Jhunia, comforted, clung even tighter to Hori’s feet and said, “Dada, now you are my father, and Amma, you are my mother. I am an orphan. Give me shelter, or else my uncle and brothers will devour me alive.”

Dhaniya could no longer restrain the surge of compassion within her. She said, “Come, sit inside the house. I will deal with your uncle and brothers. They do not rule the world. At most, they will take back their jewelry. Throw it at them, take it off and give it to them.”

Only a short while ago, in a fit of anger, Dhaniya had called Jhunia all manner of names—wanton, defiler, shameless. She had been about to sweep her out of the house. But now, when Jhunia heard these words, full of affection, forgiveness, and reassurance, she let go of Hori’s feet and clung to Dhaniya’s instead. And that same virtuous woman, who had never looked at any man but Hori, now embraced this sinner, wiped away her tears, and soothed her tormented heart with gentle words, like a bird sheltering her chick beneath her wings.

Hori signaled to Dhaniya to give Jhunia something to eat and drink, and then asked Jhunia, “Tell me, child, do you know where Gobar has gone?”

Hori could not hide his anxiety.

“When you saw him today, did he seem upset?”

“He was laughing and talking as usual. Only God knows what was in his heart.”

“What does your heart say—do you think he’s still in the village, or has he gone somewhere else?”

“I have a suspicion he’s gone away somewhere.”

“That’s what my heart says too. What foolishness! We were not his enemies. Once a thing is done, whether good or bad, it must be borne. By running away like this, he has brought calamity upon us.”

Dhaniya, taking Jhunia by the hand and leading her inside, said, “Coward! If you take someone’s hand, you must stand by them, not run away in disgrace. If he comes back now, I won’t let him set foot in this house.”

Hori lay down right there in the straw. Where had Gobar gone? This question circled in his heart like a restless bird.

Such an extraordinary event caused the commotion in the village that was only to be expected, and it continued for months. Jhunia’s two brothers, carrying sticks, roamed about searching for Gobar. Bhola swore that he would never again look at Jhunia’s face, nor set foot in this village. The talks of marriage that Hori had begun with them were now broken off. Now they would take the price of their cow, and in cash, and if there was any delay, they would file a claim against Hori and have his house and land auctioned off. The villagers excommunicated Hori; no one would share a hookah with him, nor drink water from his house. There was even talk of cutting off his water supply, but everyone had seen Dhaniya’s fierce form, so no one dared go that far.

Dhaniya announced to all, loud enough for everyone to hear, “If anyone stops her from drawing water, I’ll spill their blood along with my own.” This challenge made everyone’s courage melt away. The most miserable of all was Jhunia, for whom all this trouble had arisen, and the fact that there was no news of Gobar only deepened her sorrow.

She has become even more wretched. All day long, she hides her face and stays inside the house. If she steps outside, a rain of sharp words pours down from all sides, making it almost impossible to survive. She spends her days doing the household chores, and whenever she finds a moment, she weeps. She is constantly trembling with fear that Dhania might say something to her. She cannot cook alone, for no one will eat food prepared by her hand, but she has taken all the other work upon herself. Wherever four men or women gather in the village, this slander becomes the subject of their talk.

One day, Dhania was returning from the market when she met Pandit Datadeen on the way. Dhania lowered her head and wished to slip past him unnoticed, but how could Panditji let such an opportunity to tease her slip by? He could not resist and said, “So, Dhania, have you received any news from Gobar? Such a worthless son, he has ruined the honor of the entire household.”

These very thoughts often troubled Dhania’s own mind. She replied with a heavy heart, “When bad days come, Panditji, a man loses his sense. What else can I say?”

Datadeen said, “You should not have kept that wretched girl in your house. If a fly falls into the milk, one throws the fly out and drinks the milk. Think how much disgrace and ridicule you are facing. If that wanton woman had not stayed in your house, nothing would have happened. Young men make such mistakes, but until you feed the biradari and give a feast to the Brahmins, how will you be absolved? If you had not kept her in your house, nothing would have happened. Hori is mad, but how did you get deceived?”

Datadeen’s own son, Matadeen, was entangled with a Chamarin. The whole village knew it, but he wore his tilak, recited scriptures, narrated the Bhagavat, and performed religious rites. His reputation had not suffered in the least. He bathed and prayed daily, thus atoning for his sins. Dhania knew that all this calamity had come only because she had given shelter to Jhunia. Who knows why she felt pity for her? Otherwise, she would have turned Jhunia out that very night—then why would there have been so much ridicule? But she was also afraid: where would Jhunia have gone, except to the river or the well? By sacrificing a life—no, two lives—how could she have preserved her own honor? And then, the child in Jhunia’s womb was a piece of Dhania’s own heart. How could