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?

Suddenly, he sat up. Why should he be a slave to custom? Why should he forgo the merit of the aarti for the sake of social propriety? Let people laugh if they want to. He didn’t care. May God keep him from wrongdoing, that was all he wished for. He set off toward the Thakur’s house.

:18:

Khanna and Govindi do not get along. Why they don’t get along is hard to say. According to astrology, there is some conflict in their stars, though at the time of their marriage, their horoscopes and constellations were carefully matched. According to the Kama Shastra, there may be some other secret to this discord, and the psychologists might find yet another reason. All we know is that they do not get along. Khanna is wealthy, charming, sociable, handsome, well-educated, and one of the city’s distinguished men. Govindi may not be an apsara, but she is certainly beautiful. Wheat-colored skin, modest eyes that rise to meet yours only to fall again, cheeks without a flush but with a certain smoothness, a soft body, limbs arranged with grace—

Rounded, full arms, a face marked by a certain distaste, in which a glimmer of pride also shone, as if she regarded the dealings and transactions of the world as contemptible.

Khanna lacked none of the outward trappings of luxury: a first-class bungalow, first-class furniture, a first-class car, and boundless wealth. Yet, in Govindi’s eyes, these things held no value. In this briny sea, she lay parched with thirst. The upbringing of her children and the small, everyday tasks of the household were everything to her. She was so absorbed in these that she paid no heed to pleasure. What was attraction, and how could it arise—she had never pondered such things. She was not a man’s plaything, nor an object for his enjoyment; then why should she strive to make herself alluring? If a man lacked the eyes to see her true beauty and wandered after other women, that was his misfortune. She continued to serve her husband with the same love and devotion as ever, as though she had conquered feelings like resentment and attachment. And this immense wealth seemed only to crush her soul. Her heart constantly yearned to be free from these pretensions and hypocrisies. She dreamed daily of how happy she could have been in a simple, natural life. Then why did Malti become an obstacle in her path? Why were there gatherings of courtesans, why did suspicion, pretense, and unrest become thorns along her journey? Long ago, when she was a student at the girls’ school, she had been afflicted with the malady of poetry, where pain and suffering were the very essence of life, and wealth and luxury existed only to be sacrificed, for they led man toward falsehood and unrest. Even now, she sometimes composed poetry, but to whom could she recite it? Her poetry was not merely the ripple of her mind or the flight of feeling—each word