was following behind.

:21:

In the villages, for six months of the year, some festival or another fills the air with the sounds of drums and manjiras. From a month before Holi to a month after, the air is alive with the songs of Phag. As soon as Ashadh arrives, the singing of Alha begins, and in Sawan and Bhadon, the Kajliyan are sung. After the Kajliyan, the singing of the Ramayana commences. Semari is no exception. The threats of the moneylender and the words of the zamindar’s steward cannot disrupt these festivities. There may be no grain in the house, no clothes on the body, not a coin in the pocket—no one cares. The joy of living cannot be suppressed; one cannot live without laughter.

Thus, during Holi, the main center for singing and music was Nokheram’s chaupal. There, bhang was prepared, colors were thrown, and dancing took place. In this festival, the steward sahib would spend five or ten rupees. Who else had the means to host such a gathering at their own door?

But this time, Gobar has drawn all the young men of the village to his own doorstep, and Nokheram’s chaupal lies empty. At Gobar’s house, bhang is being ground, betel leaves are being prepared, colors are being mixed, carpets are spread out, songs are being sung—and the chaupal is shrouded in silence. The bhang is there, but who will grind it? The drums and manjiras are all present, but who will sing? Whoever you see is rushing towards Gobar’s house. Here, the bhang is fragrant with rosewater, saffron, and almonds. Yes, yes—a whole seer of almonds, brought by Gobar himself. One sip, and your body is refreshed, your eyes wide open. He has brought the finest khamira tobacco, especially from Biswan. Even the colors are scented with kewra. He knows how to earn money, and he knows how to spend it. If you hoard it, who will see? This is the true glory of wealth. And it’s not just the bhang—he is also the leader of all the singers, and in the village, there is no shortage of dancers, singers, or actors. Shobha imitates the lame so well that no one can match him, and when it comes to mimicking voices, he has no equal. Name anyone, and he’ll speak in their voice—man or animal. Girdhar is unmatched in mimicry. He can imitate the vakil, the patwari, the thanedar, the peon, the seth—everyone. True, the poor fellow doesn’t have the proper props, but this time Gobar has arranged everything for him; his performances will be worth seeing.

The news spread so far that from evening itself, crowds began to gather to watch the spectacle. Groups of spectators started arriving from neighboring villages. By ten o’clock, three or four thousand people had gathered, and when Girdhar appeared, dressed as Jhinguri Singh with his troupe, there was not even standing room left. The same bald head, the same large mustache, and the same paunch. He sits,