No. Is he a man or a butcher? This is the fruit of his own intentions. He never thought of it before, and so he went on living as he pleased. Now he says, “What have I to do with it?”

In Hori’s mind, Dhania was in the wrong. The way Siliya’s family had disgraced Matai—this was not right. Whether they took Siliya away by force or with affection, she was their daughter. Why did they have to disgrace Matai?

Dhania rebuked him sharply—“Let it be, don’t act so righteous. All men are the same. When Matai disgraced her, no one thought it was wrong. Now that Matai himself has been disgraced, why does it hurt? Is Siliya’s honor not honor at all? She’s a chamarin, so now they pretend to be so pious and righteous! Harkhu Chaudhary did the right thing. This is the only punishment for such ruffians. Come, Siliya, to my house. Who knows what kind of cruel parents she has, that they’ve beaten the poor girl’s back bloody. You go and send for Sona. I’ll take her with me.”

Hori went off, and Siliya fell at Dhania’s feet, weeping.

:24:

Sona was in her seventeenth year, and this year it was necessary to get her married. Hori had been worrying about this for two years, but with empty hands, he could do nothing. Still, this year, come what may, her marriage must be arranged, even if it meant taking on debt or mortgaging the fields. If it had been up to Hori alone, the marriage would have happened two years ago. He wanted to manage with thrift. But Dhania would say, “No matter how much you tighten your belt, it will take at least two or two and a half hundred rupees.” Ever since Jhunia had come into the house, their standing in the biradari had fallen, and without giving at least a hundred or two hundred rupees, no respectable groom could be found. Last year, at Chaiti, nothing came of it. There was Pandit Datadin’s half-share, but Panditji gave such an account of the seeds and labor that Hori was left with barely a quarter of the grain. And the full rent still had to be paid. The crops of sugarcane and hemp were ruined—hemp because of too much rain, and sugarcane because of termites. But this year’s Chaiti harvest was good, and the sugarcane was thriving. There was grain for the wedding, and if two hundred rupees could be raised, he would be freed from the debt of the daughter’s marriage. If Gobar could help with a hundred rupees, Hori could manage the rest easily. Both Jhinguri Singh and Mangru Sah had softened a bit now. Since Gobar was earning in the city, their money could not be lost.

One day, Hori suggested going to Gobar for two or three days.

But Dhania had not forgotten Gobar’s harsh words. She did not want to take a single paisa from Gobar, not in any way.

Hori said, exasperated, “But how will things work out, tell me that?”

Dhania shook her head and replied, “Suppose Gobar had never gone to the city, what would you have done then? Do that now.”

Hori was silenced. After a moment he said, “I’m only asking you.”

Dhania evaded, “That’s for men to think about.”

Hori was ready with his answer—“Suppose I were not here, you were alone, what would you do then? Do that.”

Dhania looked at him with scornful eyes—“Then, even if I gave away a kusha-daughter, there would be no one to laugh.”

He could have given a kusha-girl as well. That would have been auspicious for him, but how could he abandon family honor? At the weddings of his sisters, three hundred baraatis had come to the door. The dowry had been generous. There had been music and dance, bands and processions, elephants and horses—all had been present. Even today, his name carried weight in the community. He was on familiar terms with people from ten villages. If he gave a kusha-girl, how would he show his face to anyone? Better to die than to suffer such disgrace. And why should he give a kusha-girl? He had cattle, land, and a little bit of reputation as well. If he sold even one bigha, he could easily get a hundred rupees, but for a farmer, land is dearer than life itself, and he only had three bighas in total. If he sold one, how would he continue farming?

Several days passed in this turmoil. Hori could not come to any decision.

It was the time of the Dussehra holidays. The sons of Jhinguri, Pateshwari, and Nokheram had all come home for the break. All three were studying English, and though each was now twenty years old, none showed any sign of going to university. They lingered in the same class for two or three years at a time. All three were already married. Pateshwari’s son, Vindeshwari, was even the father of a child. The three of them spent their days playing cards, drinking bhang, and strutting about like dandies. Several times a day, they would pass by Hori’s doorway, and by some strange coincidence, every time they did, Sona would also appear at the door for one reason or another. Watching this, Hori’s blood ran cold, as if yellow clouds full of hail were gathering in the sky, ready to destroy his crops.

One day, the three of them went to bathe at the same well where Hori was running the pulley to irrigate his fields. Sona was drawing water. Today, Hori’s blood boiled. That very evening, he went to Dulari the moneylender’s wife. He thought, “Women have compassion; perhaps her heart will soften and she’ll lend me money at a lower interest.” But Dulari began to lament her own troubles. There was not a single household in the village that did not owe her something—even Jhinguri Singh owed her twenty rupees—but no one showed any intention