She would need money—for food and drink, for medicine and remedies. She would have to earn at least enough to feed herself. Since childhood, she had learned to tend cows and cut grass. But where were cows here? Yes, she could cut grass. Many men and women from the neighborhood would go together outside the town to cut grass and earn eight or ten annas. At dawn, she would wash Gobar’s hands and face, entrust the child to him, and set out to cut grass, working hungry and thirsty until late afternoon. Then she would take the grass to the market, sell it, and return home in the evening.

At night, she would sleep and wake with Gobar’s rhythms, yet despite such hard labor, her heart remained so light, as if she were sitting on a swing, singing. All along the way, she would joke and banter with the men and women walking with her. Even while cutting grass, laughter and teasing would continue among them. There was no lamenting fate, no complaints about hardship. The joy that lies in the meaning of life, in making the hardest sacrifices for one’s own, in the freedom of selfless service—its radiance seemed to shine from every limb of her body. Just as a child, standing on its own feet, claps with delight, so did she feel, as if a spring of happiness had burst open within her soul! And when the mind is healthy, how can the body remain unwell? In that single month, it was as if she had been transformed. There was no more weakness in her limbs—now there was agility, suppleness, delicacy. The pallor had left her face; now there was a rosy glow of blood. Her youth, which had withered in the closed room under the weight of humiliation and quarrels, now seemed to blossom, revived by fresh air and sunlight. Now, nothing could make her angry. Where once she would lose her temper at the child’s slightest cry, now it seemed her patience and love knew no end.

In contrast, even as Gobar’s health improved, he remained somewhat downcast. When we inflict cruelty upon a loved one, and when misfortune gives us the strength to truly feel their pain, then an awakening stirs in our soul, and we become ready to atone for our unjust actions. Gobar, too, was restless with the urge for such atonement. Now his life would take on a new form, where harshness would be replaced by gentleness, pride by humility. He now understood that the chance to serve is a great blessing, and he would never again forget this opportunity.

:28:

To Mr. Khanna, the workers’ strike seemed utterly unjustified. He had always tried to remain on the side of the people. He considered himself a man of the people. During the recent nationalist movement, he had shown great enthusiasm. He had been a leading figure in the district, had gone to jail twice, and had suffered losses of several thousand rupees. Even now, he was ready to listen to the workers’ grievances; but it could not be that he would neglect the interests of the shareholders of the sugar mill. He might be willing to sacrifice his own interests if his higher ideals were touched, but to fail to protect the shareholders’ interests—that would be wrong. This was business, not a charitable institution, to be handed over entirely to the workers. Money had been raised from the shareholders with the assurance that this venture would yield a profit of fifteen or twenty percent. If they did not even receive ten percent, they would consider the directors—and especially Mr. Khanna—nothing but frauds. And how could he reduce his own salary? He had already set his salary low, compared to other companies. He took only one thousand rupees a month. He received some commission as well, but if he took that much, he also managed the operations of the mill.

Laborers work only with their hands. The director works with his intellect, his education, his talent, his influence. The value of these two powers can never be equal. Why are the laborers not content with the fact that it is a time of recession, that unemployment is spread everywhere, and men have become cheap? Even if they get three-quarters of a man’s wage in place of a full one, they should be satisfied. To tell the truth, they are satisfied. It is not their fault. They are simpletons, like calves’ uncles. The real mischief is the doing of Omkarnath and Mirza Khurshid. These are the people who, for the sake of a little money and fame, are making those poor fellows dance like puppets. They do not think how many homes will be ruined by their sport. If Omkarnath’s newspaper did not circulate, what could poor Khanna do? And if one day his paper gained a hundred thousand subscribers, and he began to profit five lakhs from it, would he then take only his own share for subsistence and distribute the rest among his workers? Impossible! And that ascetic Mirza Khurshid—he too was once a millionaire. Thousands of laborers were his employees. Did he, taking only his own needs, distribute everything among the workers? No, with that very sum for his own upkeep, he would frolic with European girls, feast with high officials, drink thousands of rupees’ worth of liquor each month, and travel to France and Switzerland every year. Today, his heart bursts at the plight of the workers.

Khanna had no concern for these two leaders. He had full doubts about the purity of their intentions. Nor did he care for Raisahib, who always echoed Khanna’s words and supported every one of his opinions. Among his acquaintances, there was only one person whose impartial judgment Khanna trusted completely, and that was Dr. Mehta. Ever since Dr. Mehta had begun to grow close to Malti, Khanna’s respect for him had greatly diminished. For years, Malti had been the queen of Khanna’s heart,