Chapter 7

When this performance was over, the bow-sacrifice scene had already finished in the theatre hall, and preparations were under way for the social farce; but these gentlemen had no special interest in it. Only Mr Mehta went to watch, and stayed put from the first scene to the last. He was enjoying himself immensely. Now and then he clapped his hands, and by insisting "Again, say it again!" he kept encouraging the actors. In this farce Rai Sahib had drawn a caricature of a litigious village zamindar. It was called a farce, but it was steeped in pathos. The hero's habit of citing clauses of the law at the slightest provocation, his filing a lawsuit against his own wife merely because she had been a little late in preparing his meal, then the airs of the lawyers and the cunning and trickery of the rustic witnesses — their readiness to come forward at once to give evidence, but at the time of being summoned to the bench, their endless need to be coaxed and their cheating of everyone by demanding all kinds of inducements — watching all these scenes the audience rolled over with laughter. The finest scene of all was the one in which the lawyer was drilling the witnesses in their statements. The witnesses forgetting their lines over and over, the lawyer losing his temper, then the hero explaining things to the witnesses in the village dialect, and at last the witnesses turning their coats on the bench — it was all so lifelike and true that Mr Mehta leapt up, and when the show was over he embraced the leading actor and announced that he would give a medal to each one of the performers. A feeling of reverence for Rai Sahib awoke in his heart. Rai Sahib had been directing the drama from behind the stage. Mehta ran and flung his arms about his neck and said in delight, "I had no idea your eye was so keen."

The next day, after light refreshments, there was a shooting programme. They would cook a meal in some garden on a riverbank, sport freely in the water, and return home in the evening. The pleasures of village life were to be tasted. The guests who had particular business to attend to had taken their leave; only those remained who were on intimate terms with Rai Sahib. Mrs Khanna had a headache and could not go; and the editor was so embittered against this set that he was lost in contemplating a series of articles to take them down a peg. They are all polished-up rascals, every one of them. They squander ill-gotten money and twirl their moustaches. What do they know of what is happening in the world? What do they care who is dying in their neighbourhood? All they care about is their own pleasure and luxury. This Mehta, who goes about playing the philosopher, has only one obsession: make life complete. You pocket a thousand rupees a month, you have every right — make life complete, or perfect it. But the man crushed under the worry of how to get his sons married, or how to bring a physician for an ailing wife, or whose house the rent will come from this time — how is he to make his life complete? You roam about like a loosed bull poking your snout into other men's fields, and you imagine everyone in the world is happy. Your eyes will open when the revolution comes and you are told: Off with you, my boy, go yoke the plough in the field. Then we shall see how complete your life becomes. And there is that Malati, who, though she has drunk the water of seventy-two ghats, still goes about flaunting herself as a Miss! She will not marry, because life gets caught in bondage, and in bondage life cannot develop fully. So the full development of life consists in this: that you go on plundering the world and indulging yourself without a care! Snap all bonds, shoot religion and society dead, do not let life's duties come anywhere near you, and there — your life is complete. What could be easier than that! Don't get on with your parents — show them the door. Don't marry — that is a bond. Children are born — that is the snare of attachment. But why do you pay taxes? The law too is a bond — why don't you break it? Why do you sidestep it? You know well that the slightest disobedience of the law will land fetters on your feet. So — break only those bonds that do not interfere with your appetite for pleasure. Take a rope, beat it as though it were a snake, and pose as a great hero. Why go near a living snake at all? It will only hiss, and then the cold sweat will break out. See it coming, and you turn tail and run. That is your complete life.

At eight the shooting party set out. Khanna had never been hunting; he trembled at the sound of a gun; but Miss Malati was going — how could he stay back? Mr Tankha had not yet found an opportunity to discuss the matter of the election. Perhaps he would find that opportunity there. Rai Sahib had not visited his estate for a long while. He wished to see how things stood there. An occasional visit to the estate keeps up a connection with the tenants and maintains one's authority; the agents and the bailiffs too remain on their guard. Mirza Khurshed had a taste for acquiring fresh experiences of life, especially the kind that called for a little display of daring. How could Miss Malati stay behind alone? She wanted a crowd of admirers about her. Only Mr Mehta was going with a genuine enthusiasm for the chase. Rai Sahib wished to take along the provisions, the cook, the servants — everything; but Mr Mehta opposed this.

Khanna said, "And shall we eat there, then, or starve to death?"

Mehta replied, "Of course we shall eat, but today we will do all our own work ourselves. We ought to see whether we can stay alive without servants. Miss Malati will cook and the rest of us will eat. In the villages one can always find earthen pots and leaf-plates, and there is no shortage of firewood. As for the game, we shall hunt it ourselves."

Malati complained, "Forgive me — last night you gripped my wrist so hard that it still aches."

"We shall do the work; you have only to keep telling us how."

Mirza Khurshed said, "Oh, you people just watch the show; I shall manage everything. What is there in it? Hunting about for pots and pans in the jungle is foolishness. Shoot a deer, roast it, eat it, and then snore away there in the shade of a tree."

