The sun was setting—the western sky adorned in a riot of colors. On water and land alike, the restless glow of the day’s charioteer seemed to smile gently; a soft breeze was blowing. Who wouldn’t wish to step outside at such an hour? Along the winding lane of Baidyabati, a group of young gentlemen advanced with much hullabaloo—“Hey! Ho! Mind your step!”—one tumbling onto another’s shoulder, one nearly breaking another’s back, one shoving and sending a friend sprawling, another knocking off someone’s basket, yet another snatching away someone’s food, one singing at the top of his lungs, another barking like a dog. The people on both sides of the road fled in panic, crying out for mercy—everyone shrank back in terror, thinking, “If I survive today, I’ll live a long life yet.” Just as a storm rages in all directions with a wild roar, so did this band of new babus sweep along. Who were these paragons of virtue? Who else! They were none other than those illustrious souls—Motilal, Haladhar, Gadadhar, Ramgovinda, Dolgovinda, Mangobinda, and other second incarnations of Nala and Yudhishthir. They paid no heed to anything—utterly intoxicated, heads heavy with pride, rolling along as if about to collapse. Each was lost in his own world—when suddenly, old Majumdar of the village, his tuft of hair tied tight atop his head, came hobbling along, a stick in one hand and a couple of brinjals in the other, thumping his way right into their midst. Instantly, they surrounded him and began their mischief. Majumdar was somewhat hard of hearing—they asked, “Hey, tell us, how’s your wife?” Majumdar replied, “She’ll have to be roasted and eaten”—at which they burst into peals of laughter, “Ha ha! Ho ho! Lick! Fick!” filling the air with their mirth. Majumdar tried to slip away, but there was no escape. The young babus seized him and made him sit by the ghat of the Ganges. After making him smoke a chilam of gurak, they said, “Majumdar, tell us in detail about the master’s recent troubles—you’re a poet, your words are always so sweet; if you don’t, we won’t let you go, and we’ll go straight to your wife and tell her you’ve met with a fatal accident.” Seeing there was no way out, Majumdar set down his stick and brinjals and began to speak. What more can I say of our misfortunes? I learned a good lesson after accompanying the master.

It was evening when our boat docked at the Bolagarh ghat. A few women had come to fetch water; seeing the master, they pulled their veils a little tighter, exchanged sly smiles, and began whispering among themselves—“Oh my! What a handsome groom! Whoever gets him for a husband will wear him in her hair like a champa flower.” Among them, one said, “Old or young, at least a woman will get to see him with her own eyes, right? That’s something. My luck is so wretched—let no one else suffer as I have. I was