No, then why should I not accept this gift? Certainly, I have fallen from my ideals, but even so—if Rai Sahib has acted deceitfully, then I too shall resort to cunning. One does not have to persuade his soul much to rob the one who robs the poor.

:17:

Word spread through the village that Rai Sahib had summoned the panchayat and scolded them severely, and all the money they had collected was taken back from them. He was even about to send them to jail, but they pleaded and begged, even stooping to lick their own spit, only then did he let them go. Dhaniya’s heart was soothed; she went about the village, shaming the panchayat members—“Men may not hear the cries of the poor, but God does.” People had thought they would feast on sweets with the fines they had extorted. But God struck them such a blow that the sweets flew out of their mouths. Each one had to cough up double. “Now, let’s see you take my house,” she taunted.

But how can one farm without oxen? The rumor spread through the village. If a farmer’s oxen die in the month of Kartik, it is as if both his hands have been cut off. Hori’s hands had been cut off. In all the other fields, ploughs were turning the soil, seeds were being sown, and sometimes the strains of songs could be heard. Hori’s fields lay desolate, like the home of a helpless widow. Puniya had a cow, Shobha had a cow, but where did they have the time to help sow Hori’s fields, busy as they were with their own? Hori wandered here and there all day, sometimes sitting in one man’s field, sometimes helping another with his sowing. In this way, he managed to get a little grain. Dhaniya, Rupa, and Sona all worked in other people’s fields. As long as the sowing lasted, they had food to eat, and did not suffer much. There was certainly mental anguish, but at least they had enough to eat. Every night, there would be a little quarrel between husband and wife. So Kartik passed, and even finding work in the village became difficult. Now, all their hopes rested on the sugarcane standing in the fields.

It was night. The cold was bitter. There was nothing to eat in Hori’s house today. In the day, they had managed to get a little roasted gram, but now there was no way to light the stove, and Rupa, tormented by hunger, sat crying by the fire at the door. When there is not a single grain of food in the house, what can one ask for, what can one say?

When hunger became unbearable, she went to Puniya’s house on the pretext of asking for fire. Puniya was cooking millet bread and wild greens. The aroma made Rupa’s mouth water.

Puniya asked, “What, your fire hasn’t been lit yet, girl?”

Rupa replied humbly, “There was nothing in the house today, how could we light a fire?”

“Then why have you come asking for fire?”

“Dada wants to smoke tobacco.”

Puniya tossed her a burning cow-dung cake, but Rupa did not pick it up. Instead, she went closer and said, “Your bread smells so good, auntie! I really like millet bread.”

Puniya smiled and asked, “Will you eat some?”

“Amma will scold me.”

“Who’s going to tell your mother?”

Rupa ate her fill of bread and, with her mouth still full, ran home.

Hori sat, his spirit crushed, when Pandit Datadeen came and called out to him. Hori’s heart began to pound. Was some new calamity about to befall him? He went and touched Datadeen’s feet, and placed a stool for him before the cow-dung fire.

As Datadeen sat down, he spoke with a tone of kindness, “So your fields are lying fallow this year, Hori! You didn’t say a word to anyone in the village—otherwise, Bhola would never have dared to untie the oxen from your doorstep. He would have dropped dead right there. I swear to you on my sacred thread, Hori, I did not levy the fine against you. Dhaniya goes about slandering me for no reason. This is all the doing of Lala Pateshwari and Jhinguri Singh. I only sat in the panchayat because people asked me to. They were going to impose an even harsher penalty. I pleaded and got it reduced. But now, everyone is wringing their hands and weeping. They thought they ruled here, not knowing that the real king of the village is someone else. So, what arrangements are you making for sowing your fields?”

Hori replied in a voice choked with sorrow, “What can I say, Maharaj? The fields will remain fallow.”

“They’ll remain fallow? That would be a great misfortune!”

“If it is God’s will, what power do I have?”

“How can your fields lie fallow while I am here to see it? Tomorrow, I will have your sowing done. There’s still some moisture left in the soil. The crop will be a bit late by ten days, that’s all. We’ll share the harvest equally—half for you, half for me. Neither of us will lose out. As I sat today, the thought pained me that ploughed and prepared fields should go to waste.”

Hori fell into thought. All through the monsoon, he had manured and tilled these fields, and now, just for the sowing, he would have to give up half the crop. And yet, Datadeen acted as if he were doing him a great favor. But what choice did he have? Better this than letting the fields lie barren. Even if he got nothing else, at least he would be able to pay the rent. If he refused now, eviction would surely follow.

He accepted the proposal.

Datadeen, pleased, said, “Come, I’ll weigh out the seed right now, so there’s no trouble in the morning. You’ve eaten, haven’t you?”

Hori, embarrassed, confessed that no fire had been lit in