Butler Sahib has arrived at the office. He’s flipping through the records to see how much work has been done this month. Nearby, a dog is lying down; every now and then, the sahib hisses at it. Occasionally, he stuffs snuff up his nose and snaps his fingers. Sometimes, his eyes wander over the account books; sometimes, he stands with his legs apart; sometimes, he worries about the expenses in several court offices—so much money will have to be paid. Not a paisa has been arranged yet, and if the money isn’t deposited before the term opens, all work will come to a halt. Just then, Howard the lawyer’s clerk arrives and hands him two papers. The moment he gets the papers, the sahib’s face lights up with delight. Immediately, he calls out, “Bensharam! Come here quickly!”

Banchharam Babu throws his shawl over the chair, tucks a pen behind his ear, and rushes in.

Butler: “Bensharam! I am very pleased! Two cases have been filed against Baburam—one for ejectment and another for something else. Howard Sahib has sent me both the notice and the subpoena.”

The moment Banchharam hears this, he claps his armpits in glee and says, “Sahib, just watch what a clever manager I am! If I can bring Baburam here, there’ll be enough sweets and cream for everyone. Hand me those two papers at once; I’ll go to Vaidyabati myself—this isn’t a job for just anyone. Now’s the time for some real bluster and bravado. If I can just climb this tree, money will rain down; but for now, our oven is hot and empty—very greedy—have to strike quick and bring something home for Alal.”

At the house in Vaidyabati, the ceremonial bodhon has begun—the drums are beating, “dhadha gur gur dhadha gur gur.” Mushundadi is sitting on a decorated stool, singing the morning raga. In the hall, the svastyayana has started for Motilal. On one side, the Chandi is being recited; on another, Ganges clay is being prepared for Shiva worship. In the center, the shalgram stone is placed and offered tulsi leaves. The Brahmins, hands on their heads, are deep in thought, muttering among themselves, “Our divine Brahminhood has been revealed for cash alone—never mind Motilal’s release, now even the master—”

He went with him. If he had boarded the boat yesterday, there is no doubt that the boat must have perished in the storm—whatever happens, the household is utterly ruined—now there will be nothing but the wailing of beggars—who knows what will become of the Young Master—perhaps our share of the spoils is lost forever. Among those Brahmins, one began to speak softly, “Oh, why are you all so worried? No one can deprive us of our dues—we are like the saw on the greens—cutting both ways, coming and going. If the master has indeed passed away, then there will be a grand funeral feast—the master was old—if the mistress starts squabbling over money, people will smear her face with soot and lime. Another said, ‘Oh brother! That eggplant patch is gone, but the radish patch remains. What I want is that it should drip like the goddess of the earth—every day I get, every day I eat—will one downpour quench a lifetime’s thirst?’

Baburam Babu’s wife was a most virtuous woman. From the moment her husband left, she had given up food and water, and was beside herself with anxiety. From the window of the house, she could see the Ganges—she sat at the window all night. Whenever the wind howled fiercely, she shrank back in terror. Sometimes she cast her gaze upon the storm, but the very sight made her heart tremble. At times, the sound of thunder reached her ears, and she would grow restless and cry out to the Lord in anguish. Thus some time passed—the movement of boats on the Ganges had nearly ceased. Whenever she heard even the slightest sound, she would rise and look. Sometimes, from afar, she saw a faint, flickering light, and thought perhaps it was the lamp of a boat—after a while, a boat would come into view, and she would hope it might come to the landing. But when the boat, instead of mooring, passed straight by, the pain of disappointment struck her heart like an arrow. The night was nearly over—the storm and rain gradually subsided. After the turmoil of creation, calm is all the more beautiful. Stars appeared in the sky—the moonlight seemed to dance upon the Ganges, and the earth grew so silent that even the rustle of a single leaf could be heard distinctly.

Such sights stir many thoughts in the mind. The mistress looked around again and again, and, growing impatient, spoke to herself, “O Lord of the Universe! I have never wronged anyone—never committed a sin—must I now, after all these years, suffer the agony of widowhood? I have no use for wealth—no use for jewels—”

It would be better to remain a beggar-woman with nothing—at least that sorrow would not feel so bitter. But this—this alms, O God, grant me only that I may die with my husband and son’s faces before me. Such thoughts made the mistress of the house exceedingly anxious. She was a wise and reserved woman—if she were to weep, her daughters would surely break down as well, so she held herself together with great effort.

In the last hours of the night, the morning band began to play in the house. That music, it’s true, usually draws the hearts of ordinary folk, but to a tormented soul, such music only unlocks the floodgates of sorrow. Thus, upon hearing it, the mistress’s grief seemed to flare up anew.

Just then, a fisherman came to the Baidyabati house to sell fish. When questioned, he said that during the storm, near the Bashberia sandbank, a boat had nearly capsized—he believed it had finally sunk. There had been a fat gentleman, a Muslim, a young boy, and several others aboard. This news struck the household