Seeing them so frightened, the young babus burst into mocking laughter and began pelting them with handfuls of Ganges mud, bits of broken pottery, and clumps of dirt. The Brahmins, their midday rituals ruined, departed muttering “Govinda! Govinda!” under their breath. The babus clambered into their boat, and all together broke into a raucous chorus of “Sakhi Sambad.” The boat, riding the ebb tide, sped swiftly down the river, but the babus could not sit still—one clambered onto the roof, another tugged at the anchor rope, a third wielded the oar, and yet another struck sparks with a flint.

After a little while, they encountered Dhanamala. Dhanamala was a notorious chatterbox—she called out, “You’ve already burned the whole village to ashes, and now you’re trying to set the Ganges on fire as well?” The babus, irritated, shouted back, “Shut up, you shrew! Don’t you know we’re all off to become merchants?” Dhana retorted, “If you lot ever become merchants, may the noose of trade strangle you all!”

Motilal, with his retinue, arrived at Sonagazi and drove away a certain Guru Mahashay; the babus’ antics grew ever more outrageous, and in fear of falling into debt through their trading ventures, they soon departed.

At the dargah in Sonagazi, Kuni and Buni had made their home. All around, the place was thick with moss and wild creepers, nests of crows and mynas in every corner. The womenfolk brought their water pots to the stream, the children shrieked and played, and not a speck of lime dust could be found anywhere. At night, only the howls of jackals and the barking of dogs could be heard, and one wondered if anyone in the place even bothered to light lamps at dusk.

Nearby, a certain Guru Mahashay taught a group of boys, each with a slate tied around his neck. Whether the boys learned anything or not, the mere sound of the cane sent terror through their hearts. If a boy so much as raised his head or dared to sneak a mouthful of puffed rice from his pouch, the cane would come down on his back in an instant. Such is human nature: wherever there is authority, it must find a way to assert itself, or else its pride feels diminished. Thus, Guru Mahashay, eager to display his power, would gather passersby from the road. Whenever there was an audience, he would raise his voice to its highest pitch, and the more people gathered, the more his sense of command swelled. Is it any wonder, then, that the boys received severe punishment for the slightest offense? Guru Mahashay’s school was little better than the abode of Yama himself—always the sound of “whack, smack, thwack!” and cries of “Oh Guru Mahashay, I’ve finished my lesson!” and the endless recitation of names.

Someone’s ears were being boxed, someone was made to stand on bricks, someone else had their hands twisted, another was hung from the well’s pulley, yet another was doused with water—one punishment or