This proposal was accepted. Two motorcars set off. One was driven by Miss Malati, the other by Rai Sahib himself. About twenty or twenty-five miles on, hilly country began. On both sides a high range of mountains came rushing toward them. The road too grew more and more winding. After some distance of climbing, all at once a descent appeared, and the car ran swiftly downward. From afar the bed of a river came into view, lean and motionless like a sick man. The cars were halted on the bank in the shade of a dense banyan tree, and the party got down. It was decided that they should form parties of two, hunt, and return to that spot by twelve o'clock. Miss Malati was ready to go with Mehta. Khanna was left fuming inwardly. The whole purpose for which he had come seemed punctured. Had he known Malati would betray him, he would have gone back home; but Rai Sahib's company, though not so engaging, was no bad thing. There was much business he had to discuss with him. Khurshed and Tankha were left over — their party was ready-made. The three parties set off, each in its own direction.

After walking some way along a stony footpath with Mehta, Malati said, "You just keep going on. Let me catch my breath a little."

Mehta smiled. "But we have not even come a mile yet. Tired already?"

"Not tired, but why not rest a little?"

"Until some game falls into our hands, we have no right to rest."

"I did not come to hunt."

Feigning ignorance, Mehta said, "Indeed, that I did not know. Then what did you come for?"

"What is there to tell you now?"

A herd of deer came into view, grazing. The two of them hid behind a rock, took aim, and fired. The shot missed. The herd bolted. Malati asked, "Now?"

"Nothing. Come, we'll find some other game."

The two of them walked on for a while in silence. Then, pausing a little, Malati said, "The heat is making me quite wretched. Come, let us sit down under this tree."

"Not yet. If you wish to sit, sit. I shall not sit."

"How cruel you are. I mean it."

"Until I find some game, I cannot sit."

"Then you will be the death of me. All right, tell me — why did you torment me so much last night? I was very angry with you. Do you remember what you said to me? 'Will you come along with us, dildar?' I had not known you were so naughty. All right, tell me truly — would you have taken me along with you at that moment?"

Mehta gave no answer, as though he had not heard.

The two of them walked on some distance. First the scorching sun of Jeth, and then the stony road. Malati sat down, exhausted.

Standing where he was, Mehta said, "Very well, you rest. I shall come back here."

"You will leave me alone and go off?"

"I know you can protect yourself!"

"How do you know?"

"That is the way with the goddesses of the new age. They do not want a man's protection; they want to walk shoulder to shoulder with him."

Abashed, Malati said, "You are a dry philosopher, Mehta, indeed you are."

On a tree in front of them a peacock was perched. Mehta took aim and fired. The peacock flew away.

Malati said joyfully, "That is very good. My curse worked."

Resting the gun on his shoulder, Mehta said, "You cursed not me but yourself. Had the game been got, I would have granted you ten minutes' grace. Now you will have to walk at once."

Malati rose and caught Mehta's hand. "Philosophers, it seems, have no hearts. You did well not to marry — you would have killed the poor woman. But I shall not let you off like this. You cannot leave me and go."

With a jerk Mehta freed his hand and walked on ahead.

Her eyes brimming, Malati said, "I tell you, do not go. Or else I shall dash my head against this very rock."

Mehta quickened his pace. Malati went on watching him. When he had got twenty paces away, she rose in vexation and ran after him. There was no pleasure in resting alone.

Coming close, she said, "I had not thought you were so much a beast."

"Whatever deer I kill, I shall present its skin to you."

"The skin can go to blazes. I shall not speak to you any more."

"If we get nothing and the others bag good game, I shall feel very embarrassed."

A broad ravine stood gaping in their path. The rocks in its midst seemed like its teeth. The current ran with such force that the waves leapt up. The sun had reached its zenith, and its thirsty rays were sporting in the water.

Malati said happily, "Now at last we must turn back."

"Why? We will cross to the other side. The game is over there."

"What a current there is in the stream. I shall be swept away."

"Very well. You sit here; I am going."

"Yes, you go. I bear no enmity toward my own life."

Mehta set his foot in the water and walked, feeling for footholds. The further he went, the deeper the water became — so deep that it rose to his chest.

Malati grew restless. Her mind was agitated with dread. Such uneasiness she had never known before. She called out in a loud voice, "The water is deep. Stop — I am coming too."

"No, no — you will slip. The current is swift."

"It does not matter, I am coming. Do not go any further — be careful."

Hitching her sari up, Malati stepped into the ravine. But before she had come ten arm's-lengths, the water rose to her waist.

Mehta grew alarmed. Waving with both hands for her to turn back, he said, "Do not come here, Malati! Here the water is up to your neck."

Taking one more step forward, Malati said, "Let it be. If it is your wish that I should die, then I shall die beside you."

Malati was in the water up to her belly. The current was so swift that it seemed her foot was being torn loose. Mehta turned back and caught Malati with one hand.

With anger filling her intoxicating eyes, Malati said, "I had never seen so heartless a man as you. You are stone, absolutely. Well, torment me today, torment me all you can — I too shall settle accounts with you some day."

It seemed Malati's feet were giving way. Steadying the gun, she clung to him.

Reassuring her, Mehta said, "You cannot stand here. I shall carry you on my shoulders."

