Bless this child’s good fortune. Give me your blessings. That stubborn child of yours is being born anew today.

He took Malti’s feet in both his hands and, trembling, said, “Your command is accepted, Malti.”

And the two became one, bound in a deep embrace. Tears streamed from both their eyes.

:34:

Siliya’s child was now two years old and ran all over the village. He had brought with him a strange language of his own and spoke only in that tongue, whether anyone understood him or not. In his speech, the sounds ‘ta’, ‘la’, and ‘gha’ abounded, while ‘sa’, ‘ra’ and others were missing. In that language, roti became ‘oti’, milk was ‘toot’, greens were ‘chhaag’, and cowrie was ‘tauli’. He imitated the voices of animals so well that people would clutch their stomachs with laughter. Someone would ask, “Ramu, how does a dog speak?” Ramu would reply gravely, “Bho-bho,” and pretend to chase and bite. “How does a cat speak?” And Ramu would go, “Myaun-myaun,” widening his eyes and scratching with his paws. He was a lively, mischievous boy. Whenever you saw him, he was lost in play, caring neither for food nor drink. He disliked being held in anyone’s lap. His happiest moments were those spent under the neem tree at the door, gathering heaps of dust, rolling in it, piling it on his head, making mounds, building little houses. He never got along with boys his own age—perhaps he did not consider them worthy playmates.

Someone would ask, “What is your name?” He would promptly reply, “Lamu.” “What is your father’s name?” “Matadin.” “And your mother’s?” “Chhiliya.” “And who is Datadin?” “He is our chala.” No one knew who had told him of this relation to Datadin.

Ramu and Rupa got along splendidly. He was Rupa’s doll. She would rub him with ubtan, apply kohl to his eyes, bathe him, comb his hair, feed him morsel by morsel with her own hands, and sometimes fall asleep at night with him in her arms. Dhaniya would scold, “You’re always breaking the rules of purity and pollution!” But Rupa never listened to anyone. Her rag doll had taught her how to be a mother. Now, having a living, breathing child to nurture, she could no longer be satisfied with dolls.

Behind her house, where once her cattle-shed had been, Siliya had set up a thatched hut in the ruins of Hori’s house. Life could not be spent in Hori’s home. After spending several hundred rupees, Matadin was finally restored as a Brahmin by the pandits of Kashi. That day, a grand havan was performed, many Brahmins were fed, and countless mantras and shlokas were recited. Matadin had to eat and drink only pure cow dung and cow urine. The dung purified his mind; the urine killed the germs of impurity in his soul.

Yet, in a way, this penance truly did purify him. The blazing fire of the havan...

His humanity shone forth, and in the light of the sacrificial fire, he examined the pillars of religion closely. From that day, he grew weary of religion. He cast off his sacred thread and submerged his priesthood in the Ganges. Now, he was a true farmer. He also saw that although the scholars had accepted his Brahminhood, the common people still would not drink water from his hands. They would ask him for auspicious times, consult him about omens and rituals, even give him alms on festival days, but would not let him touch their utensils.

On the day Silia’s child was born, he drank twice his usual amount of bhang, and pride swelled his chest, his fingers repeatedly stroking his moustache. What would the child be like? Would he resemble him? How could he see him? His heart ached with longing.

On the third day, Rupa met him in the fields. She asked, “Rupiya, have you seen Silia’s boy?”

Rupiya replied, “Why wouldn’t I have seen him? He’s red-cheeked, plump, with big eyes and curly hair on his head, staring wide-eyed at everything.”

It was as if that child had taken up residence in Matadeen’s heart, kicking and moving about. A kind of intoxication clouded his eyes. He lifted the young Rupa into his arms, then set her on his shoulder, then took her down and kissed her cheeks.

Rupa, tending to the child, said boldly, “Come, I’ll show him to you from afar. He’s just in the veranda. But why does Silia always cry?”

Matadeen turned his face away. His eyes had grown moist, and his lips trembled.

That night, when the whole village slept and the trees were lost in darkness, he came to Silia’s door and listened with his whole being to the child’s cries, in which was contained all the music, joy, and sweetness of the world.

Silia would lay the child to sleep in Hori’s house and go off to work as a laborer. Matadeen, on one pretext or another, would come to Hori’s house, and, stealing glances at the child, would soothe his heart, his eyes, his soul.

Dhaniya would smile and say, “Why are you shy? Take him in your arms, love him. Is your heart made of wood? He’s just like you.”

Matadeen would throw a rupee or two for Silia and leave. With the child, his soul too was growing, blossoming, shining. Now his life had a purpose, a vow. He had gained restraint, gravity, a sense of responsibility.

One day, Ramu was lying on the cot. Dhaniya had gone somewhere. Rupa, hearing the boys’ shouts, had gone off to play. The house was empty. At that moment, Matadeen arrived. The child was waving his hands and feet, gazing up at the blue sky, bubbling with the joy of life that was still fresh within him. Seeing Matadeen, he laughed. Matadeen was overcome with affection. He picked up the child and pressed him to his chest. His whole body, heart, and soul thrilled, as if rays of light were