Meenakshi smiled—“Yes, that’s fine.”

She got into her car, went to the District Magistrate’s bungalow to report the incident, and then returned to her own house. From that moment, husband and wife became thirsty for each other’s blood. Digvijay Singh roamed about with a revolver in hand, lying in wait for her, and she, for her own protection, kept two wrestler Thakurs by her side. Rai Saheb, who had once built a paradise of happiness, now saw it crumbling before his very eyes, and, disillusioned with the world, his soul began to turn inward. Until now, desires had inspired him to live. But when that path was closed, his mind inclined towards devotion, which was a truth far greater than desires. The new estate for which he had taken loans had slipped from his hands before he could repay the debt, and that burden still weighed upon him. The ministry certainly brought in a handsome sum, but all of it was spent merely on maintaining the dignity of his office, and to uphold his princely grandeur, Rai Saheb was forced to impose extra levies, evictions, and tributes upon his tenants—practices he despised. He did not wish to inflict suffering upon his people. Their plight evoked his pity, but he was overwhelmed by his own needs.

The difficulty was that even in worship and devotion, he found no peace. He wished to renounce attachment, but attachment would not renounce him, and in this tug-of-war, he found no escape from humiliation, remorse, and unrest. And when the soul knows no peace, how can the body remain healthy? Despite every effort to keep well, some ailment or another always clung to him. All kinds of delicacies were prepared in the kitchen, yet for him, it was always only moong dal and dry chapatis. He saw his brothers, even more indebted, humiliated, and grief-stricken than himself, whose indulgence and splendor lacked for nothing, but such shamelessness was not in his nature. The noble values of his heart had not yet been destroyed. They could justify cruelty, cunning, shamelessness, and oppression as the pride and prestige of the zamindari, and thus appease their souls, and this was his greatest defeat.

Mirza Khushend, after leaving the hospital, had started a new venture. Resting idly was not in his nature. And what was this venture? He had formed a theater troupe of the city’s courtesans. In his better days, he had lived a life of indulgence, and during his recent days of suffering in the solitude of the hospital, his soul had grown devout. Remembering that former life filled him with deep anguish. If only he had possessed wisdom then, how much good he could have done for others, how many burdens of sorrow and poverty he could have lightened! But he had squandered his wealth in debauchery. It is no new discovery that it is in times of crisis that our souls awaken. Who, in old age, does not grieve over the follies of youth? If