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, eating his meal, while the first Thakurain sits fanning him.

The Thakur, looking at the Thakurain with playful eyes, says, “Even now, you have such youthfulness that if any young man were to see you, he would be smitten.” The Thakurain, swelling with pride, replies, “That’s why you brought a new bride.”

“I brought her only to serve you. How could she ever compare to you?”

The younger wife overhears this and walks away with a pout.

In the next scene, the Thakur is lying on a cot, and the younger daughter-in-law sits on the floor, turned away. The Thakur, repeatedly and unsuccessfully trying to turn her face toward him, says, “Why are you angry with me, my darling?”

“Go to your darling, wherever she is. I am just a servant, here to wait upon others.”

"I have come."

"You are my queen. That old woman is there to serve you."

The first Thakurain overhears this, and, grabbing a broom, storms into the house and lands several blows on them. Thakur Sahib flees for his life.

Then came the second skit, in which the Thakur, after drawing up a document for ten rupees, hands over only five, deducting the rest for gifts, the written deed, customary fees, and interest.

The peasant comes and clutches the Thakur’s feet, weeping. Only with great difficulty does the Thakur agree to give him the money. When the document is written and the five rupees are placed in the debtor’s hand, he, bewildered, asks:

"But these are only five, master!"

"Not five, ten. Count them at home."

"No, sahib, these are five."

"One rupee for the gift, was it not?"

"Yes, sahib."

"One for the paper?"

"Yes, sahib."

"One for the customary fee?"

"Yes, sahib."

"One for the interest?"

"Yes, sahib."

"Five in cash—does that not make ten?"

"Yes, sahib! Now, please keep these five as well, from my side."

"What kind of fool are you?"

"No, sahib, one rupee is a gift for the younger Thakurain, one for the elder Thakurain. One rupee for the younger Thakurain’s betel leaves, one for the elder Thakurain’s betel leaves. The last one left, that is for your funeral rites."

In this way, Nokheram, Pateshwari, and Dattadin—each in turn—were all lampooned. Even if the jokes were not new and the skits were old, Girdhar’s manner was so comical, and the audience so simple-hearted, that they laughed at even the slightest thing. The farce continued all night, and the oppressed hearts, finding revenge in their imagination, were delighted. When the final skit ended, the crows were already cawing.

At dawn, whoever you met had the songs of the night, the same skits, the same jests on their lips. The village headmen became the butt of the show. Wherever they went, a few boys would follow behind, repeating the same lines. Jhinguri Singh, being a jester himself, took it in good humor, but Pateshwari had a bad habit of getting annoyed. And Pandit Dattadin was so short-tempered that he was