Everyone is silent. The elder wife always scolds Sanboh more than anyone else. Sanboh never speaks back to her mother-in-law—I do. She listens to everything with downcast eyes, in silence.

Cows, oxen, and other animals cannot speak. Even dull-witted people cannot speak up. That is why people misunderstand them, they do not know what is in their hearts. For no reason at all, how much suffering they must bear, how often they are beaten unjustly, and yet they cannot protest or defend themselves. Sanboh’s condition is just like that. She listens to everything quietly, but she has no way to open her mouth. Sometimes, out of irritation, the old mother-in-law calls her a worm. After all, she is an old woman—how much can she understand the affairs of the house? Still, the house is hers—the daughter-in-law, for her, is the one who keeps the household together. Sometimes, in the depths of her old mind, the fear arises: what if the house falls apart because of her?

Chapter Two

“Since morning, I’ve been threshing paddy in the barn, and now, whether it’s my hand or my foot, I can’t move a muscle. And yet—should I eat alone? What about everyone else’s hunger?”

“Let it go, child. Every time you eat, you talk about sharing, and every time you eat, you talk about the house falling apart.”

“Yes, what does Bhramara understand anyway? I will thresh the paddy, I will pound the rice, and I will again sweep the house. All the blame is mine. All the insults are reserved for me alone.”

No one speaks out of turn, neither the elder daughter-in-law nor the younger one. She is the daughter of a respectable family—a single daughter—raised with care and affection. When she first came to her in-laws’ house, she brought so much dowry that all the neighbors came to see and their eyes widened in amazement. The girls envied her parental home. The daughters-in-law felt a secret shame in their hearts. When the mother-in-law called her daughter-in-law aside, she lowered her voice and said, “Listen, my dear, what is the use of so much pride? Have you filled my house with gold, silver, silk, and ornaments from your father’s house, that you should act so high and mighty here?”

The younger daughter-in-law, even if she wanted to say something, could not utter a word; she just sat quietly. She was new here. Her mother-in-law and father-in-law were still alive—how could she step out of line, how could she speak to anyone as she wished?

The mother-in-law and the elder daughter-in-law did not speak much to her. Who would bother to talk nicely? And what did she possess anyway? In this respectable family, she was just one more person—doing all the work. She was only a new daughter-in-law, sitting quietly. She did not dare to speak out of turn.

The mother-in-law called out, “Come here, daughter, bring the net. I will sprinkle turmeric on the servant, and then I will go to the paddy field and winnow the grain.”

The elder daughter-in-law, with a sly smile, slowly said to her mother-in-law, “Why don’t you call Nehamani to help?”

The younger daughter-in-law’s name was Nesamani. Nesamani, hiding her face, quietly started pounding the paddy. The mother-in-law, helpless, what more could she say? She smeared turmeric on the broomstick, and, glancing towards the backyard, said with a sigh, “Oh dear, how much pain I have to bear in my old age! For whom, I wonder, do I toil and struggle? Does anyone care whether I eat or not? Everyone just sits around, waiting for a chance to boss over me—”

The elder daughter-in-law, pretending to be innocent, went over to her mother-in-law and said, “Mother, your favorite daughter-in-law never says a word against the fish or the vegetables.”

The mother-in-law, turning to the wise daughter-in-law, replied, “Let it go, let it go, she’s just a child; why take her words to heart?”

The younger daughter-in-law felt humiliated; after all, this was her father-in-law’s house. How many years had it been since she came as a bride? Who would listen to her virtues?

The younger daughter-in-law stood there, her face burning with shame; but as soon as she reached the threshing floor, she gathered the other women and recounted everything that had happened. She even added a few words of her own. If not today, then tomorrow, these words would surely come out into the open. How long could she keep them bottled up inside?

Chhakada Khoka, with a faded gamucha slung over his shoulder, a silver ear-ring dangling from his ear, and a golden tooth glinting in his mouth, roams about the lanes of the village. Tucked under his arm is a silver-handled walking stick, and over his white shirt, a black waistcoat is draped, its corners flapping as he returns from the fair with his village friends, having watched the yatra performance. He makes sure to reach home just in time for the meal, loudly demanding food—if there’s any delay, he grumbles and sulks.

Old Shama Pradhan thinks to himself, “If Chhakada Khoka ever had to bear a yoke on his shoulders, he’d collapse under its weight.” The old woman, hearing the sound of footsteps, warns her daughters-in-law, “Look, Chhakada is back. Hurry up and serve your brother-in-law his food. Otherwise, who knows what he’ll say or do!”

That day was the grand Sunapoda fair—a big event. Chhakada had spent all his coins, wandered among the horses, watched the village drama, and returned home late, well past dusk. In the Pradhan household, the children had already gone to bed; the old couple, too, had finished their meal and were lying down. Only the women sat awake in the house—what could they bring from their father’s home! The youngest son was already asleep. Still, before going to bed, the mother and sisters-in-law had left instructions: as soon as the elder brother returned, wake him up and serve him food at once.

The old man