If I go and reveal all of Matadeen’s secrets to Amma, you’ll be the one crying. Jhunia asked, “What would you even tell Amma? There’s nothing to say. When he comes into the house on some pretext, what should I do—tell him to leave? And does he ever take anything from me? He only leaves something of his own behind. All he gets from me are sweet words. And I know how to sell my sweet words at a high price. I’m not so naïve as to fall for anyone’s tricks. Yes, if I ever learn that your brother has taken up with someone else over there, then I won’t hold back. Then no one’s bonds will restrain me. For now, I believe he is mine, and because of me, he has to wander from street to street, suffering blows. Laughing and talking is one thing, but I will not betray him. Whoever belongs to more than one person belongs to no one at all.”

Shobha came and called out to Hori, placed Pateshwari’s money in his hand, and said, “Brother, you go and give this money to the Lala. I don’t know what came over me at that moment.”

Hori had just stood up with the money when the sound of a conch shell reached his ears. At the far end of the village lived a Thakur named Dhyan Singh. He was a soldier in the army and, after ten years, had recently returned home on leave. He had traveled all over—Baghdad, Aden, Singapore, Burma. Now he was obsessed with getting married. That’s why he wanted to please the Brahmins by performing rituals and worship.

Hori said, “It seems the seventh chapter is over. The aarti is happening.”

Shobha replied, “Yes, it seems so. Come, let’s go and receive the aarti.”

Hori said with a troubled look, “You go ahead. I’ll come in a little while.”

The day Dhyan Singh had arrived, he’d sent a seer of sweets as a gift to every household. Whenever he met Hori on the road, he would inquire about his well-being. To attend his katha and not offer anything during the aarti would be an insult. The aarti plate would be in his hands. How could Hori, in front of him, accept the aarti empty-handed? It would be better not to go to the katha at all. Among so many people, would he even notice that Hori hadn’t come? No one was sitting there with a register, keeping track of who came and who didn’t. So Hori went and lay down on his cot.

But his heart ached with longing. He didn’t have a single coin—not even a copper paisa! He had no thought for the merit or spiritual power of the aarti. It was only a matter of social custom. He could only accept Thakurji’s aarti as an offering of devotion, but how could he break the code of conduct, how could he bear to be looked down upon in everyone’s eyes?