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,