The paddy harvest had begun in Badar, the sickles were swinging—water everywhere, with makeshift platforms set up in the midst of it all. Yet the tenants found no respite—on one side the moneylender, on the other the landlord’s peons. If the harvest was good, they might manage two handfuls of rice, twice a day; if not, then fish, greens, and the hope of a day’s wage would have to suffice. In the lowlands, only the autumn rice was sown—most of the early crop grew in the marshes. True, Bengal’s soil yielded grain with ease, but blight, drought, pests, crabs, and the storms of Kartik often ruined the harvest; and then there was the paddy’s own blight—without careful tending, it could be lost to disease.

One morning, Bahulya, having inspected his own fields, sat on the veranda of his house, puffing on his hookah. Before him lay a pile of papers, and nearby sat two or three wretched tenants and some court officials. The talk was all of the magistrate’s law and lawsuits—someone was preparing a new document, another was coaching witnesses, yet another was opening the cash box and, in hopes of favor, showering Bahulya with all manner of flattery. Bahulya, meanwhile, seemed somewhat distracted—his gaze wandered here and there. Now and then he would bark out an idle order to his farmhands: “Hey, lift that gourd vine onto the trellis, spread those bundles of straw out in the sun.” At other times, he would glance around with a look of deep suspicion.

A man sitting nearby asked, “Maulvi Sahib! I’ve heard some bad news about Thakchacha—is there any trouble brewing?” Bahulya, unwilling to break his silence, stroked his beard, raised his hand, and replied with great sagacity, “Calamity dogs the heels of men—what use is it to fear?” Another chimed in, “That’s all very well, but that fellow is a sly one—he’ll wriggle out of trouble by his own wits.” Be that as it may, if no blame falls on you, we’ll be saved—here in this marshy Bhabanipur, you’re all we have left, our only hope and resource. Whether it’s strength or cunning, it’s all in you. If you weren’t here, we’d have had to pack up and leave long ago. By good fortune, you made me a few talismans, and since then I’ve managed to keep that landlord’s brat in check—he hasn’t dared trouble me since.

No—he knows very well that you are in my clutches. Bahulya, in his excessive delight, took a deep drag from his hookah, exhaled a cloud of smoke through his mouth, and let out a faint smile. Another man said, “If you want to take charge of land and property in the mofussil, there are two ways to keep the zamindars and indigo planters in check—first, seek the protection of someone like Maulvi Saheb; second, become a Christian. I have seen many tenants roam about like Gokul’s bull, invoking the name of the padre! Whether it’s for money or for influence, or for