The greatest discipline, the greatest penance, the greatest sacrifice, and the most glorious victory—if I were to sum it up in a single word, I would call it harmony: of life, of personality, and of womanhood as well. As for Mr. Khanna, you must understand only this much: he is not in his senses. Whatever he says or does, he does in a state of frenzy, but this frenzy will not take long to subside, and the time will soon come when he will see you as his chosen goddess.

Govindi gave no reply. She walked slowly toward the car. Mehta stepped forward and opened the car door. Govindi got in. The car drove off, but both were silent.

When Govindi reached her doorway and stepped out of the car, Mehta saw in the electric light that her eyes were moist.

The children came running out of the house, crying, “Amma! Amma!” and clung to their mother. A radiant, proud glow of motherhood shone on Govindi’s face.

She said to Mehta, “Thank you very much for this trouble,” and lowered her head. A single tear fell onto her cheek.

Mehta’s eyes, too, filled with tears—how sorrowful is this woman’s heart, even amid all this wealth and luxury!

:19:

Mirza Khushend’s compound is a club, a courthouse, and a wrestling arena all in one. All day long, it is bustling with people. There was no space in the neighborhood for a wrestling ground, so Mirza had a thatched roof put up and made one. Every day, a hundred and fifty young wrestlers gather there. Mirzaji himself wrestles with them. The neighborhood panchayats are also held here. Disputes between husband and wife, mother-in-law and daughter-in-law, brother and brother—all are settled here. This is the center of the neighborhood’s social life, and of political activity as well. Meetings are held here every other day. Here the volunteers gather, here their programs are planned, and from here the city’s political affairs are managed. At the last gathering, Malti was elected president of the City Congress Committee. Since then, the place has become even more lively.

It has been a year since Gobar came to live here. He is no longer the simple, naïve village youth. He has seen much of the world now, and has begun to understand its ways. At heart, he is still a rustic—he holds onto every penny, never lets go of self-interest, never shirks hard work, nor ever loses courage—but the city’s air has touched him too. In the first month, he worked as a laborer, ate half his fill, and managed to save a little money. Then he started selling boiled taro, peas, and curd fritters from a basket. Seeing more profit in this, he left his job. In the summer, he set up a sherbet and ice stall, and then began selling hot tea. Now, his daily earnings are never less than two and a half to three rupees. He has had his hair cut in the English fashion, wears fine dhotis and pump shoes. He has bought a red woolen shawl and has developed a taste for betel and cigarettes. By attending meetings, he has gained some political awareness. He has begun to understand the meaning of nation and class. The prestige of social customs and the fear of public censure have greatly diminished in him. The frequent panchayats have made him bold. The very thing for which he lives here, far from home, hiding his face, happens here every day—often even more disgraceful things—and no one runs away. So why should he be so afraid and ashamed?

In all this time, he has not sent a single penny home. In matters of money, he is...

I do not consider them so clever. The moment they get the money, they will start soaring in the sky. Dada will be seized with the urge to go on a pilgrimage to Gaya at once, and Amma will be possessed by the desire to have jewelry made. He has no money for such useless things. Now he is a small-time moneylender. He lends money at interest to the tonga drivers and washermen in the neighborhood. In just these ten or eleven months, through his hard work, thrift, and determination, he has made a place for himself, and now he is thinking of bringing Jhunia here to live with him.

It is late afternoon. He has just returned from bathing at the roadside tap and is boiling potatoes for the evening meal when Mirza Khurshid arrives and stands at the door. Gobar is no longer his servant, but he still shows him the same respect and is ready to lay down his life for him. Going to the door, he asks, “What are your orders, Sarkar?”

Mirza, standing there, says, “If you have some money, give it to me. My bottle has been empty for three days now, and I am feeling very restless.”

Gobar had given Mirzaji money two or three times before, but had not been able to recover it so far. He was afraid to ask for it, and Mirzaji did not know how to return money once he had taken it. Money never stayed in his hands. It came in one moment, vanished the next. Gobar could not bring himself to say, “I won’t give you money,” or “I don’t have any money,” so he began to criticize drinking instead: “Why don’t you give it up, Sarkar? Does drinking do you any good?”

Mirza, sitting on the cot inside the room, said, “Do you think I don’t want to give it up, that I drink for pleasure? I cannot live without it. Don’t worry about your money—I will pay back every last paisa.”

Gobar remained unmoved. “I swear, Malik, if I had money right now, would I refuse you?”

“Can’t you even give me two rupees?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Take my ring as security.”

Gobar’s heart was tempted, but how could he change his word now?