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 only that time had been spent in gathering knowledge or strength, in accumulating good deeds—how much peace the heart would have found today! It was then that he experienced, with painful clarity, that in this world, there is no one truly your own, no one to shed tears at your death.

Again and again, a memory from his life returned to him. In a village near Basra, when he was lying in a camp, stricken with malaria, a local villager had nursed him with such selfless devotion. When he recovered and tried to repay the villager’s kindness with money and jewelry, the man’s eyes filled with tears, he lowered his head, and refused to accept those gifts.

He had refused.

In the care of these veins, there was discipline, order, truth—but where was that love, that absorption, which had once shone in the clumsy, unpracticed ministrations of that other woman? The image of devotion had long since faded from his heart. He had promised to return to her, but never went back. In the intoxication of pleasure, he did not even remember her. And if he did, it was only with pity, not with love. Who knows what she must have endured then? But these days, her anxious, gentle, calm, and simple face hovered constantly before his eyes. If only he had married her, how much less sorrow there would have been in his life today! The pain of injustice done to her had made him extend his sympathy and service to that entire class. As long as the river was in flood, its muddy, swift, foaming current distorted the light. Now the current had become steady and calm, and the rays could reach its depths.

On this cool spring evening, when Mirza Sahib stepped out onto the veranda of his hut, he found the two ladies sitting and conversing. Just then, Mr. Mehta arrived. Mirza, with great enthusiasm, said, “I have been waiting for you, preparing for your hospitality!”

Both ladies smiled. Mehta felt embarrassed.

Mirza signaled to the two women to leave, and when they had gone, he said, “I was just about to come to you myself. I feel that the work I am doing cannot be completed without your help. You just keep urging me on—‘Yes, Mirza, go ahead, march on!’”

Mehta laughed and said, “Whatever work you undertake, you will need no help from me. You are older than I am. Who among us small, insignificant people has the power to influence others? God knows what I would have done myself.”

In a few words, Mirza Sahib laid his new scheme before him: In the bazaar, it is always those women who come—either those who cannot find work at home, or those forced by economic hardship. Very few women are thus degraded.

Mehta, like other thoughtful gentlemen, believed that the root cause lay chiefly in the conditioning of the mind and religious perspective. On this point, a debate arose between the two friends.

Mehta, clenching