They drank heavily and sang merrily until evening. Mirzaji became a child among children, a drinker among drinkers, an old man among the old, and a youth among the young. In such a short time, he had become so intimately acquainted with the entire village that it seemed as if he were a native himself. The boys clung to him. One would snatch his tasseled cap and put it on his own head, another would strut about with his rifle perched on his shoulder, another would unfasten his wristwatch and tie it on his own wrist. Mirza himself drank copious amounts of country liquor and, swaying, sang with the wild men.

When they departed at sunset, the entire village—men and women—came a long way to see them off. Some even wept. Perhaps it was the first time in the lives of these poor villagers that a hunter had hosted them. Surely, he must be a king—who else could possess such generosity? When would they ever behold him again?

After walking some distance, Mirza turned back and said, “How happy they were! If only such days came often in my life. Today was truly a blessed day.”

Tankha replied coldly, “It may have been blessed for you, but for me it was nothing but ill-fated. Nothing came of it. After wandering all day through forests and hills, we return empty-handed.”

Mirza said mercilessly, “I have no sympathy for you.”

When the two men reached the banyan tree, both groups had already returned. Mehta sat with his face downcast. Malti sat apart, looking despondent—a new thing. Raisahib and Khanna had both gone hungry, and no one uttered a word. Vakil Sahib was upset because Mirza had betrayed him. Only Mirza Sahib was cheerful, and his cheerfulness was otherworldly.

:8:

Ever since the cow arrived in Hori’s house, the household’s prosperity seemed transformed. Ghuniya’s pride swelled beyond measure. At every moment, there was talk of the cow.

The fodder had run out. A little green cane from the sugarcane field had been given to her. They had to chop up whatever they could and feed it to the animals. Their eyes remained fixed on the sky, praying for rain to fall and grass to grow. Half of Ashadh had passed, and still there was no rain.

Suddenly, one day, clouds gathered and a heavy Ashadh downpour fell. The peasants took up their ploughs to sow the kharif crop, when the steward of Raisahib sent word: until all arrears were paid, no one would be allowed to plough their fields. It was as if a thunderbolt had struck the farmers. Never before had there been such severity—what kind of order was this? No one could just abandon the village and run away. If the fields were not ploughed, where would the money come from? It could only be raised from the fields themselves. All of them went together to plead with the steward. His name was Pandit Gosairam. He was not a bad man, but he was bound by the master’s orders. How could he defy them? Only the other day, Raisahib had spoken so kindly and piously, and today, such cruelty upon the tenants. Hori was ready to go to the master himself, but then thought, once the order had been given to the steward, why would the master go back on it? Why should he take the lead and make himself the villain? When no one else spoke up, why should he leap into the fire? Whatever befell everyone, he too would bear.

There was turmoil among the peasants. All of them rushed to the village mahajans for money. In the village...

Mangru Sah was riding high these days. This year, he had made a good profit from hemp. He hadn’t earned any less from wheat and linseed either. Pandit Datadin and Dulari Sahuain also did some moneylending. But the greatest moneylender in the village was Jhinguri Singh. He was an agent for a prominent city moneylender. Under him worked several men who roamed the neighboring villages, dealing in loans and collections. Besides him, there were many smaller moneylenders who lent money at a rate of two annas per rupee, often without any written record.

The villagers were so fond of lending and borrowing that whoever managed to save ten or twenty rupees would immediately set himself up as a moneylender. Once, even Hori had dabbled in moneylending. The effect of that was such that people still believed Hori had hidden money stashed away somewhere. But where had that wealth gone? It hadn’t come out during the division of property, Hori hadn’t gone on any pilgrimage, nor performed any great fasts or feasts—so where had it all disappeared? Even though he was often beaten down by fate, he always seemed to bounce back.

Some people made offerings to one deity, others to another. Some agreed to pay one anna per rupee in interest, others two annas. Hori’s self-respect had not been entirely extinguished. How could he show his face to those to whom he still owed money? Apart from Jhinguri Singh, he could think of no one else. Jhinguri Singh always insisted on a formal contract, took a separate fee for the transaction, another for his commission, and yet another for the stamp paper. On top of that, he would deduct a year’s interest in advance before handing over the money. If you signed a note for twenty-five rupees, you’d be lucky to receive seventeen in hand. But what else could be done in such dire times? It was only because of Rai Sahib’s tyranny that he was forced to beg at anyone’s door.

Jhinguri Singh was sitting, chewing on a neem twig. He was a short, stout, bald, and dark man, with a long nose and large, bushy mustache—altogether clownish in appearance, and indeed, he was a great joker. He had made this village his in-laws’ home, addressing the men as brothers-in-law or fathers-in-law, and the women as sisters-in-law. On the