Knitting her brows, Malati said, "Then is it so very necessary to go to the other side?"

Mehta gave no answer. He pressed the gun down from his temple onto his shoulder, and lifting Malati with both hands, set her upon his shoulders.

Concealing her thrill, Malati said, "And if someone should see?"

"It does look unseemly."

After two steps she said in a pitiful voice, "All right, tell me — if I were to drown here in the water, would you grieve, or not? I think you would not grieve in the least."

In a wounded voice Mehta said, "You think I am not a man?"

"That is exactly what I think — why should I hide it?"

"Do you say so truly, Malati?"

"What do you think?"

"I? I shall tell you some day."

The water rose to Mehta's neck. With the next step it might rise over his head. Malati's heart began to pound. She said, "Mehta, for God's sake do not go any further now, or I shall jump into the water."

In that crisis Malati remembered God, whom she was in the habit of mocking. She knew that God did not sit somewhere ready to come and rescue them; but the support and strength her mind needed — where else could it be found?

The water had begun to grow shallow. Malati said joyfully, "Now put me down."

"No, no, sit still and quiet. There may be some pit ahead."

"You must be thinking what a selfish creature she is."

"You can pay me the wage for it."

A tickle of pleasure stirred in Malati's heart.

"What wage will you take?"

"Only this: that when some such occasion comes in your life, you must call me."

They reached the bank. On the sand Malati wrung the water from her sari, emptied the water from her shoes, washed her face and hands; but those words, with their mysterious import, kept dancing before her.

Savouring the pleasure of this experience, she said, "This day will be remembered."

Mehta asked, "Were you very frightened?"

"At first I was afraid, but then I became certain that you could protect us both."

Mehta looked at Malati with pride — on his face, along with the flush of exertion, there was a glow.

"Can you understand, Malati, how much joy it gives me to hear that?"

"When did you ever make me understand? On the contrary, you go dragging me about the jungles, and now, on the way back, this same ravine will have to be crossed again. Into what a calamity you have flung my life! If I had to live with you, we should not get on for a single day."

Mehta smiled. He understood very well what these words hinted at.

"You think me so wicked! And if I were to say that I love you, would you marry me?"

"Who would marry a man so hard as wood? Day and night you would burn me alive and be the death of me."

And she looked at him with sweet eyes, as if to say — you understand its meaning very well. You are not so dull-witted.

As if rousing himself, Mehta said, "You speak the truth, Malati! I cannot keep any woman happy. No woman can play at love with me. I would reach down to the very depths of her being. And then I would lose all relish for her."

Malati shivered. How much truth there was in these words.

She asked, "All right, tell me — with what kind of love would you be content?"

"Only this: that what is in the heart be also on the lips. For me, beauty and colour, gesture and grace, airs and coquetry — these have just the worth they ought to have, and no more. I want that food which satisfies the soul. I have no need of stimulants and intoxicants."

Pursing her lips and drawing in a long breath, Malati said, "No one will get the better of you. You are a thorough old fox. All right, tell me — what is your opinion of me?"

Smiling mischievously, Mehta said, "You can do everything. You are intelligent, you are clever, you are gifted, you are kind, you are lively, you are proud, you can make sacrifices — but you cannot love."

Looking at him with a piercing gaze, Malati said, "You are a liar, an utter liar. This claim of yours, that you reach down to a woman's heart, seems to me worthless."

The two of them were walking on along the edge of the ravine. Twelve had struck, but now Malati had no wish either to rest or to turn back. In today's conversation she was finding a pleasure that was wholly new to her. How many learned men and leaders she had made fools of, with a single smile, a single glance, a single honeyed sentence! She could not lay the foundation of her life upon such a wall of sand. Today she had found that hard, solid, stone-like ground that struck sparks from the spade, and its very hardness drew her more and more.

There was the crack of a shot. A teal was flying over the ravine. Mehta took aim. The bird, though struck, flew on a little way, then fell into the middle of the current and began to drift with the waves.

"Now?"

"I'll go and fetch it now. Where can it go!"

So saying, he ran across the sand, set the gun down on the bank, plunged with a splash into the water and began to swim with the current; but even after exerting himself fully for half a mile, he could not reach the bird. Dead though it was, the bird seemed to fly on still.

Suddenly he saw a young woman come out of a hut on the bank, and seeing the bird drifting, she hitched her sari up to her thighs and waded into the water. In a moment she had caught the bird, and holding it up to show Mehta, she called out, "Come out of the water, Babuji — here is your bird."

Mehta was charmed to see the young woman's nimbleness and courage. At once he struck out for the bank and in two minutes was standing beside her.

The young woman's complexion was dark, and very dark at that; her clothes were extremely dirty and clumsy; in the way of ornaments she had only two thick bangles on each wrist; the hair of her head was tangled and unkempt. There was no part of her face that could be called beautiful or shapely. But that clean, pure climate had filled her darkness with such loveliness, and her limbs, nurtured in the lap of Nature, had grown so well-formed, so firmly built, so free, that to draw a picture of youth one could find no form more beautiful. Her sturdy health seemed to be filling Mehta's heart with strength and vigour.

