Sona looked at her with eyes as piercing as a spear, and, as if striking with a dagger, said, “Are you telling the truth—exactly as it happened?”

“Absolutely true. I swear on my child.”

“You haven’t hidden anything?”

“If I have hidden even a grain, may I lose my sight.”

“Then why didn’t you kick that sinner? Why didn’t you bite him? Why didn’t you drink his blood, why didn’t you scream?”

What answer could Sillu give?

Sona, like a madwoman, her eyes blazing like embers, said, “Why don’t you speak? Why didn’t you bite off his nose? Why didn’t you strangle him with both hands? Then I would have bowed my head at your feet. Now, in my eyes, you are faithless, a mere harlot. If this was what you intended, why do you tarnish Matadeen’s name? Why don’t you just take someone and live with him, why don’t you go back to your own home? Isn’t this what your family wanted? You could have taken dung-cakes and grass to the market, brought back money, and your father would have drunk toddy from those very coins. Then why did you disgrace that Brahmin? Why did you stain his honor? Why do you sit here pretending to be a chaste woman? If you cannot live alone, why don’t you get engaged to someone? Why don’t you drown yourself in the river or pond? Why do you poison the lives of others? Today I tell you, if anything like this happens again and I find out, not one of the three of us will remain alive. Now, go, blacken your face and leave. From this day, there is no bond between you and me.”

Sillu slowly rose and stood up carefully. It felt as if her back had broken. For a moment she tried to gather her courage, but nothing came to her defense. Darkness swam before her eyes, her head spun, her throat was parched. Her whole body was numb, as if life was escaping through every pore. Step by step, as if there were a pit before her, she walked out and headed toward the river.

At the door stood Mathura. He asked, “Where are you going at this hour, Sillu?”

Sillu gave no reply. Mathura did not ask again.

The silvery moonlight still lay spread all around. The river’s waves still bathed in the moon’s rays, and Sillu, distraught, like a shadow in a dream, walked on toward the river.

They remain left behind. After the lamps are lit, they do not leave their offices and have begun to flatter the officers. Mirza Khushend’s authority is still as strong as ever, but Mirzaji, seeing no remedy for this deceit and its resolution, wishes in his heart that all of them should be dismissed. Yet, considering the suffering of the new men, he tells the inquirers, “Do as you wish.”

When Mr. Khanna saw that the old workers were again eager for employment, he became even more arrogant, though in his heart he knew that, at this wage, the old workers were far better than the new ones. Despite all their efforts, the new men could not match the work of the old. Most of the old workers had been accustomed to mill work since childhood and were highly skilled. The new workers were mostly distressed peasants from the villages, used to working in the open air and fields with the old wooden tools of bygone days. Inside the mill, they felt suffocated, and the rapidly moving parts of the machinery frightened them.

At last, when the old workers were thoroughly defeated, Khanna agreed to reinstate them. But the new workers were willing to work for even less pay, and now the directors faced the question: should they rehire the old workers, or keep the new ones? Half of the directors favored retaining the new men at reduced wages. The other half believed that the old workers should be kept at their current wages—though it would cost a little more, the work would be better. Khanna was the soul of the mill, in a sense its autocrat. The directors were mere puppets in his hands. The decision rested with Khanna, and he was consulting not only his friends but even his adversaries on the matter. First of all, he sought Govindi’s advice. Ever since he had lost hope in Malti, and Govindi had come to know how much a learned, experienced, and wise man like Mehta respected her and what kind of devotion he expected from her, affection had once again awakened between the couple. Do not call it affection, but companionship was certainly there. The jealousy and unrest between them had vanished. The wall that stood between them had crumbled.

Malti’s own ways and mannerisms were undergoing a transformation. Mehta’s life until now had been spent in self-study and contemplation, and after thoroughly examining all philosophies—activism and renunciation, self and non-self—he had come to the conclusion that the path of service, which lies between action and renunciation, whether you call it karma-yoga or something else, alone can give life meaning, alone can elevate and purify it. He had no faith in an all-knowing God. Though he did not openly declare his atheism, for he considered it impossible to hold any definite opinion on the subject, this conviction had become firm in his mind: that there is no divine ordinance in the birth and death, joy and sorrow, sin and virtue of living beings. He believed that man, in his arrogance, has made himself so important that every one of his actions is thought to be inspired by God. In the same way, perhaps locusts hold God responsible when, upon encountering the sea in their path, billions of them perish. But God’s decrees are so inscrutable that man cannot comprehend them—so what satisfaction can be gained by believing in them? In Mehta’s view, the only purpose of the concept of God was the unity of mankind.

He regarded monism,