Let Parash say a few words, and if Shama Pradhan adds a few more, then the truth of the matter will come to light.

Whoever Shama Pradhan extended his hand to, became part of his family. He was a good man, a man of virtue. Even though she was a farmer’s daughter, what did it matter? Her heart was vast and generous. Whenever anyone in the neighboring village fell into distress, she would go straight to the Pradhan’s house. Why? Because even if there was nothing in the house, the Pradhan’s wife would scoop out a handful of rice from the bottom of the bin, wrap it up in a piece of cloth, and send it to their home— “Take this, sister! There may be nothing left in my house, but I have children too. If I don’t help others’ children, who will help mine in times of need?”

The women of the village spoke of the Pradhan’s wife with deep respect. “The Pradhan’s old lady—she is truly blessed. In that humble house of hers, how many pots, how many pans, how many earthen jars and sleeping mats has she arranged and kept ready! Here a bundle of arua rice, there a pile of usuna, here some broken rice, there some pulses, here some jaggery, there some ghee, and over there, some mustard seeds. And that skinny cow of hers—how much milk does it give, really? Yet from that, she manages to churn curd, collect butter, and keep aside a little ghee for the sick, for good people, and even for those who are not so good.”

Sharaghaboda says, “Such people are rare now, and it’s hard to find anyone like her these days. Daughter-in-law, look, in this house—”

When the old woman wakes up in the darkness before dawn, she sweeps the threshold of the house so thoroughly that even if a stray dog were to come and lick it, you would not feel disgusted.

Sebani says, “What of that? The year you had that terrible fever—when the cattle wandered off—that year onwards, the old woman has been limping about, barely able to move her arms and legs. If she ever goes to the pond, in two days she’ll be bedridden.”

The old woman worships the gods for days, fasts on every festival, and prays to be blessed with sons—Baraju and Chakada. Yet, she never calls either of her sons by name. Yes—those are men now; they must have names, but she never calls them by those. She calls the elder son ‘Shashukhia’, and the younger ‘Chagalpa’.

The old woman could see her sons as if they were right before her eyes, but she could never see her daughters-in-law in the same way. Born into such a lowly family—eating coarse rice, wearing rough cloth, enduring every hardship—what did they have to eat, what did they have to wear! For her, her life was for her husband, for her children—her happiness and sorrow were bound to theirs. What happiness could