Today, Jhiguri found himself doubting the justice of God. Who knows what sort of Lord He is, that He witnesses such darkness and yet does not punish the sinners.

At this moment, these gentlemen were a sight worth painting.

Heera was nowhere to be found, and the days kept passing by. Hori did all he could to search for him, but in the end, exhausted, he had to give up. He also had to think of the fields and the crops. What could a single man do alone? And now, more than his own land, Hori was worried about Puniya’s fields. Puniya, now left alone, had become even more formidable. Hori spent his days trying to appease her. When Heera was there, he kept Puniya in check. But with his departure, there was no one left to restrain her. Hori’s partnership was with Heera; Puniya was a woman, helpless—what conflict could he have with her? And Puniya knew Hori’s nature well, and she punished him thoroughly for his goodness. Fortunately, the estate clerk did not press Puniya hard for the overdue rent; he was satisfied with a small offering. Otherwise, Hori would have been ready to take another loan to pay off not just his own arrears, but hers as well.

In the month of Sawan, it was time to plant the paddy. There was such a rush that no laborers could be found, and Hori could not transplant rice in his own fields. But how could Puniya’s fields be left untilled? Hori worked late into the night, planting her paddy. Now, he alone was her protector. If Puniya suffered any hardship, the world would laugh at him. The result was that Hori’s own kharif crop yielded very little grain, while Puniya’s granary was so full of rice there was no room left to store it.

Since that day, there had been a constant rift between Hori and Dhaniya. Hori had stopped speaking even to Gobar. Mother and son had joined together to boycott him. He had become a stranger in his own home. He was suffering the fate of those who try to ride two boats at once. Even in the village, he was no longer respected as before. With her courage, Dhaniya had not only won the leadership of the women, but also the men. For months, the incident was the talk of the surrounding villages. It even took on a supernatural hue—“Her name is Dhaniya, you see. She is favored by Bhawani. The moment the police put handcuffs on her man, Dhaniya invoked Bhawani. The goddess descended upon her. Then she gained such strength that she broke her husband’s handcuffs with a single jerk, grabbed the inspector by the moustache and tore it off, and then sat atop his chest. Only after much pleading did she let him go.” For some days, people came just to catch a glimpse of Dhaniya. That story had now grown old, but Dhaniya’s respect in the village had greatly increased. She possessed a marvelous courage, and if the time came, she could even humble a man.

But gradually, a change was coming over Dhaniya. Even when she saw Hori working in Puniya’s fields, she said nothing. And it was not because she had grown indifferent to Hori, but because she too now felt pity for Puniya. Heera’s flight from home was enough to satisfy her sense of retribution.

In the midst of all this, Hori was struck by fever. The seasonal ague was spreading, and Hori fell prey to it. After many years, a fever came that settled all his old scores. For a month, Hori lay bedridden. This illness crushed not only Hori, but also conquered Dhaniya. When a husband is dying, what enmity can remain? In such a state, one cannot hold a grudge even against enemies.

A husband is a husband. No matter how bad he may be, twenty-five years of life have been spent with him—if there was happiness, it was with him; if there was sorrow, it was with him. Now, whether he is good or bad, he is mine. Daadhijar struck me in front of everyone, stripped me of my dignity before the whole village, but since then he has been so ashamed that he cannot look me in the eye. When he comes to eat, he keeps his head down, eats in silence, and leaves, always afraid that I might say something.

When Hori recovered, there was reconciliation between husband and wife.

One day, Dhaniya said, “How did you get so angry? No matter how angry I get with you, I would never raise my hand.”

Hori, embarrassed, replied, “Let’s not talk about that, Dhaniya. Some evil spirit had possessed me. Only I know how much pain it has caused me.”

“And what if, in that rage, I had drowned myself?”

“Would I have just sat there and wept? My corpse would have gone to the pyre with yours.”

“All right, be quiet. Don’t speak such nonsense.”

“The cow is gone, gone for good, but she has left a calamity on my head. The worry for Puniya is killing me.”

“That’s why they say, may God never make one the head of the house. No one laughs at the younger ones. All the good and bad falls upon the elders.”

It was the month of Magh. The cold was biting. A dense darkness had settled. First, the chill of winter nights, and then the rain of Magh. A deathly silence prevailed. One could not even see the darkness itself. After supper, Hori lay on the bund of Puniya’s pea field in his little hut. He wished to forget the cold and fall asleep, but the tattered blanket, the torn mirzai, and the damp straw, chilled by the gusts of wind—facing so many enemies, how could sleep dare to come? Even tobacco was not to be had tonight, to while away the time. He had brought a cow-dung cake to smolder, but even that had