He wondered, why hasn’t the master come yet? He too should come and see how skilled these villagers are at this work. His friends should see it as well. How could he call the master? He was searching for an opportunity, and as soon as he found a moment, he slipped away and came here. But upon seeing the scene before him, he stood stunned. Everyone was silent, trembling, their anxious eyes fixed on Khan, who was pulling Malti towards himself. Hori’s simple mind quickly grasped the situation. At that very moment, Raisahib called out—“Hori, run and fetch the policemen, quickly!”

Hori had just turned to go when Khan leveled his gun at him and barked, “Where are you going, you swine? I’ll shoot you!”

Hori was a rustic man. The sight of a red turban would make his heart leap into his throat, but he would not hesitate to take up a stick and charge at a rampaging bull. He was no coward; he knew both how to kill and how to die. But before the tricks of the police, he was powerless—who wants to be dragged about in chains, where would he get the money for bribes, upon whom would he leave his wife and children? But when the master calls out, then what is there to fear? Then he could leap even into the jaws of death.

He lunged forward, grabbed Khan by the waist, and tripped him so hard that Khan fell flat on his back, cursing in Pashto. Hori climbed onto his chest and, grabbing his beard, gave it a mighty yank. The beard came away in his hand. Khan immediately tore off his cap and, with a forceful shove, stood up. Ah! It was Mr. Mehta. The very same.

The people surrounded Mehta from all sides. Some patted him on the back, but on Mr. Mehta’s face there was neither a smile nor pride. He stood silently, as if nothing had happened.

Malti said with feigned anger, “Where did you learn this trickery? My heart is still pounding.”

Mehta replied with a smile, “I was merely testing the bravery of these good men. If I have been impertinent, please forgive me.”

When this performance ended, the Dhanur-Yajna in the theater had also concluded, and preparations for a social farce were underway. But these gentlemen had little interest in that. Only Mr. Mehta went to watch and stayed from beginning to end. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. From time to time he clapped and, urging the actors with “Say it again, say it again,” encouraged them further. In this farce, Raisahib had caricatured a litigious rural zamindar. It was called a farce, but it was filled with pathos. The protagonist’s constant references to legal statutes, filing a lawsuit against his wife simply because she was a little late in preparing his meal, the antics of the lawyers, the cunning and tricks of the village witnesses—how they were quick to agree to testify, but when it came time to appear in court, they would demand all sorts of favors and make fools of everyone—these scenes had the audience rolling with laughter. The finest scene was when the lawyer was coaching the witnesses on their statements. The witnesses kept making mistakes, the lawyer grew frustrated, then the protagonist explained things to them in rustic dialect, and finally, in court, the witnesses changed their stories entirely. It was so vivid and true to life that Mr. Mehta jumped up and, when the play ended, embraced the protagonist and announced a medal for each of the actors. A feeling of reverence for Raisahib welled up in his heart. Raisahib was backstage, directing the play.

Mehta ran up and embraced him, exclaiming with delight, “I had no idea your gaze was so keen.”

The next day, after breakfast, there was a plan for a hunt. The idea was to prepare a meal right there on the bank of some river in the forest, to frolic in the water, and return home by evening. They would savor the pleasures of rural life. The guests who had pressing matters took their leave; only those remained who were close to Rai Sahib. Mrs. Khanna had a headache and could not go, and the editor, smoldering with resentment toward this group, was preoccupied with the idea of launching a series of articles to expose them.

“All of them are seasoned ruffians,” he thought. “They squander ill-gotten wealth and swagger about. What do they know of the world’s troubles? Who dies in their neighborhood—what do they care? Their only concern is their own indulgence and luxury. This Mehta, who struts about as a philosopher, is obsessed with making life ‘complete.’ If you earn a thousand rupees a month, you have the luxury to make your life whole or perfect. But what about the man who is crushed by worries—how to marry off his sons, how to summon a vaidya for his ailing wife, or how to pay next month’s rent? How is he to make his life complete? Like stray bulls, you trample others’ fields and imagine that all is well in the world. Your eyes will only open when the revolution comes and you are told, ‘Come, boy, take up the plough and till the fields.’ Then we’ll see how complete your life is.

“And that Malti—she’s tasted water from seventy-two streams and still parades as ‘Miss.’ She won’t marry, claiming that marriage is bondage, and in bondage life loses its fullness. Just keep all attachments at bay, and your life is complete. What could be easier? Can’t get along with your parents? Defy them. Don’t marry—marriage is bondage. Children are fetters of affection. But then, why do you pay taxes? The law is also a bondage—why not break that? Why do you skirt around it? You know well that the slightest disobedience to the law will land you in chains. No, you only break those bonds that hinder your pleasures. You beat the