In the morning, after his walk, Beni Babu was seated in the pavilion of his own garden, glancing here and there, humming a Ramprasad song—“Now the night of fireworks is over.” On the western side, amidst a tangle of vines, a sound began to emerge—“Beni bhaiya, the night of fireworks is truly over.” Beni Babu started in surprise and saw Becharam Babu of Bowbazar hurrying towards him in great agitation. Advancing to meet him, he asked, “Becharam da! What’s the matter?”

Becharam Babu replied, “Throw a shawl over your shoulders, come quickly—Baburam is gravely ill—you must see him at once.” Beni Babu and Becharam hurried to the physician’s house, where they found Baburam burning with fever and delirium—tormented by thirst, tossing restlessly on his bed. Slices of cucumber and rags soaked in rosewater lay before him, but he was vomiting constantly, unable to keep anything down.

The entire village had gathered around, all in a commotion over his illness. Some said, “For us, eating greens and fish, leeches, purgatives, and poultices might do more harm than good. For our kind, the vaidya’s (traditional doctor’s) treatment is best; if that doesn’t work, then we can call the doctor in due time.” Others insisted, “The hakim’s (Unani physician’s) method is far superior—they feed and comfort the patient, and their medicines taste as delightful as sweetmeats.” Yet others declared, “Say what you will, these fevers are cured as if by magic with the doctor’s treatment—without it, recovery is nearly impossible.”

The patient, meanwhile, kept pleading for water, “Water, give me water!” But Brajanath Ray, the local kabiraj (herbalist), seated at his side, declared, “This is a severe sannyipat (malignant fever)—giving water repeatedly is not good. Squeeze out a little juice from the vishvapathra (a medicinal herb) and give him just a drop or two. We are not his enemies, that we should give him as much water as he asks for at such a time.”

Such was the confusion around the patient. In the adjoining room, the village Brahmin pundits had assembled in force, each insisting that the foremost duty was to perform Shivasvastayana, offer arghya to the sun, make a hundred thousand hibiscus offerings at Kalighat, and so on—divine rituals above all else.

Beni Babu stood by, listening to it all, but who was listening to whom? Each sage had his own doctrine, each was certain of his own wisdom. Once or twice, Beni Babu tried to offer his own opinion—

He tried to begin—but barely had he started the invocation when his words got hopelessly tangled. Somehow, with no other way out, Becharam took Babu outside to the verandah. Meanwhile, Thakchacha, limping and shuffling, arrived before them.

Thakchacha was deeply anxious about Baburam’s illness—he kept thinking all his schemes were about to fall apart. Seeing him, Beni Babu asked, “Thakchacha, have you hurt your foot?”

At once, Becharam piped up, “Brother! Haven’t you heard about what happened in Balagarh? That pain is punishment for his evil plotting. Did you forget what