They slip away at the slightest hint of trouble. If we act like them, we’ll be in the grave before long—how delightful!

Banchharam: You’ve spent so long getting ready, the festival is over. Benibabu is as steady as a rock—he’s the Jagannath Tarkapanchanan of moral philosophy. You can go to Bali with him one day and have a debate. For now, get up and be on your way.

Becharam: Beni brother! Your opinion is my opinion—I’ve lived through three ages, now I’m in the fourth. Even if it costs me my life, I won’t do wrong—why should I do wrong for anyone else? Those rascals have already wrung my bones—should I spend more money on them? Should I give false testimony for their sake? If they go to jail, in a way, I’m saved. Why should I feel sorry for them? Just the sight of their faces makes my blood boil—get lost!

6. Motilal’s Mother’s Worries, A Conversation Between the Sisters, A Discussion on Principles Between Beni and Becharam Babu, and the Introduction of Bardaprasad Babu.

At the Baidyabati house, the peace of the evening lulled everyone to sleep. Before sunrise, Sridhar Bhattacharya, Ramgopal Churamani, and others sat down to their prayers. Some offered tulsi leaves, some picked bilva leaves, some made a humming drone as they recited their mantras, some declared, “If this doesn’t bring good fortune, I’m no Brahmin,” while others threatened, “If things go badly, I’ll throw away my sacred thread!” The whole house was in a flurry—no one felt the least bit of happiness.

The mistress of the house sat by the window, anxiously calling upon her chosen deity. The little boy in her lap sucked on his pacifier, kicking his arms and legs as he played. Glancing at the child now and then, the lady thought to herself, “Oh fate! Who can say what will become of you? The pain of not having a child is one thing, but having one brings a hundred more troubles. If the child falls even a little ill, the mother’s heart flies out of her chest. She pours her whole being into making the child well—eating, sleeping, everything is forgotten. Days and nights blur together, she loses all sense of time. If, after all this suffering, the child grows up to be a good person, then it’s all worth it. But if not, it’s like dying while still alive—nothing in the world brings joy, and it’s shameful to even show your face to the neighbors.”

I have no desire—my proud face shrinks, and I wish the earth would split in two so I could slip inside. Only Guru knows how much effort I put into raising Moti—now the boy has learned to fly and is dressing me down. Hearing of Moti’s misdeeds, I am fried—living in sorrow and disgust. I don’t tell Master everything; if he heard it all, he might go mad. Away with it! I can’t bear to think anymore! I am but a woman—what can I do by thinking? Whatever is written in fate, that will be.

A maid came and took the child away. The mistress sat down to perform her daily prayers.

Such is the nature of the mind: when it is engrossed in one thing, it cannot suddenly forget and turn to another. That is why, though the mistress sat down to her prayers, she could not concentrate. Time and again she tried to focus on her chanting, but her mind would not go that way. Thoughts of Moti kept arising—like a fierce current, who could resist it? Sometimes she felt as if an arrest warrant had been issued for him—they were binding him and taking him to jail—his father stood nearby, head bowed in grief, weeping. Sometimes she imagined her son coming close and saying, “Mother, forgive me—I have done what I have done, but I will never cause you pain again.” And again, she felt as if Moti was in grave danger—he would have to go into exile for life. The mistress’s composure broke, and she began to mutter to herself—“It’s broad daylight—am I dreaming? No—this is not a dream. Then what delusion is this? Who knows why my mind is so restless today.”

Saying this, she wiped her tears and slowly lay down on the floor.

The two daughters, Mokshada and Promoda, were sitting on the roof, drying their hair.

Mokshada: “Hey Promoda! Let your hair down properly—your hair is so tangled and wild! Well, why wouldn’t it be? In seven lifetimes, not a drop of oil touches it—people’s bodies thrive on oil and water, but you bathe all year round without oil, what illness will you not catch? Why do you worry so much? You’ve worried yourself into a rope!”

Promoda: “Sister! Do you think I worry for pleasure? My mind just can’t rest, what can I do? When I was a child, father caught hold of a Kulin’s son and married me off to him—I heard about it only when I grew up. My husband has married in countless places, and—”

With such a character as his, I have no desire to even look at his face. Better to have no husband at all than one like that.

Mokshada: Hush, dear! Don’t say such things—whether a husband is good or bad, it’s better for a woman to have one.

Promoda: Then listen to this—last year, when I was suffering from that recurring fever, bedridden day and night, too weak even to stand, my husband came to see me. Since I became aware of the world, I have never seen a husband as poor in affection as he is. I thought that if he sat by me and spoke a few words, my suffering might ease a little. But sister, you said not to expect anything—he is my... Standing close by, he immediately said—“It’s been sixteen years since I married you—you are my only wife—I’ve come to you now because I need money—I won’t stay long—I went to your