Thanking her, Mehta said, "You came at just the right moment, or I do not know how far I should have had to swim."

The young woman said happily, "When I saw you swimming up, I ran. You must have come to hunt."

"Yes, I had come to hunt all right, but the noon is upon us and this is the only bird I have got."

"If you want to shoot a leopard, I can show you its haunt. It comes here every night to drink water. Sometimes it comes even at midday."

Then, growing a little shy and lowering her head, she said, "You will have to give us its skin. Come to my door. There is the shade of a pipal tree there. How long will you stand here in the sun? And your clothes have got wet too."

Looking at the wet sari clinging to her body, Mehta said, "Your clothes are wet too."

She said carelessly, "Oh, what does it matter for us? We belong to the jungle. We stand all day long in the sun and the water. You could not do that."

How sensible the girl is — and yet quite a peasant.

"What will you do with the skin?"

"My grandfather sells them in the market. That is our trade."

"But if we spend the heat of the day here, what will you give us to eat?"

The young woman said bashfully, "What is there in our house fit for you to eat? If you will eat maize bread, there is some by us. I shall cook a curry of the bird. You can tell me how you want it made. There is a little milk as well. Once a leopard set upon our cow. She drove it off with her horns and got away — ever since then the leopard is afraid of her."

"But I am not alone. There is a woman with me too."

"Your wife, I suppose?"

"No, I have no wife yet. She is an acquaintance."

"Then I shall run and fetch her. You go and sit in the shade."

"No, no, I shall fetch her."

"You must be tired. You city folk — why would you ever come into the jungle? We are jungle people. She must be standing right on the bank."

Before Mehta could say anything, she was gone like the wind. When Mehta climbed up and sat in the shade of the pipal tree, a fondness for this free, untrammelled life arose in his heart. The range of mountains in front, spreading inaccessible and infinite like the principle of philosophy, seemed to be unfolding knowledge, as though the soul were beholding that knowledge, that light, that inaccessibility, in its direct and vast form. On a very high peak far away there was a tiny temple, standing in that inaccessibility lofty as the intellect, yet seeming lost — as though a bird beating its wings up to that point sought rest and found nowhere to alight.

Mehta was sunk in these thoughts when the young woman arrived, bringing Miss Malati with her — the one blooming in the sunlight like a wildflower, the other withered and lifeless in the sun like a flower in a pot.

Malati said listlessly, "The shade of the pipal is very pleasant, yes — and here I am all but dying of hunger."

The young woman fetched two large pots and said, "You sit here meanwhile; I shall run at once and bring water, then I shall light the hearth, and if you will eat what my hands make, in a moment I shall toast the dough-cakes — or you can toast them yourself. Yes, there is no wheat flour in my house, and there is no shop anywhere here that I might fetch it from."

Malati was growing angry with Mehta. She said, "Why did you come and land yourself here?"

Teasing her, Mehta said, "For one day, taste a little of the joy of life. See how much flavour there is in maize bread."

"I cannot possibly eat maize bread, and even if I somehow swallowed it, it would not be digested. I am very sorry I came with you. You drove me to death the whole way, and now you have brought me here and dumped me."

Mehta had taken off his clothes and was sitting in nothing but a blue loincloth. When he saw the young woman carrying the pots away, he snatched them from her hands and set off to draw water at the well. Even amid his deep study of philosophy he had taken care of his health, and as he walked carrying the two pots, his muscular, broad chest and his sinewy thighs, like the well-formed limbs of some Greek statue, gave evidence of his manly vigour. The young woman watched him drawing water with eyes full of fondness. He had now become for her not an object of pity, but an object of reverence.

The well was very deep — some sixty arm's-lengths — the pots were heavy, and Mehta, for all his practised exercising, grew slack while drawing up one pot. The young woman ran and snatched the rope from his hands and said, "You won't manage to draw it. Go and sit on the cot; I shall draw it."

Mehta could not bear this insult to his manhood. He took the rope back from her hands, and putting forth his strength, in a moment drew up the second pot too, and carrying both pots, one in each hand, came and stood at the door of the hut. The young woman quickly kindled the fire, singed the feathers of the teal, cut its flesh into pieces with a knife, lit the fire in the hearth and set the meat to cook, and on the other side of the hearth began to boil milk in a pan.

And Malati, with knitted brows, lay on the cot with a vexed mind, watching this scene as though preparations were being made for her operation.

Standing at the door of the hut, watching the young woman's domestic skill with admiring eyes, Mehta said, "Give me some work to do too. What shall I do?"

With a sweet scolding the young woman said, "You have nothing to do — go and sit beside the lady, the poor thing is very hungry. The milk is getting warm — give it to her to drink."

She took flour out of a jar and began to knead it. Mehta watched the play of her limbs. The young woman too, again and again, would glance at him out of the corner of her eye and then return to her work.

Malati called out, "Why are you standing there? My head is aching badly. Half of it feels as if it would split and fall off."

Coming over, Mehta said, "It seems you have had a touch of the sun."

"How was I to know you were bringing me here to do me to death?"

"Is there no medicine with you?"

