...and she began to feel shy.

Kodai smiled and said, "He wouldn’t even come inside. He said, after being scolded like that, how could he go to their house?" The young woman, peeking from behind her veil, looked at Gobar and said, "You got scared from just a little scolding? When your wife comes, where will you run then?"

The village was close by. In truth, it was not even a proper village, but a hamlet—purwa—of ten or twelve houses, half with tiled roofs, half thatched with straw. When Kodai reached home, he brought out a cot, spread a rug over it, asked for sherbet to be made, and filled his chilam. In a moment, the same young woman arrived with a lota of sherbet, sprinkled a little water on Gobar as if to ask forgiveness. He was now to become her brother-in-law. Why shouldn’t the teasing begin already?

Gobar rose before dawn and took leave of Kodai. Everyone knew by now that he was married, so no one brought up any talk of his wedding. His gentle and modest nature had won over the whole household. To Kodai’s mother, he spoke in such sweet words, with such respect for her maternal status, and gave such wise counsel that she blessed him with joy.

"You are elder, Mother, worthy of reverence. A son can never repay his mother’s debt, not in a hundred lifetimes, not in a million."

The old woman was moved to tears by this boundless devotion. After that, whatever Gobar said seemed to her only for her own good. Once a vaidya cures a patient, the patient will even drink poison from his hands gladly. Now, say, if the daughter-in-law left the house in anger today, whose disgrace would it be? Who knows the daughter-in-law? Who knows whose daughter she is, whose granddaughter? Perhaps her father was nothing but a grass-cutter...

The old woman said with certainty, "She is a grass-cutter’s daughter, son, a true grass-cutter. If you see her face in the morning, you won’t get water all day."

Gobar replied, "So what is there to laugh at such a person? The joke is on you, and your husband. Whoever asks, will only ask whose daughter-in-law she is. And she is still just a girl, innocent, wild. The daughter of low-caste parents—how could she turn out well? You’ll have to teach the old parrot to chant the name of Ram. Beating won’t teach her; only gentle affection will. Scold her, but don’t argue with her. Nothing of hers is harmed, but your own honor is lost."

When Gobar was about to leave, the old woman mixed sugar and sattu and gave it to him to eat. Several other men from the village were also heading to the city in search of work. The journey passed in conversation, and by nine o’clock they all reached the bazaar at Aminabad. Gobar was astonished—where had so many people come from? People were jostling and pressing against each other.

That day, there could not have been fewer than four or five hundred laborers in the bazaar—masons, carpenters, blacksmiths, porters, cot-weavers, basket-carriers, and stonecutters, all had gathered. Seeing this crowd, Gobar felt disheartened. How could so many laborers find work? And he didn’t even have any tools. How would anyone know what work he could do? Why would anyone hire him? Without tools, who would even ask his name?

Gradually, one by one, the laborers began to find work. Some, disappointed, turned back for home...

They were returning. Most of those left behind were the old and the useless, who had no one to inquire after them, and among them was Gobar as well. But for today, at least, he had something to eat. There was no sorrow.

Suddenly, Mirza Khushend came among the laborers and called out in a loud voice, “Whoever wants to work for six annas a day, come with me. Everyone will get six annas. Work will end at five o’clock.”

Except for a handful of carpenters and masons, all of them were ready to go with him. A vast army of four hundred ragged souls assembled. At the front was Mirza, carrying a thick staff on his shoulder. Behind him stretched a long line of hungry men, like a flock of sheep.

An old man asked Mirza, “What work is it, sahib?”

When Mirza told them the work, everyone was even more astonished. It was only to play kabaddi. What sort of man was this, who was offering six annas a day just to play kabaddi? Was he mad? Wealth often drives a man insane. Too much learning can also make a man lose his mind. Some began to suspect—could this be a joke? What if he took them home and then said there was no work at all? What could anyone do to him? Whether he made them play kabaddi, or blind man’s bluff, or gilli-danda, as long as he paid the wages in advance, what did it matter? Who could trust such an eccentric man?

Gobar said timidly, “Sahib, I have nothing to eat. If I could get the money, I’d buy something to eat.”

Mirza immediately placed six annas in his hand and called out, “Everyone will be paid their wages in advance as we go. Don’t worry about that.”

Mirza sahib had bought a small piece of land outside the city. When the laborers arrived, they saw a large compound, fenced in, and inside it only a small thatched hut, with three or four chairs and a table. A few books lay on the table. The hut, surrounded by vines and creepers, looked very beautiful. On one side of the compound were saplings of mango, lemon, and guava; on the other, some flowers. Most of the land lay fallow. Mirza lined everyone up and distributed the wages right there. Now no one doubted his madness.

Gobar had already received his money. Mirza called him over and assigned him the task of watering