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, his damp wife suddenly reared back in fury. ‘Don’t you bring my father into this! What has my father done to you that you’re always taking his name?’

Before the words were properly out of her mouth, Gokul threw down the bamboo and jumped up on the inner veranda with the hoe raised. ‘It’s you or me today, woman!’ he screamed. ‘I’ll beat that family loyalty out of you if it’s the last thing I do . . .’

His wife screamed. Durga screamed. A host of people surreptitiously watching from within the house screamed. Shokhi Thakrun began shouting her opinion at everyone. In the blink of an eye, everyone who had been inside the house had run out to the inner courtyard.

The family’s field hand had quietly been watching things from the outer courtyard so far. Fearing murder, he now jumped up on to the outer veranda, ran indoors to the inner courtyard, and wrenched the hoe out of Gokul’s fist. At that point, Gokul had almost reached his wife, who had backed herself into the wall, arms raised against a strike. Her eyes were pools of terror.

The field hand held the hoe away in one hand, and with the other pulled on Gokul’s arm. ‘Da Thakur, what are you doing? Come away. Come outside now.’

Gokul was almost thirty-six, but chronic malaria had left him rather weak. He knew that struggling against the muscular field hand would only emphasize his frailty to the audience. So he allowed himself to be led out of the house, raging.

‘A whole basket of paddy seeds, and she just won’t listen!’ he ranted to the field hand. ‘Now if it sprouts in this wet weather, what are we going to sow in the field this season?’

The field hand made noises of acquiescence as he guided Gokul away from the house. Durga, too, left quietly. She was relieved that Uncle Gokul had been stopped, but she also realized that this wasn’t the time to stop by for a visit.

On her way home, she saw a strange new man. He had set up an open-air brazier under the Indian plum tree near Panchu Barujje’s house. Several of the neighbours’ broken utensils were piled in small heaps around him. The man was shortish, with a weather-beaten, dried-out look. He could have been thirty-three, or he could have been fifty-three. It was hard to tell. A three-tiered necklace of dried basil seeds was looped around his neck. There was an old slicing scar on his right cheek. Veins stood out on his arms like ropes, and a halfway-clean dhuti was all he wore. Several of the neighbourhood children had gathered around to watch him work. Durga went and joined them. The man looked up at her.

‘What do you want, Khuki?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ said Durga. ‘I’m only watching.’

Later, when she went home, she told her mother about the beating at Awnnoda Roy’s house. Shorbojoya was immediately sympathetic.

‘Gokul is no