“I couldn’t catch Shyam, oh friend—oh, I’m dying, dying here!”—tok-tok, patash-patash—the coachman Miyajan sings a line or two, throws in a mocking taunt, and, blaming the wretched ox for not moving, twists its tail and gives it a sharp slap. There’s a bit of cloud, a bit of rain falling—the two oxen, snorting, pull ahead and overtake a hackney carriage. In that carriage sits Premnarayan Majumdar—the vehicle sways in the wind—the two horses, descendants of some noble steed, perhaps the father of all horses, prance and clatter along—ting-ting, dong-dong—whip cracks fly, but no matter what, the pace refuses to quicken. Premnarayan, having just swallowed two mouthfuls of rice, sits as a passenger—his heart in his mouth from the jolting and lurching of the carriage. When the ox-cart overtakes him, his annoyance only grows.

But it’s hardly fair to blame Premnarayan for this—who isn’t a little touchy about their own dignity? Almost everyone thinks themselves important. If their pride is pricked even a little, some flare up like oil on fire, others sulk in silence. Premnarayan, irritated, begins muttering to himself—“Service is a misery—servants are no better than dogs—at a word, you have to run. Look at me! My whole life I’ve burned in Gada’s torment—never let me eat, never let me sleep—made up songs about me—always teasing, like the bite of tiny ants—set the street boys on me to drive me mad, and even joined in themselves, clapping and hooting behind my back. Who could bear all this and stay sane? Any decent man would go mad. The fact that I haven’t run away from Calcutta is my only claim to bravery—my only strength is that I still hold on to this government job. As for those street boys, as they sow, so shall they reap. Let them rot in jail now—may they never get out—but that’s just talk, for here I am, running around trying to get them released. Such is a servant’s lot—what choice is there? A man must do everything for his stomach.”

Baburam Babu of Baidyabati sits enthroned in all his babu glory. His wife is massaging his feet. On one side, a couple of Bhattacharyas are engaged in a learned debate—today it is whether bottle gourd is permissible to eat, tomorrow it will be about brinjal, or whether eating milk with salt is as sinful as eating beef. They are grinding away at these topics like a pestle pounding rice, making a great racket over nothing.

Elsewhere, a few men are playing chess. Among them, one player sits with his head in his hands, deep in thought—ruin is upon him, and with the next move, he will be checkmated.

In another corner, a couple of singers are tuning their instruments, coaxing their tanpura to the right pitch.

Nearby, the clerks are busy with their ledgers, writing away. In front of them stand a crowd of debtors, tenants, and moneylenders—many are having their accounts settled, others dismissed. The drawing room is packed to the brim, bustling