Nearby, two or three clay elephants and horses lay broken and neglected. When their master was no more, who would care for them? Matadeen sat down on the straw. A pang rose in his chest. He felt as if he could weep his heart out.

Siliya placed her hand gently on his back and asked, “Did you ever think of me?”

Matadeen caught her hand, pressed it to his heart, and said, “You were always before my eyes. Did you ever think of me?”

“My heart used to burn for you.”

“And you never felt pity?”

“Never.”

“Then Bhunesri…”

“Enough, don’t abuse me. I am afraid—what will the villagers say?”

“Those who are good people will say, this was her true dharma. As for the wicked, their words are not worth hiding from.”

“And who will cook your meals now?”

“My queen, Siliya.”

“Then how will you remain a Brahmin?”

“I do not wish to be a Brahmin, but a chamar. Whoever turns away from the one who accepts him as family, he is the real chamar.”

Siliya put her arms around his neck.

:35:

Hori’s condition was worsening day by day. Yet, he never lost hope. Each defeat seemed to make him hungrier for life. He had reached his final state, when even if he could have remained steadfast, he would have wiped away a few tears. He had earned, but there was no vice he had not been accused of. The good days always remained a mirage, forever just out of reach. The green shimmer of false hope would appear, only to vanish. Like a defeated king, he had guarded his last fortress—his dignity—as dearly as his own life.

But now, even that fortress had fallen.

Pandit Nokheram had placed a claim on his body. The land had slipped from his hands. The desire to live! Even Raisahib had to evict more families than ever before. If there had been any happiness, it was in his son. But evening had fallen on that too. He was lost in these thoughts.

“Hori, about your eviction,” someone said, “there are still fifteen days left till the date.”

Hori had brought ruin upon himself for their sake.

Why does such misery befall us? We neither feast nor squander, yet if the crops fail, and what little grows sells for a pittance, what is a farmer to do?

“But you must save the ancestral land. How will you survive otherwise? This is all that remains of your forefathers’ legacy. If that is lost, where will you go?”

“It is God’s will; what power do I have?”

“There is one way, if you are willing.”

It was as if Hori had been granted a reprieve. Falling at his feet, he pleaded, “It would be a great act of dharma, Maharaj. Who do I have but you? I had lost all hope.”

“There is no need to despair. Just understand this: a man’s duty is one thing in times of happiness, and another in times of sorrow. In happiness, a man gives alms, but in sorrow, he may even beg. That, too, becomes his dharma. When our bodies are healthy, we will not even sip water without bathing and performing our rituals. But when we fall ill, we take our medicine without bathing or changing clothes, sitting on our beds. That is the dharma of that time. Here, there may be many differences between us, but in Jagannathpuri, there is no distinction—high and low all sit together in the same row to eat. In times of crisis, even Lord Ramchandra ate the leftovers of Sabari, and slew Bali by stealth. When even the greatest break with tradition in times of trouble, who are we to hold ourselves apart? You know Ramsevak Mahto, don’t you?”

Hori replied dispiritedly, “Yes, of course I know him.”

“He is my patron. He is doing very well for himself—his farming is separate, his moneylending is separate. I have never seen a man with such authority. His wife died several months ago. He has no children. If you are willing to marry Rupa to him, I can persuade him. He would never refuse me. The girl is grown now, and these are dangerous times. If something untoward were to happen, your family’s honor would be stained. This is a golden opportunity. The girl will be married, and your fields will be saved. You will be spared all the expenses.”

Ramsevak was only a few years younger than Hori. The very suggestion of marrying Rupa to such a man was an insult. Where was his flower-like Rupa, and where was that old stump of a man! Hori had endured many wounds in his life, but none cut deeper than this. Today, his fortunes had sunk so low that someone dared suggest he sell his own daughter, and he lacked even the courage to refuse. His head bowed in shame.

After a minute, Dattadin asked, “So, what do you say?”

Hori did not give a clear answer. He said, “I will tell you after I have thought about it.”

“What is there to think about?”

“I should ask Dhaniya as well.”

“Are you willing or not?”

“Let me think, Maharaj. Such a thing has never happened in our family. I must consider our honor as well.”

“Give me your answer within five or six days. Don’t spend so long thinking that the eviction comes.”

Dattadin departed. He had no doubts about Hori; his only concern was Dhaniya. She was stubborn—she would rather perish than surrender her honor.

But if Hori agreed, she would eventually accept, though not without tears and protest. After all, losing the fields would also bring disgrace.

Dhaniya came and asked, “Why did the Pandit come?”

“Nothing much, just talk about the eviction.”

“He must have come to wipe our tears. As if he would ever lend us a hundred rupees.”

“I don’t even have the face to ask.”

“Then why does he come here at all?”

“It was