“Dharama, who has died, Dharama?” Baraju called out from the courtyard as he entered Dharama Baura’s house. On Dharama’s back, the marks of the cowherd’s whip, the black bruises on his shins, filled Baraju’s eyes with a burning rage. Entering the house, Baraju saw Dharama sitting, his body slumped, his back streaked with welts.

Baraju asked, “Dharama, who has died?”

Dharama replied, his voice trembling, “You weren’t home, Barajua, were you? If you had been, perhaps none of this would have happened. That Brahmin’s son—he beat me mercilessly.”

“Why? What happened?” Baraju’s voice broke with concern.

“You know well, Barajua, what is ever good for us? That Mishra Brahmin, how long has he been eyeing our land, and today he found his chance. He gathered a few men at the shop and stirred up trouble—since then, there’s been nothing but chaos. This morning, when the cows strayed into his sugarcane field, that was it! He caught me, tied me to the wild fig tree, and beat me. What could I say to him? My words meant nothing to him.”

From Baraju’s eyes, hot tears began to fall. Oh, Dharama! How many times has Dharama’s back been scarred like this between the two of them—how many times have tears fallen from Baraju’s eyes—who can do anything about it?

Dharama said, “If he drinks that ghee again, I swear I will never let that Mishra’s boy see my daughter’s child! What do we have—are we some great landlords? If the roots are shaken, the whole tree falls—do we possess such wealth that ghosts will come to devour it? And now, if the house and land are settled in my name, you tell me, will I not have to pay the taxes, bear all the burdens? He will do as he pleases, and I will be left to carry the load. That’s why I told Dharma Bou to keep the keys safe; give me my share—let me go to the Baighara hut—tomorrow, truly, let the elders decide and settle this once and for all. Otherwise, just as vultures fight over a carcass here, the same will happen elsewhere—will your sons remain unfed and destitute?”

Baraju could not fully grasp what Dharama was saying. He replied, “Kartika talks such nonsense, like a madman.”

“Don’t you understand, Barajua Bhui—look at this beautiful land with your own eyes.” Dharama pulled out the sharp sickle from his waistband and showed it, “Here, Barajua, see—does a man ever truly become good?”

Baraju’s body trembled. He shifted from where he was sitting, leaning back, “What are you saying, Dharama?”

Dharama rolled his eyes and said, “What is there to say? If you raise your voice, you’ll have to answer in court. After death, it’s only the skull that remains, whom should I fear? Whoever is destined for the gallows will go, whoever is meant to sleep in the house will die there. That’s why Dharama is afraid.”

Baraju Pradhan’s body was like the old mud house—broad and sturdy. On