“But won’t your oxen starve to death?”

“God will surely find some way. Asadh is upon us. I’ll manage somehow.”

“But this cow is now yours. Come and take her whenever you wish.”

“To take a brother’s ox seized for debt is a sin, but to take your cow at this moment would be even greater.”

If Hori had the strength to split hairs, he would have gladly taken the cow home. When Bhola asked for cash, it was clear he was not selling the cow for fodder, but for some other reason. Yet, just as a horse shies away at the mere rustle of leaves and refuses to move even under the lash, so was Hori’s state. To take something in another’s time of crisis is a sin—this truth had become a part of his soul over countless lifetimes.

Bhola said, his voice choked with emotion, “Shall I send someone for the fodder, then?”

Hori replied, “I’m just going to the Rai Sahib’s mansion. I’ll be back in an hour or so—send someone then.”

Tears welled up in Bhola’s eyes. He said, “Today you have saved me, Hori bhai! Now I know I am not alone in this world, that I too have a friend.” After a moment, he added, “Don’t forget your promise.”

As Hori walked on, his heart was light. A strange vigor surged within him. What if five or ten maunds of fodder were gone? At least the poor man would not have to sell his cow in distress. When I have fodder, I’ll bring the cow home. God willing, may I find a wife to help me—then all will be well.

He looked back. The speckled cow, swishing flies away with her tail, shaking her head, swayed along with a queenly gait, as if she were a rani among maids. What a blessed day it would be when this Kamadhenu would be tied at his own door!

Semri and Belari are both villages in the province of Awadh. There is no need to mention the district. Hori lives in Belari, Rai Sahib Amarpal Singh in Semri. There are only five miles between the two villages. In the last Satyagraha movement, Rai Sahib had won great renown. He had resigned his council membership and gone to jail. Since then, the tenants of his estate held him in great reverence. Not that the tenants in his estate enjoyed any special concessions, or that the severity of taxes and forced labor had lessened, but all the blame for these ills fell upon the estate managers. No stain could touch Rai Sahib’s reputation. After all, he too was a slave to the same system. The business of administration would go on as it always had; Rai Sahib’s goodness could not alter it. Thus, even though his income and authority had not diminished in the least, his fame had only grown.

He would speak to the tenants with a smile—was that not enough? The lion’s work is to hunt. If, instead of roaring and growling, he could speak sweetly, he would get his prey without leaving home, without wandering the jungle in search.

Though a nationalist, Rai Sahib maintained cordial relations with the authorities; his glances, his gestures, and his officials’ customary bribes all continued as before. He was a lover of literature and music, fond of drama, an eloquent speaker, a fine writer, a skilled marksman. It had been ten years since his wife passed away...

His hair had turned gray, yet he had not remarried. He would laugh and joke, lightening the burdens of his widower’s life.

When Hori reached the threshold, he saw that grand preparations were underway for the Dhanush-Yajna, held every year on the occasion of Jeth’s Dussehra. Here, a stage was being built; there, a pavilion; elsewhere, a guesthouse for the visitors, and shops for the merchants. The sun was blazing, but Rai Sahib himself was hard at work. Along with his father’s estate, he had inherited devotion to Ram, and by giving the Dhanush-Yajna the form of a play, he had turned it into a refined source of entertainment. On this occasion, his friends and acquaintances, even government officials, would be invited, and for two or three days the entire region would be abuzz with activity.

Rai Sahib’s family was vast. Nearly a hundred and fifty relatives dined together. There were several uncles, dozens of cousins, many brothers, and scores of kin. One uncle was a devoted follower of Radha and lived permanently in Vrindavan. He had composed many poems in the nectar of devotion and would have them printed from time to time to present as gifts to friends. Another uncle was a great devotee of Ram and was translating the Ramayana into Persian. All of them received stipends from the estate. None had any need to work.

Hori stood in the pavilion, wondering how to announce his arrival, when suddenly Rai Sahib appeared and, seeing him, called out, “Ah! You have come, Hori. I was just about to send for you. Listen, this time you must play the gardener of Raja Janak. Do you understand? When Shri Janaki goes to the temple for worship, you will stand there with a bouquet and present it to her. Don’t be late. And see, make sure to tell all the tenants to come and perform the auspicious rites. Come with me to the kothi; I have some things to discuss with you.”

He walked ahead toward the mansion, and Hori followed behind. There, in the shade of a thick tree, Rai Sahib sat on a chair and motioned for Hori to sit on the ground. Then he spoke, “Did you understand what I said? The steward will do what he must, but a tenant listens to another tenant with a different heart than he does to a steward. We have to arrange for twenty thousand rupees within these five or seven days. How it will be done, I cannot fathom. You must be wondering,