"Was I coming to attend a patient, that I should carry medicine? I have a box of medicines, but it is in Semari! Ugh! My head is splitting."

Sitting on the ground at her head, Mehta began slowly to stroke her head. Malati closed her eyes.

The young woman, with flour all over her hands, her hair scattered, her eyes red and watering from the smoke, her whole body soaked with sweat — so that her swelling breast showed plainly through it — came and stood there, and seeing Malati lying with her eyes closed, said, "What has happened to the lady?"

Mehta said, "She has a bad headache."

"In the whole head, or in half of it?"

"She says it is in half of it."

"On the right side, or the left?"

"On the left."

"I'll run and bring a medicine at once. The moment it is ground and applied, she will be well."

"Where will you go in this heat?"

The young woman did not even hear him. Swiftly she went off to one side and disappeared among the hills. About half an hour later Mehta saw her climbing a high hill. From that distance she looked just like a doll. He thought to himself — how much spirit of service and how much practical wisdom there is in this jungle girl. In the burning wind and the heat she goes climbing up to the sky.

Malati opened her eyes and looked round. "Where has that black thing gone? Frightfully dark she is, like a block of ebony. Send her off — let her go and tell Rai Sahib to send the car here. In this heat I shall give up the ghost."

"She has gone to fetch some medicine. She says it cures a one-sided headache very quickly."

"These people's medicines do good only to themselves; they will do me none. You have quite lost your head over this girl. How cheap you are. As the soul, so the angel."

Mehta had no scruple about speaking a bitter truth.

"There are some things in her such that, if they were in you, you would truly become a goddess."

"Joy to her in her virtues — I have no wish to become a goddess."

"If you wish, I shall go and bring the car, though whether the car can even reach this place, I cannot say."

"Why don't you send that black thing?"

"She has gone for the medicine, and then she will cook the food."

"So today you are her guest. Perhaps you mean to stay the night here too. Good game is to be had at night, after all."

Stung by this taunt, Mehta said, "The love and reverence I feel in my heart for this young woman are such that if I were to look upon her with desire, may my eyes burst. I would not climb that high hill in this sun and burning wind even for an intimate friend of mine. And she knows that we are guests only for an hour. She would run with the same readiness for any poor woman. I can only write articles on universal brotherhood and universal love, I can only deliver speeches; she practises that love and that sacrifice. To do is far harder than to say. You too know that."

With a mocking air Malati said, "Quite so, quite so — she is a goddess. I grant it. Her breast has a swell, her hips a heaviness — what more is needed to be a goddess?"

Mehta writhed. He rose at once and put on his clothes, which had dried. He picked up the gun and made ready to leave. Malati hissed, "You cannot go, leaving me alone."

"Then who is to go?"

"That goddess of yours."

Mehta stood there bewildered. How easily a woman can vanquish a man — this he experienced today for the first time in his life.

She came running and panting along — that same dark young woman, with a herb in her hand. Coming close and seeing Mehta ready to go somewhere, she said, "I found the root. I shall grind it and apply it at once. But where are you going? The meat must be done by now; I shall toast the bread. Eat a couple of pieces. The lady can drink the milk. When it cools down, you may go."

Without any hesitation she undid the buttons of Mehta's coat. Mehta was holding himself in hard. He longed to kiss the feet of this peasant woman.

Malati said, "Leave your medicine alone. By the river, under the banyan, our motorcar is standing. There will be other people there. Tell them to bring the car here. Run along."

The young woman looked at Mehta with humble eyes. With so much labour she had fetched the herb, and this was the slight it received! If this peasant woman's medicine did not appeal to them, well and good — but to humour her, the lady might at least have let a little of it be applied. What would have been the harm?

Setting the herb down on the ground, she asked, "By then the hearth will have gone cold, lady. If you say so, shall I toast the bread and set it by? Let Babuji eat, you drink the milk, and both of you rest. By then I shall fetch the man with the motor."

She went into the hut, kindled the dead fire again. She saw that the meat had boiled — some of it had even got a little burnt. Quickly she toasted the bread, cooled the milk, which was warm, and brought it in a bowl to Malati. Malati made a face at the coarseness of the bowl, but she could not give up the milk. Mehta, sitting at the door of the hut, began to eat meat and bread from a platter. The young woman stood fanning him.

Malati said to the young woman, "Let them eat. He is not running off anywhere. You go and bring the car."

The young woman looked once at Malati with questioning eyes — what does she want? what is her meaning? She did not see on Malati's face the humility, gratitude, and entreaty of the sick. In their place was a flash of arrogance and insolence. The peasant woman was shrewd at reading feelings. She said, "I am no one's maidservant, lady! You are a great person, the mistress of your own house. I am not going to you to ask for anything. I shall not go to fetch the car."

Malati scolded her, "So you have girded yourself for insolence! Tell me, in whose estate do you live?"

"This is Rai Sahib's estate."

"Then I shall have you flogged with horsewhips by those very Rai Sahib's men."

"If it gives you pleasure to have me flogged, then have me flogged, lady! I am no queen or empress, that an army need be sent."

Mehta had swallowed two or three mouthfuls when he heard Malati's words. The mouthful stuck in his throat. He washed his hands quickly and said, "She is not going. I am going."

