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After feeding and watering both his bullocks, Horiram said to his wife, Dhaniya, “Send Gobar to weed the sugarcane. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Hand me my staff.”

Dhaniya’s hands were full of cow dung. She had just come from making cow-dung cakes. She replied, “At least have something to eat and drink first. Why such a hurry?”

Hori wrinkled his furrowed brow and said, “You care about food and drink, but I’m worried that if I’m late, I won’t catch the malik. If he starts his bath and prayers, I’ll be waiting for hours.”

“That’s why I say, have a little breakfast. And what harm if you don’t go today? You just went the day before yesterday.”

“Why do you meddle in things you don’t understand, woman? Give me my staff and mind your own work. It’s only by keeping up these visits that we’ve managed to survive this long—otherwise, who would know where we’d have ended up? There are so many people in the village, but who hasn’t faced eviction, who hasn’t had their property seized? When your neck is under someone else’s foot, it’s best to massage those very feet.”

Dhaniya was not so practical. She thought, We till the zamindar’s fields, he’ll take his rent, that’s all. Why should we flatter him, why should we lick his boots? Though, in these twenty years of married life, she had learned well enough that no matter how much you scrimp and save, how much you tighten your belt, even if you hold on to every single coin with your teeth, it is nearly impossible to pay off the rent in full. Still, she would not give in, and over this matter, husband and wife quarreled day after day. Of her six children, only three were alive now: a son, Gobar, about sixteen years old, and two daughters, Sona and Rupa, twelve and eight. Three sons had died in childhood. Even now, her heart told her that if they’d had medicine, they might have survived, but she hadn’t been able to buy even a single dose. She herself was still young—just thirty-six—but all her hair had turned gray, wrinkles creased her face, her once beautiful wheat-colored skin had grown sallow, and her eyesight had begun to fail. All because of worry over how to fill their bellies. She had never known a moment’s happiness. This endless, grinding hardship had dulled her sense of self-respect into indifference. For someone who can barely get enough to eat, why so much flattery? Her heart rebelled against this situation, but after a few harsh words from Hori, reality would settle in.

Defeated, she threw down Hori’s staff, his jacket, shoes, turban, and waistband.

Hori glared at her and said, “Are you going to your in-laws’ house, that you’ve brought all five sets of clothes?”

Dhaniya replied, “Even at my in-laws’ place, there aren’t any young sisters-in-law or co-sisters sitting around, whom I’d go and show off to.”

A gentle smile flickered across Hori’s deep, dusky, sunken face. Dhaniya, blushing, said, “As if you’re such a handsome young man that the sisters-in-law would swoon at the sight of you!”

Hori carefully folded his torn mirzai and placed it on the cot, saying, “So you think I’ve grown old? I haven’t even turned forty yet. A man is in his prime at sixty.”

“Go look at yourself in the mirror. Men like you aren’t in their prime at sixty. You can’t even get enough milk, ghee, or ointment to rub on yourself, and you talk of being in your prime! Seeing your condition makes me even more anxious—how will we survive old age? Whose doorstep will we beg at?”

That fleeting gentleness on Hori’s face seemed to wither in the harsh fire of reality. Gathering the firewood, he said, “We won’t even live to see sixty, Dhaniya. We’ll be gone before then.”

Dhaniya rebuked him, “Enough, don’t speak such ominous words. Even when someone says something nice, you start cursing.”

As Hori slung his staff over his shoulder and left the house, Dhaniya stood at the doorway, watching him for a long time. His words, heavy with despair, sent a tremor of fear through her wounded heart. It was as if, with all the austerity and devotion of her womanhood, she was granting her husband the gift of fearlessness. From the depths of her soul, a host of blessings seemed to rise up and envelop Hori, hiding him within their embrace. In this boundless ocean of poverty, her marital bond was the single straw she clung to, crossing the waters with its help. These discordant words, though close to reality, seemed to snatch even that straw from her grasp with a jolt; indeed, it was their very closeness to reality that gave them such power to wound. Who can understand the pain of being called one-eyed, except the one who is one-eyed himself?

Hori walked on, step by step. Seeing the lush, swaying green of the sugarcane plants on either side of the path, he thought to himself, “If God would only send rain from the village, and if the stalks remain healthy, I’ll surely buy a cow. The local cows neither give milk nor are their calves of any use—at best, they end up turning the oilman’s press. No, I’ll buy a crossbred cow. I’ll take good care of her. Even if nothing else, she’ll give four or five seers of milk. Gobar is always longing for milk. If I don’t eat and drink well at this age, then when will I? If I could drink milk for a year, I’d look presentable. The calves would grow into fine bullocks. The cow won’t cost less than two hundred rupees. And besides, a cow is the pride of the household. To see the cow first thing in the morning—what could be better? Who knows when this wish will be fulfilled, when that auspicious day will come!”

Like every householder, Hori’s