DURGA HAD BEEN roaming the village looking for her brother. She had gone to every place he could think of, but Opu was nowhere to be found. Her search had brought her to Awnnoda Roy’s house, so she thought, ‘Let me stop by and meet Auntie.’

As she stepped through the main gateway, however, she realized that she was about to walk into a domestic dispute. So instead of announcing her presence, she stood just inside the door and listened. In the absence of his wife, Awnnoda Roy’s household was run by his widowed sister, Shokhi Thakrun. Shokhi Thakrun was standing in the outer veranda, screaming her wrath down upon her niece-in-law, Awnnoda Roy’s son’s wife.

‘I’ll touch that one’s feet, I tell you! I’m that impressed! Seen hundreds of women, never one as desperate as her. When you know your husband can pulp your bones, shouldn’t you at least try to keep him happy? Oh no, not that one! She’ll throw it in his face! And then there’s my nephew. That poor man . . . honestly. For three days now, he’s been begging. “Put the seeds out in the sun, darling. Darling, put the seeds out in the sun.” But does she listen? Oh no! In one ear and out the other! Doesn’t even fear a husband like that! Wives in our time husked paddy and did the housework. Not this one! She’s too busy making herself up and sitting pretty, like she’s too good for housework. Painted princess! That’s what we’ve got in our household, a painted princess!’

Here, Shokhi Thakrun began to pull faces, and demonstrated how she thought ‘painted princesses’ might primp in front of the mirror.

So far, her niece-in-law had been weeping quietly in the inner courtyard. She had several blooming bruises on her arms and back, and was obviously still in pain. At the last jab, however, she finally spoke up, though in a sniffling, nasal whine.

‘When do I sit like a painted princess? I roasted five kilos of moog daal just yesterday. Sat down after lunch, no sleep, no rest, and when the five o’clock train went past I was still baking in the heat! Roasted it, pounded it—it was late night when I finally finished. The pins and needles from it haven’t died yet, all night I felt feverish—and now this beating first thing in the morning. Why? Do I sit and eat off someone else’s labour?’

Awnnoda Roy’s son Gokul had just come home with a young bamboo in one hand and a hoe in the other. Hearing the last of his wife’s words, he lost his temper again.

‘Still carrying on, are you?’ he roared. ‘Oh, you’re really asking for it now! How many times did I tell you to put the paddy seeds in the sun? Good sowable seeds, this wet weather—if those seeds sprout right now, then which one of your precious fathers will feed us for the rest of the year? Huh?’

At this,