Malati too stood up. "She will have to go."

Mehta said in English, "By humiliating her you are not adding to your own dignity, Malati."

Malati lashed out, "It is just such maidservants that men like — those who, whether they have any other virtue or not, run about waiting on them with a glad heart and bless their good fortune that this man has condescended to ask them to do this work. They are goddesses, they are powers, they are blessed beings. I had thought that, of all people, you were not lacking in true manhood; but inwardly, by your conditioning, you too are the same barbarian."

Mehta was a scholar of psychology. He understood the secrets of Malati's mind. He had never come upon so strange an instance of jealousy. In that woman, who was so gentle by nature, so generous, so cheerful of face — such a fierce flame of jealousy!

He said, "Say what you will, I shall not let her go. I cannot make myself base in my own eyes by giving her this reward for her services and her kindnesses."

There was such force in Mehta's voice that Malati rose slowly and made ready to leave. Burning, she said, "Very well, then I shall go myself. You worship at her feet and come along afterward."

When Malati had gone two or three steps, Mehta said to the young woman, "Now give me leave, sister. This affection of yours, this selfless service of yours, will always be remembered."

With both hands and brimming eyes the young woman saluted him, and went inside the hut.

The second party was that of Rai Sahib and Khanna. Rai Sahib was in his same silk kurta and silk wrap. But Khanna had got himself up in a hunting suit, made up, perhaps, for this very day; for what leisure had Khanna from hunting his tenants, that he should go hunting beasts? Khanna was a short, slight, handsome man, of wheaten complexion, with large eyes and pockmarks on his face, very adept in conversation.

After they had walked some distance, Khanna brought up the subject of Mr Mehta, who had been lodged in his mind, like the demon Rahu, since the previous day.

He said, "This Mehta too is a queer sort of man. He seems to me rather an affected fellow."

Rai Sahib respected Mehta and considered him a sincere, guileless man, but he had dealings of give-and-take with Khanna, and was besides somewhat peace-loving by nature, so he could not contradict him. He said, "I look on him merely as a source of amusement. I never argue with him, and even if I wished to, where should I get so much learning from? When a man who has never set foot in the field of life starts intoning some new doctrine about life, it makes me laugh at him. He comfortably pockets a thousand a month — no wife, no millstone round his neck, no worry, no obstacle — who should hold forth on philosophy if not he! Free of all cares, he dreams of making life complete. What is the use of arguing with such a man?"

"I have heard his character is not good."

"How can character stay good in a life free of all care? Live in society, fulfil the duties and observe the proprieties of society — then one's mettle is known."

"I cannot think what Malati sees in him that she goes about so smitten with him."

"I think she is only doing it to make you jealous."

"What jealousy could she rouse in me, poor thing? I think no more of her than a plaything."

"Do not say that, Mr Khanna. You are ready to die for Miss Malati."

"In that case I could lay the same charge at your door."

"I really do think of her as a plaything. It is you who have made her into an idol."

Khanna gave a loud burst of laughter, though there was nothing to laugh at.

"If a boon can be had by pouring out a single lota of water, where is the harm?"

This time Rai Sahib gave a loud burst of laughter, for which there was no occasion.

"Then you have not understood that goddess at all. The more you worship her, the further she will run from you. The further you run from her, the more she will run after you."

"In that case she ought to be running after you."

"After me! I am quite outside that circle of gallants, Mr Khanna, I tell you truly. Whatever intelligence and whatever strength I have are all spent in the management of this estate. Every soul in my house is absorbed in his own pursuit — one in worship, another in sensual pleasure. Each is lost in his own. And it is my work, my duty, to find food for all these pythons. Many of my fellow taluqdars give themselves to pleasure and luxury — I know that. But those men burn down their houses to enjoy the spectacle. The burden of debt mounts on their heads, decrees are passed against them every day. They do not know how to repay those they borrow from; they are disgraced on every side. I think it better to die than to live such a life! I do not know by what conditioning a little spark of life is left in my soul, that keeps me bound by the ties of country and society. The Satyagraha movement broke out. All my kinsmen were sunk in wine and meat. I could not restrain myself. I went to jail and took on losses worth lakhs of rupees, and I am still paying the penalty for it. I have no regret for it. None at all. I am proud of it! I do not consider that man a man who does not strive and sacrifice for the good of country and society. Do you think it pleasing to me to suck the blood of lifeless peasants and to provide the means for the gratification of my family's appetites? But what can I do? Though I loathe the system in which I was reared and have lived, I cannot give up my attachment to it, and so I am caught in that very treadmill day and night, striving somehow to keep honour and reputation intact and to keep the soul from being murdered. Such a man cannot run after Miss Malati — or any Miss — and if he does, you may take it that his ruin is certain. Yes, a little amusement now and then is another matter."

Mr Khanna too was a man of courage, one who pressed forward in the fight. He had been to jail twice. He knew not how to be cowed by anyone. He wore khadi and drank French wine. When occasion required, he could endure great hardships. In jail he had not so much as touched liquor, and though lodged in 'A' class, he had gone on eating the bread of 'C' class, although every kind of comfort had been available to him. But a chariot bound for the battlefield cannot run without oil either. A little zest of pleasure was indispensable in his life. He said, "You can become an ascetic; I cannot. I hold that a man who is not given to enjoyment cannot go into battle either with full enthusiasm. I have no faith in the patriotism of a man who cannot love a woman."

