The desolate and scorching evening of Jeth was growing cool and cheerful in the streets and lanes of Semri, thanks to the sprinkling of water. Around the pavilion, pots of flowers and plants had been arranged, and electric fans were whirring. Rai Sahib had installed his own electricity generator in his factory. His guards, dressed in uniforms with blue turbans, strutted about, impressing the public with their authority. The servants, clad in spotless kurtas and saffron turbans, were busy welcoming and honoring the guests and village elders.

At that moment, a motorcar stopped before the Singh Dwar, and three distinguished gentlemen alighted. The one in a khaddar kurta and sandals was Pandit Omkarnath, the illustrious editor of the daily newspaper 'Bijli', worn thin by his concern for the nation. The second gentleman, dressed in a coat and trousers, was a lawyer by training, but since his practice did not flourish, he worked as an agent for an insurance company and earned far more by arranging loans for zamindars from mahajans and banks than he ever did from the law. His name was Shyamvihari Tankha. The third, attired in a silk achkan and tight pajama, was Mr. V. Mehta, a professor of philosophy at the University. These three were Rai Sahib’s former classmates, invited to the auspicious celebration. Today, all the tenants of the estate would arrive to offer their shagun money. At night, there would be a Dhanush-Yajna and a grand feast for the guests.

Hori had given five rupees as shagun, and now, dressed in a pink mirzai, a pink turban, a knee-length kathni, holding a small hoe in his hand, and with powder dusted on his face, he had become Raja Janak’s gardener. He was so puffed up with pride, it seemed as if the entire celebration was taking place solely because of his efforts.

Rai Sahib welcomed the guests. He was a tall man with a sturdy build, a radiant face, a high forehead, and a fair complexion, upon which the silken shawl of Sharavati shone splendidly.

Pandit Omkarnath asked, “Which play do you intend to stage tonight? That is the only thing that interests me.”

Rai Sahib, seating the three gentlemen on chairs before his mansion, replied, “First, there will be the Dhanush-Yajna, and afterwards, a farce. I couldn’t find a suitable play. Some were so long they wouldn’t end even in five hours, and so complex that perhaps not a soul here would understand them. In the end, I wrote a farce myself, which will be completed in two hours.”

Omkarnath greatly doubted Rai Sahib’s creative abilities. He believed that true talent shines only in poverty, like a lamp that reveals its light in darkness. With a look of disregard, which he made no effort to conceal, Pandit Omkarnath turned his face away.

Mr. Tankha did not wish to get involved in such pointless discussions. Yet he wanted to show Rai Sahib that he, too, had a right to speak on the subject. He said,