Upon his father’s death, Motilal took his place on the family throne. Not for a moment did his companions leave his side. Now, his chest swelled with pride—he began to imagine that, after so many years, everything would proceed in grand style, with pomp and splendor. Motilal felt a flicker of sorrow for his father, but his friends said, “Big Babu! Why the long face? Who lives forever with their parents? Now you’re the lord of the manor.”

Grief, for a fool, is but a name—he who never brought joy to his parents, who tormented them in countless ways, how deeply can he mourn his father? If he feels anything at all, it is as fleeting as a shadow, and never does he remember his father with reverence, nor does he feel any urge to perform any act in his memory. Motilal’s sorrow for his father was soon buried under a pressing desire to know exactly what property and wealth remained. On the advice of his companions, he double-locked every door, chest, and strongbox, and sat tight. In his mind, there was always the fear that, should his mother, stepmother, brother, or sister get their hands on any money, it would be lost forever.

His friends were always saying, “Big Babu! Money is a precious thing—one can’t trust even one’s own father with it. The younger Babu may go about wrapped in the cloak of religion, preaching the truth, but if he gets the chance, even his guru spares no one. We’ve seen plenty of such hypocrisy. Anyway, the eldest Babu surely knows some tricks—must have spent some time in Kamakhya, otherwise how did he manage so many tricks at the master’s deathbed?”

A few days later, Motilal began to pay formal visits to relatives and acquaintances. Those who are always ready to meddle, to play the go-between, who drift about like jalebis on a platter, went around spreading all sorts of talk—words that float in the air, never quite touching the ground, so that, twisted this way or that, they can mean anything. Some said, “The master was a remarkable man—leaving behind such sons must be the fruit of great merit. He was a man of his kind, and his death was just as extraordinary, Babu. All these days you were hidden behind the mountain, now you must take heed—the burden of the household has fallen on your shoulders.”

There are certain rituals to be performed—one must uphold the name of one’s father and grandfather, that is an inherited duty. One should perform the shraddha according to one’s means; there is no need to start dancing just because ten people are whispering in your ear. Ramchandra himself offered pinda to Bali—so there’s no use lamenting over the matter, but doing nothing at all is hardly commendable either. Babu! Do you know the reputation of the late master? Even today, at the mere mention of his name, tigers and cows drink water together in peace. But does that mean everything