Rai Sahib smiled. "You have begun to fling barbs at me."

"It is not a barb, it is a matter of principle."

"Perhaps it is."

"You will know if you dive down into your own heart and look."

"I have dived in and looked, and I assure you that, whatever other faults may be there, the appetite of sensuality is not."

"Then I pity you. The sole cause of your being so unhappy, so hopeless, and so anxious is this self-restraint of yours. As for me, I shall play out this drama, though it end in tragedy. She jokes with me, she shows that she does not care for me, but I am not a man to lose heart. I have not yet understood her temper. I have not been able to determine where the shot will strike home. The day I find that key — there is the victory."

"But that key you will probably never find. Mehta will likely carry off the prize from under your nose."

A stag was grazing with several does — a stag with great horns, quite black. Rai Sahib took aim. Khanna stopped him. "Why do you commit murder, my friend? The poor thing is grazing — let it graze. The sun has grown hot. Come, let us sit somewhere. I have some things to say to you."

Rai Sahib fired, but the stag bolted. He said, "One head of game came our way, and even that the shot missed."

"You were saved one murder."

"Well, say on — what were you going to say?"

"Is sugarcane grown on your estate?"

"In great abundance."

"Then why not join our Sugar Mill? The shares are selling like hot cakes. Buy a thousand shares — not more."

"Good heavens, where shall I find so much money?"

"So famed an estate-holder, and short of money! It is only fifty thousand in all. And of that, only twenty-five per cent is to be paid for the present."

"No, my dear sir, I have absolutely no money on hand just now."

"Take as much money as you want from me. The bank is yours. Yes — by the way, you will not yet have had your life insured. Take a good policy with my company. A hundred or two hundred rupees a month you can pay quite easily, and a lump sum will be received — forty or fifty thousand. You could not make a better provision for your sons. Look at our regulations. We work on the principle of full co-operation. Apart from the office and staff expenses, not a single pie of the profit goes into anyone's pocket. You will be amazed that the company runs at all on this policy! And on my advice, start a little speculation business as well. These hundreds of millionaires you see — all were made by this very speculation. Speculate in some commodity — cotton, sugar, wheat, rubber. In minutes lakhs change hands. The business is a little tricky. Many people come to grief, but only those who are bunglers. For experienced, well-educated, far-seeing men like you, there is no more profitable business. The rise and fall of the market is no chance happening. It too has its science. Once you study it carefully, what chance is there of being deceived?"

Rai Sahib mistrusted companies; he had had bitter experience of them once or twice; but Mr Khanna he had watched rising before his very eyes, and he had been won over to his efficiency. The man who only ten years ago had been a clerk in a bank was now venerated in the city solely by his own perseverance, energy, and talent. His counsels could not be slighted. If, in this matter, Khanna became his guide, he might attain much success. Why let such an opportunity slip? He went on putting questions of all sorts.

Suddenly a villager came into view, carrying in a large basket some roots, some leaves, some flowers.

Khanna asked, "Hello, what are you selling?"

The villager was flustered. He took fright, lest he be seized for forced labour. He said, "Nothing, master — only this grass and leaves."

"What will you do with these?"

"I shall sell them, master. They are herbs."

"What herbs are they? Tell me."

The villager opened up his dispensary and showed them. They were ordinary things, which the jungle folk dig up and carry off to sell to the apothecaries in town for two or four annas. Such as makoy, kanghi, sahadeiya, kukronda, datura seeds, madar flowers, karanja, ghunchi, and the like. He showed each article and recited their virtues in well-rehearsed words. "This is makoy, sarkar! Fever, dyspepsia, an enlarged spleen, palpitation, colic, cough — a single dose gives relief. These are datura seeds, master — for rheumatism, for joint pains..."

Khanna asked the price. The man said eight annas. Khanna tossed him a rupee and ordered him to carry the basket to the halting-place. The poor man got not merely the price he had asked, but double it. He went off pouring out blessings.

Rai Sahib asked, "What will you do with this grass and leaves?"

Smiling, Khanna said, "I shall turn them into gold coins. I am an alchemist. Perhaps you did not know that."

"Then, my friend, teach me that spell too."

"Yes, yes, gladly. Become my disciple. First fetch a seer and a quarter of laddus as an offering, then I shall tell you. The thing is this: I deal with all sorts of men. Some people come who would lay down their lives for herbs. Let them once learn that this is a herb given by some fakir, and they will then flatter you, rub their noses on the ground, and if you give that thing to them, they will become your debtors for ever. If, with a single rupee, a wad of obligation can be strapped onto ten or twenty fools, where is the harm? With a trifling favour great undertakings are pushed through."

Rai Sahib asked with curiosity, "But how will you remember the virtues of these herbs?"

