She would scold even the most respectable tenants. Not just the tenants—now she had begun to assert herself even over the clerk sahib.

Bhola no longer wished to remain dependent on her. In his eyes, there was no work more disgraceful than living off a woman’s earnings. He received only three rupees a month, and even that never reached his hands. Nohri would spend it all before he saw a paisa. He could not scrape together even a farthing for tobacco, while Nohri chewed betel worth two annas every day. Whoever saw him, would order him about. The bailiffs made him fill their hookahs, chop wood; the poor man, exhausted from a day’s labor, would come home and collapse on a string cot under the tree at the door. There was not a soul to offer him even a cup of water. He had to eat stale bread from the afternoon for dinner, and that too with only salt, or water and salt.

At last, defeated, he decided to return home and live with Kamta. Whatever may come, at least he would get a hard piece of bread, and it would be his own home.

Nohri said, “I will not go there to be anyone’s servant.”

Bhola steeled himself and replied, “I’m not telling you to go. I’m talking about myself.”

“You’ll leave me and go? Aren’t you ashamed to say that?”

“I’ve swallowed my shame.”

“But I haven’t given up my own shame. You cannot leave me.”

“You follow your own will—why should I be your slave?”

“I’ll call a panchayat and blacken your face, remember that.”

“Is there any less shame on me already? Do you still want to keep me deceived?”

“You’re putting on airs as if you buy me jewelry every day! Well, Nohri is not one to tolerate anyone’s airs.”

Bhola, exasperated, got up and took a stick from beside his pillow, but Nohri leapt and grabbed his wrist. It was impossible for Bhola to break free from her strong grip. He sat down quietly, like a prisoner. There was a time when he could make women dance to his tune, and now he was bound in the snare of a single woman, unable to escape. He did not wish to expose his weakness by struggling to free his hand. He had realized his own limits, but why could he not speak to her fearlessly and say, “You are not right for me, I renounce you.” She threatens him with the panchayat? What is the panchayat but a bogeyman? If she is not afraid of the panchayat, why should he be?

But he did not have the courage to give these feelings voice. It was as though Nohri had cast a spell over him.

: 26 :

Lala Pateshwari was the very embodiment of the virtues of the patwari community. He could not bear to see any tenant encroach even an inch upon another brother’s land. Nor could he tolerate a tenant withholding a mahajan’s money. The protection of the interests of all the village folk was his highest duty. He had no faith in compromise or conciliation—those were signs of lifelessness. He was a worshipper of conflict, which is the mark of vitality. He was always seeking to inject excitement into this life. He would set off one firecracker or another every day. These days, Mangru Sah was the special object of his attention.

Mangru Sah was the richest man in the village, but took no part at all in local politics. He had no craving for authority or status. His house, too, was outside the village, where he had an orchard and...

He had built a well and a small Shiva temple. He had no children, so he had reduced his moneylending and spent most of his time in worship and prayer. Many tenants had swallowed his money, but he never filed complaints or made demands. Hori too owed him about a hundred and fifty rupees, including interest, but neither was Hori anxious to repay the debt, nor was he eager to recover it. He had asked a few times, even scolded and threatened, but seeing Hori’s condition, he fell silent. Now, by chance, Hori’s sugarcane crop was the best in the village. People estimated that, at the very least, he would make two to two and a half hundred rupees from it. Pateshwari Prasad suggested to Mangru that if a claim was filed against Hori at this time, all the money could be recovered. Mangru was not so much kind as he was lazy. He did not want to get involved in any hassle, but when Pateshwari assured him that he would not have to go to court even for a day, nor suffer any other trouble, and that he would get his decree while sitting at home, he gave permission to file the case and even provided money for court expenses.

Hori had no idea what was brewing behind his back. He did not know when the case was filed, when the decree was passed. He only found out when the bailiff came to auction his sugarcane crop. The whole village gathered at the edge of the field. Hori ran to Mangru Sah, and Dhaniya began cursing Pateshwari. Her simple intuition told her that this was Pateshwari’s doing, but Mangru Sah was busy with his prayers and could not be found, and even after showering Pateshwari with abuses, Dhaniya could do nothing to him. Meanwhile, the sugarcane was auctioned off for a hundred and fifty rupees, and the bid was won by Mangru Sah himself. No one else dared to bid. Even Dattadin did not have the courage to listen to Dhaniya’s curses.

Dhaniya, agitated, said to Hori, “Why are you just sitting there? Why don’t you go and ask the patwari? Is this your sense of duty towards the people of your own village?”

Hori replied meekly, “You have a mouth to ask, don’t you? Haven’t they heard your curses?”