to you? Enough!! Beni brother, let’s get up—I have no wish to sit here any longer.

The Barber and His Wife’s Conversation, Baburam Babu’s Second Marriage Discussed, and What Happened After

A heavy shower has just passed—the roads and lanes are all muddy and slippery. The sky is filled with blue-black clouds, rumbling now and then. Frogs are croaking all around. Shopkeepers and hawkers have opened their shutters and are smoking tobacco. Because of the rain, people’s comings and goings have almost stopped—only the cart drivers are shouting and singing as they go, and the porters are trudging along with heavy loads, lost in the song, “Hango Biskha se jibe Mathura.”

To the west of Baidyabati Bazaar, a few barbers’ families live. Among them, one barber is sitting on his veranda because of the rain. He glances at the sky now and then and counts something on his fingers. His wife brings their child on her hip and says, “There’s still housework left—”

I can’t manage, I tell you! Someone take the boy for a moment—here, the dishes aren’t washed, there, the room hasn’t been swept, and then there’s still the cooking left to do—how can I, a lone woman, handle all this? Which way should I turn? Do I have four hands and four feet?

At that, the barber, ever the clown, tucked his towel under his arm and jumped up, exclaiming, “Now’s not the time to hold the child—I must leave at once, Baburam Babu’s wedding is tomorrow!”

The barber’s wife, startled, cried out, “Oh dear, what will I do? The old man will start up again!