The time for lighting lamps had come. A chill was settling in. The earth had draped itself in a blue sheet.

Dhaniya went inside and brought out the brazier. Everyone began to warm themselves. In the straw-lit glow, Chabili, Rangili, the fallen woman Nohri, sat before them like a blessing. At this moment, how much kindness shone in her eyes, how much modesty on her cheeks, how much noble inspiration on her lips!

After some idle conversation, Nohri stood up and, saying, “It’s getting late now. Come tomorrow and collect the money, Mahto,” she started for home.

“Let me walk you home,” Hori offered.

“No, no, you stay. I’ll go by myself.”

“My heart wishes to carry you on my shoulders,” he said.

Nokheram’s chaupal was at the other end of the village, and the path outside was clear. Both set out along that way. Now, all around, there was silence.

Nohri said, “You should talk some sense into Rawat. Why does he always quarrel with everyone? If we have to live among these people, shouldn’t we live so that a few become our own? But he fights with everyone, argues with everyone. When you can’t keep me in purdah, when I have to work for others, how can it be that I neither laugh nor speak with anyone, nor anyone looks at me or smiles? All that is only possible in purdah. Tell me, if someone looks at me or stares, what am I to do? I can’t gouge out his eyes. Besides, a hundred things are accomplished through friendliness. Behave according to the times. Once, an elephant swayed in your courtyard—what use is that to you now? Now you’re a laborer for three rupees. We used to have a buffalo at home, but now I’m a laboring woman. But he understands nothing. Sometimes he thinks of living with the children, sometimes of going to live in Lucknow. He’s made my life miserable.”

Hori tried to appease her. “This is pure foolishness on Bhola’s part. He’s grown old; he should understand by now. I’ll talk to him.”

“Then come in the morning, I’ll give you the money.”

“Shouldn’t we write something down...?”

“I know you won’t swallow my money.”

Her house arrived. She went inside. Hori returned home.

:27:

When Gobar came to the city, he found that another vendor had taken the spot where he used to set up his cart, and the customers had now forgotten him. The house, too, now felt like a cage. Jhuniya would sit alone inside and weep. The boy was used to playing all day in the courtyard or at the door. Here, there was no place for him to play. Where could he go? There was barely a yard-wide path at the entrance. Foul smells drifted in. In the heat, there was nowhere to sit or lie outside. The boy would not leave his mother for even a moment. And when there was nothing to play with, what else could he do but eat or drink milk? At home, sometimes Dhaniya played with him, sometimes Rupa, sometimes Sona, sometimes Hori, sometimes Puniya. Here, Jhuniya was alone, and she had to do all the housework.

And Gobar, intoxicated with youth, was lost in his unfulfilled desires, longing to drown in the sea of sensual pleasures. He could not settle his mind to any task. He would take out his cart, but return within an hour.

There was nothing else for entertainment. The neighboring laborers and tonga drivers played cards and gambled through the night. He, too, used to play at first. But now, for him, amusement meant only laughter and dalliance with Jhunia. In a few days, Jhunia grew weary of this life. She longed to go somewhere secluded, to sit in peace, to lie down and sleep without care, but such solitude was nowhere to be found. Now, she grew angry with Gobar. He had painted such an alluring picture of city life, and here, there was nothing but this dark dungeon. She even grew irritated with the child. Sometimes she would beat him and throw him outside, then bolt the door from within. The boy would cry himself hoarse.

On top of all this, she was expecting another child. No one to turn to, neither ahead nor behind. She often suffered from headaches. She had lost all appetite for food. She would lie in a stupor, silent in a corner, wishing no one would speak to her—but here, Gobar’s relentless affection kept knocking at her door. There was not a drop of milk left in her breasts, yet Lallu clung to her chest. Her body had grown weak, and so had her spirit. Whatever resolve she made, she would break at the slightest insistence. She would be lying down, and Lallu would come and forcibly climb onto her chest, taking her nipple in his mouth and chewing. He was now two years old, with sharp teeth. When no milk came, he would, in anger, bite her breast, but Jhunia no longer had the strength even to push him away. She felt as if death stood before her at every moment. She felt no affection for husband or son. Everyone was a friend only for their own gain.

During the rainy season, when Lallu began to suffer from diarrhea and stopped drinking milk, Jhunia felt as if a great calamity had been lifted from her head. But when, after a week, the child died, his memory, now alive with motherly love, began to make her weep.

And when, only a week after Lallu’s death, Gobar again began to press his demands, she burned with anger and said, “How much of an animal are you?”

Now, Lallu’s memory was dearer to Jhunia than Lallu himself had ever been. When he was before her, the pain he caused her far outweighed the joy. Now, Lallu dwelled within her heart—calm, steady, gentle, smiling. In her imagination, there was now a bliss tinged with pain,