Sharaprabou, old and wise, said with a sigh, “Oh, climb up, is there no answer? — How many times have I told you, have you ever listened to me? — Who will go again to call Sana Ojha? That Kalapanita has made it clear, for eight years now Jagu Sau has not sent any word home — and then, suddenly, one day, he just shows up at the door.”

“Sana is somewhere, I am somewhere — what do I know of all this?”

“My dear, who says you must go to the in-laws’ house? — No, it will cost too much — it’s enough if you take some chuda pitha, a little ghee for the lamp, and a few blades of dub grass—”

Sharaprabou, counting up the expenses, took the money from the corner of her saree.

Chapter Summary

Evening falls on the small hamlet of Chhe Pradhanpada, just as it does every day. The cows and buffaloes are returning home, their bells jingling. People are coming back from the fields, carrying bundles of firewood on their heads. In the middle of the village, someone calls out, “Come to the well—” The women of the household, after lighting the evening lamp, gather at the roots of the old banyan tree, chatting quietly as dusk settles in. Smoke curls up from the hearths, swirling and rising towards the sky.

At the crossroads, on the main village path, a small shop has opened. It is the only betel and tobacco shop in the hamlet. The villagers crowd around, buying a little of this and that, their voices humming in the warm evening air.

“Pour the paddy, my son, measure this grain heap.” “Chakada dada, this is my grain heap!” “Fill the basket with chaff, quickly.” “Hey, Chakada, add five more handfuls.” “Give me five quickly—my son is crying at the threshing floor.” “Oh, what's the use if your son cries? What has happened to me, tell me that.” Chakada, tired of the commotion, stepped aside from the crowd.

“Enough—let me be, I did not come here to quarrel—give me, give me my share of paddy, let me return—” “Here, take your paddy—” “Give, give me—how much longer must I wait—how much more trouble must I bear?” “Give me a handful of the broken grains—I’ll eat it with salt—” “Chakada, bring the big basket—after watering the cattle, come back.” “Wait, how much is mine—after all this, sitting here with these people, I’ve lost count. Tell me, mother, what is left for me—” “Give me, fill the basket with chaff, give me.” Chakada threw down the stalks from his hands and stood up, saying, “Come, come, let’s go, is there any more work left here?”

Sona Ma said, “Ah—how many kinds of people there are in this world! My son Kadua hasn’t come home from Sanjaber yet, and it’s already past dusk—hasn’t it struck five in the morning? Will he come galloping on a horse? Look—my paddy thresher—betel leaves, dried fish, pieces of date-palm