“Hey, when someone leaves the house, who gives them a few coins in another’s hand?”

Chakada Narba, in his old age, has started uttering these falsehoods. If the children don’t hear a few lies, how will they understand? The old man’s mind is muddled—are the children to blame? What can Chakada do, when the neighbors keep pestering him, even if he tries to explain, somehow the burden always falls on the children. That’s why he nags his wife, scolds her, gives her five paise for the market, tells her to cook lentils—sometimes he brings home a little salt, sometimes a handful of grain—always fussing, he hands it over to her. He warns her—if you tell the old woman, I won’t give you anything tomorrow.

Chapter Three

Life and death; waking and dream—two separate worlds. Yet, there is no gap between the two—they lie side by side. A man’s actions are seen, but who can see what lies within his heart? At times, wisdom fails at the crucial moment. The customs of the household, the duties of a wife, the upbringing of children—everyone, every good person, must journey from life to death. Who can avoid it? Who has such power? Man? Ah, just a creature of dust!

Baraju returns home, uncertain, with a heavy heart—first to the old woman. It is a good thing—old debts may be repaid, and perhaps, new ones will not arise.

Why should the hair turn grey, why should the body remain? The elder daughter-in-law is washing her feet, the granddaughter is parting her hair, and I sit at the threshold chanting the name of Bhagavan.

The lamp flickers and sputters. The house is half-lit, half in darkness. The lamp of life—when the time comes, it too flickers and dims away.

The lamp flared up for a moment—long shadows stretched across the house. The old woman’s necklace slipped from her neck.

Granddaughter, daughter-in-law, son, husband, the whole family remained behind; all attachments faded away—house, cattle, the patch of spinach in the garden. The old woman departed. The news of her passing did not take long to reach every house in the village. Even before the funeral rites, people were saying—if the old woman hadn’t had such merit, would she have left so peacefully? If she hadn’t been so virtuous, would she have passed away on such an auspicious Ekadashi, with her hair still dark and beautiful?

No one saw Shama Pradhan weep and wail at the old woman’s death. After the body was taken away, he came back from a distance, stood at the well, and said, “How many days do I have left? I am more than sixty years old. For a few days, can I live in this world without the old woman’s company?”

The old woman was gone. Nothing in the world had changed; the sun still rose and set as before. The next day, the sun circled the sky in its eternal, ancient path, just as it always had. On the banks of