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, “Any play can be good if the actors are good. Even the best play can be ruined in the hands of poor actors. Until educated actresses appear on our stage, our dramatic art cannot be redeemed. This time, you have created quite a stir in the Council with your questions. I can say with confidence that no member’s record is as impressive as yours.”

They claim to be well-wishers of the peasants, eager to grant them all manner of concessions, wishing to strip the zamindars of their rights—indeed, they even go so far as to call them the curse of society. Yet, they themselves are zamindars, zamindars just like thousands of others. If you truly believe that the peasants deserve concessions, then begin with yourself. Give the tenants their leases without demanding nazrana, abolish begar, renounce the practice of increasing rent, relinquish the grazing lands. I have no sympathy for those who speak like communists but live the life of the wealthy—lives just as luxurious, just as self-indulgent.

Raisahab was taken aback. Wrinkles appeared on the lawyer’s brow, and it was as if a shadow passed over the editor’s face. He himself was a devotee of collectivism, but was reluctant to set his own house on fire. Tankha came to Raisahab’s defense—“I believe that if all zamindars treated their tenants as well as Raisahab does, there would be no question at all.”

Mehta struck the second blow—“I admit, your conduct towards your tenants is exemplary. But the question is, is there not self-interest in it? Could it not be that food cooks best over a gentle flame? One who kills with sugar may be far more successful than one who kills with poison. I know only this: we are either communists or we are not. If we are, let us act accordingly; if not, let us stop this talk. I am opposed to a life of pretense. If you believe eating meat is good, then eat it openly; if you believe it is wrong, then abstain. That I can understand. But to believe it is good and eat it in secret—I cannot understand that. I call it cowardice, and cunning as well, which are, in truth, one and the same.”

Raisahab was a man skilled in the ways of public debate. He was practiced in bearing insult and injury with patience and generosity. Somewhat perplexed, he replied, “Your view is absolutely correct, Mehtaji! You know how much I respect your frankness, but you forget that, as with any journey, the journey of thought too has its stages, and you cannot leap from one stage to the next. The history of human life is proof of this. I was raised in an environment where the king is God and the zamindar is God’s minister. My late father showed such mercy to his tenants that, in times of flood or drought, he would sometimes forgive half the rent, sometimes all of it. He would take grain from his own granary to feed