Dhaniya flared up and rushed forward—“You too are trying to take the thick branch. I alone am to blame, am I? She’s showering flowers on me, is she?”

The battlefield shifted.

“He who stoops to argue with the lowly becomes lowly himself.”

By what logic could Dhaniya accept that Jhunia was lowly?

With a pained voice, Hori said, “Fine, she’s not lowly, she’s greater, if you wish. But if someone does not wish to stay, will you bind them here? They have hands and feet now. What do you want—that they bring fodder and feed us? A parent’s duty is wholly to their children. Children have not even a sixteenth of that duty toward their parents. If someone leaves, bid them farewell with your blessings. Our fate is in God’s hands. Whatever is destined, we shall endure. Forty, forty-seven years have passed in tears and sorrow. A few more years remain—they too will pass the same way.”

Meanwhile, Gobar was preparing to leave. Even the water of this house was forbidden to him now. When a mother speaks such words, he would not even look at her face again.

In no time, his bedding was packed. Jhunia too donned her chunari. Munnu, dressed in his cap and frock, looked like a little prince.

With a choked voice, Hori said, “Son, I have no right to say anything to you, but my heart cannot bear it. Would it be so wrong to go and touch the feet of your unfortunate mother? The mother whose womb bore you, whose blood nourished you—can you not do even this much for her?”

Turning his face away, Gobar said, “I do not consider her my mother.”

Tears welled up in Hori’s eyes. “As you wish. Wherever you go, may you be happy.”

Jhunia went to her mother-in-law and touched her feet with the end of her sari. Not a single word of blessing escaped Dhaniya’s lips. She did not even raise her eyes to look. Gobar, carrying the child in his arms, walked ahead. Jhunia, clutching the bedding, followed behind. A chamar boy carried their box. Several men and women from Nand’s family accompanied Gobar to the edge of the village.

Dhaniya sat weeping, as if someone were sawing through her heart. Her mind felt like a house set ablaze, everything inside turned to ashes. There was not even a place left to sit and weep.

For some days now, there had been no talk of Rai Sahib’s daughter’s marriage. The election too was at hand, but above all, he had to pursue the Eden litigation, whose court fee alone was fifty thousand rupees, not to mention the other expenses. He was the sole master of his estate, yet in the prime of his youth, he had been ousted. And Rai Sahib, on behalf of his young son, wished to reclaim that estate by seeking refuge in the courts. His wife’s cousins had seized the estate and refused to give up any share. Rai Sahib, with great sorrow, had offered to let them keep a suitable allowance and leave. He was even willing to forgo the estate’s income, but the cousins would not agree to any compromise. By force, they had begun a campaign of collection and suppression in the estate. Rai Sahib’s situation had become so dire that there was no way left but to go to court. The litigation had already cost lakhs.

There was no property. The lawyers had assured him that he would certainly win the case. Who could let such an opportunity slip by? The difficulty was that all three matters had come together at once, and none could be postponed. His daughter had reached the age of eighteen, and only the lack of money had delayed her marriage until now. The estimated expense was a lakh of rupees. Whomever he approached, each opened his mouth wide, but just then, a very good opportunity presented itself. Kunwar Digvijay Singh’s wife had succumbed to tuberculosis, and Kunwar Sahib was eager to restore life to his desolate home as soon as possible. The match was settled on favorable terms, and lest the prey slip from his grasp, it was imperative that the wedding take place in this very marriage season.

Kunwar Sahib was a storehouse of vices. There was no intoxicant—wine, ganja, opium, madak, charas—that he did not indulge in. And debauchery, after all, is the ornament of a nobleman. What sort of aristocrat is he who is not a libertine? How else is one to make use of wealth? Yet, despite all these vices, he was so talented that even the learned acknowledged his worth. In music, drama, palmistry, astrology, yoga, stick-fighting, wrestling, marksmanship—there was none to match him. Along with this, he was bold and fearless. He supported the national movement with an open heart, though secretly. The authorities were not unaware of this, yet he enjoyed great prestige, and once or twice a year even the Governor Sahib would be his guest. He was not yet more than thirty or thirty-two, and his health was such that he could digest an entire goat by himself.

Raisahib thought, “The heavens have smiled upon me.” Kunwar Sahib had hardly completed his mourning period when Raisahib began negotiations. For Kunwar Sahib, marriage was merely a means to increase his influence and power. Raisahib was already a member of the council, and influential in his own right. He had also earned respect by demonstrating sacrifice in the national struggle. There could be no obstacle to the match, and it was settled.

Then there was the election—like a golden sickle, impossible to swallow or spit out. He had already been elected twice, and each time it had cost him a lakh of rupees, but this time a Raja Sahib from the same region had entered the fray and publicly declared that even if he had to give every voter a thousand rupees, even if his fifty-lakh estate was reduced to dust, he would not