Do not borrow even a single paisa from anyone; there is no question of giving or taking anything. And when God, sitting inside Gauri, made her write that letter, you started singing the tune of family honor. Only God knows your true intentions.

Dhaniya said, “A betel leaf is offered after seeing the face, don’t you know that? Back then, Gauri used to show her pride, now she shows her decency. A stone should answer a brick, but a greeting should not be answered with an insult.”

Hori wrinkled his nose and said, “Then show your decency. Let’s see, where will you bring the money from?”

Dhaniya’s eyes flashed as she replied, “It’s not my job to bring money, it’s yours.”

“I’ll take it from Dulari alone.”

“Go ahead, take it from her. Everyone will charge interest. If you’re going to drown anyway, what difference does it make whether it’s in a pond or the Ganga?”

Hori went outside and began to smoke his chilam. How easily he could have freed himself from this burden, but Dhaniya would never let him be. Whenever you look, she’s always going against the grain. It’s as if she’s possessed by some spirit. Even after seeing the state of the house, her eyes refuse to open.

Bhola, meanwhile, had brought home a second wife. Life without a woman was barren for him. When Jhunia was there, she would serve him his hookah and water, call him to meals on time. Now he was like an orphan. The daughters-in-law never got a break from housework—how could they attend to him? So, a new marriage had become absolutely necessary. By chance, he found a young widow whose husband had died only three months before. She had a son as well. Bhola’s mouth watered. He quickly seized his prey. Until the marriage was settled, he dug up her house.

Until now, whatever was in his house belonged to the daughters-in-law. They did as they pleased, lived as they liked. Ever since Jangi had taken his wife to Lucknow, Kamta’s wife had become the mistress of the house. In just five or six months, she had managed to squirrel away thirty or forty rupees for herself. She would secretly sell a seer or half-seer of milk and curd. Now, her stepmother-in-law became the new mistress. The daughter-in-law resented this control, and quarrels broke out between them every day. Things escalated to the point that even Bhola and Kamta began to argue because of the women. The fight grew so heated that it came to the brink of separation, and it is an ancient custom that at the time of separation, there must be a beating. That custom was followed here as well.

Kamta was a young man. Whatever authority Bhola had over him was only as a father, but after bringing home a new wife, he had no right to expect respect from his son. At least, Kamta would not accept it. He threw Bhola down and kicked him several times, then threw him out of the house. He wasn’t allowed to touch any of the household things. Not a single villager took Bhola’s side. The new marriage had made him a laughingstock. He spent the night somehow under a tree, and as soon as morning came, he went to Nokheram and poured out his complaint. Bhola’s village was also in Nokheram’s territory, and whatever authority there was in the whole area, Nokheram held it. Nokheram felt no pity for Bhola, but when he saw the lively, colorful woman with him, he immediately agreed to give them shelter. He gave them a room to live in where his cows were tied. Suddenly, he felt the need for an experienced man to look after his animals and fodder. He hired Bhola as a servant for three rupees a month and a seer of grain daily.

Godan: 204

Nokheram was a short, stout, balding man, with a long nose and small, dark eyes. He wore a large turban, a short kurta, and in winter, would wrap himself in a quilted blanket when going outside. He took great pleasure in having oil massages, which was why his clothes were always dirty and stained. His family was large—seven brothers and all their children depended on him. Yet his own son studied English in the ninth grade, and his daughter-in-law’s job at the office was not an easy one. From the Rai Sahib, he received only twelve rupees as salary, but he spared no effort in claiming every possible allowance for himself. So if a debtor ever fell into his clutches, he would not let go until he had squeezed every last paisa from him. Earlier, when his salary was only six rupees, he was not so greedy with the tenants. But ever since it had been raised to twelve, his hunger had only grown, and that was why he never got promoted.

In the village, everyone acknowledged his authority in some form or another—even Jhinguri Singh flattered him. Only Pateshwari was wary of him. Nokheram was proud of being a Brahmin and believed he could never be put in the dock, while Pateshwari took pride in being a Kayasth, a master of the pen. “What can he do to me?” he thought. “I am not the zamindar’s servant, but a servant of the government. He has no power over me.” If Nokheram observed the Ekadashi fast and presided over the panchayat, Pateshwari would listen to the Satyanarayan Katha every full moon and put his faith in it. His eldest son was already married; if his younger son passed his tenth standard, he would find him a job as a copyist somewhere too. He always greeted people with a show of respect. There was, however, one rumor about him—that he kept his widowed kaharin as his mistress.

Now, it seemed, the opportunity had come to settle old scores.

He said to Bhola, trying to reassure him, “Why have you come here? If you