Khanna gave a loud laugh. "There you go, Rai Sahib! You do say the most amusing things. Whatever virtue you please, assign it to whatever herb you please — it all depends on your skill. Health is, after all, half a rupee in faith. These great officers you see, and these long-tailed scholars, and these noblemen — they are all superstitious. I know a professor of botany who does not even know the name of the kukronda. As for these scholars, our Swamiji makes fine sport of them. You will never have had the good fortune of meeting him. When you come next time, I shall introduce you. Ever since he has been staying in my garden, there has been an unbroken stream of people, day and night. Maya has not so much as touched him. He drinks milk only once a day. So learned a mahatma I have never yet seen. For who knows how many years he did austerities in the Himalayas. He is a fully perfected soul. You must take initiation from him. I am sure all these difficulties of yours will vanish like magic. The moment he sees you, he will tell you your whole past and future. He is so cheerful of face that one's spirits lift at the very sight of him. The wonder is that, great mahatma though he himself is, he calls renunciation and sacrifice, temples and monasteries, sects and orders — all of it humbug, all of it pretence. Break the bonds of custom and become a man, he says — give up the idea of becoming a god. Become a god and you will not remain a man."

A doubt arose in Rai Sahib's mind. He too had that faith in mahatmas which is common among men of power. He too longed for that peace which a suffering creature finds in spiritual awareness. When he despaired under his financial difficulties, the thought would come to him to turn his face from the world, go and sit in solitude, and reflect on liberation. He too, like ordinary men, regarded the bonds of the world as obstacles in the path of self-advancement, and to get free of them was the ideal of his life as well; but without renunciation and sacrifice, what other means is there of breaking the bonds?

"But if he calls renunciation humbug, why has he himself taken up renunciation?"

"When did he take up renunciation, sir? He says a man should keep working to the very end. Freedom of thought is the essence of his teachings."

"I can make nothing of it. What is the meaning of freedom of thought?"

"I have not made anything of it either. Come next time, and you can talk with him. He calls love the truth of life. And he expounds it so beautifully that the mind is enchanted."

"Have you introduced Miss Malati to him, or not?"

"You are joking again. Whatever should I introduce Malati to him for?"

The sentence was not finished when, hearing a rustling sound in the bushes ahead, he started, and driven by the instinct of self-preservation, came and stood behind Rai Sahib. A leopard emerged from the bushes and walked at a slow pace toward the front.

Rai Sahib raised his gun and was about to take aim when Khanna said, "What are you doing? You are provoking it for nothing. What if it should turn on us?"

"Why should it turn? It will drop dead on the spot."

"Then let me climb up onto that mound. I am not so passionate a hunter."

"Then what did you set out hunting for?"

"For my doom, what else!"

Rai Sahib lowered his gun.

"A fine head of game has slipped away. Such chances rarely come."

"I cannot stay here any longer. It is a dangerous place."

"Let me at least kill one or two head of game. It is shameful to go back empty-handed."

"Be so kind as to see me to the car, then hunt leopard or panther as you please."

"You are very timorous, Mr Khanna, indeed you are."

"To put one's life in danger for nothing is not bravery!"

"Very well, then, you may go back, and welcome."

"Alone?"

"The way is perfectly clear."

"No, sir. You will have to come with me."

Rai Sahib reasoned with him at length, but Khanna would not hear of it. His face had gone pale with fright. At that moment, had so much as a squirrel come out of the bushes, he would have shrieked and fallen down. He was trembling in every fibre. He was drenched with sweat. Helplessly, Rai Sahib had to turn back with him.

When the two men had got a good distance away, Khanna's wits returned to their place.

He said, "I am not afraid of danger, but to put one's finger in the mouth of danger is folly."

"Oh, come now. You saw one small leopard, and the life went out of you."

"I regard hunting as a relic of the age when man was a beast. Civilization has advanced far since then."

"I shall expose you to Miss Malati."

"I do not consider it a thing to be ashamed of, to be a believer in non-violence."

"Ah, so this was your non-violence. Bravo!"

Khanna said with pride, "Yes, sir, this was my non-violence. You take pride in the names of Buddha and Shankara, and you slaughter beasts — it is you who ought to be ashamed, not I." For some distance the two men again walked in silence. Then Khanna said, "So when will you come? I want you to fill out the policy form this very day, and the sugar-share form as well. I have both forms with me."

Rai Sahib said in a worried voice, "Let me just think it over."

"There is no need to think it over."

The third party was that of Mirza Khurshed and Mr Tankha. For Mirza Khurshed the past and the future were like a blank sheet of paper. He lived in the present. He had neither remorse for the past nor anxiety for the future. Whatever came before him, he threw himself into it heart and soul. In a circle of friends he was the very image of mirth. In the Council there was no member more zealous than he. Whatever question he set himself upon, he would reduce the ministers to tears. He knew not how to show favour or partiality to anyone. Now and then he would crack a jest as well. For him today was life; of tomorrow there was no telling. So hot-tempered was he, too, that he would come forward and slap his thigh in challenge. Before humility he bowed to the ground; but wherever anyone showed pride, he would wash his hands and go after him. He remembered neither his own dues nor the debts of others. His passions were poetry and wine. Woman was for him merely an object of amusement. Long ago his heart had declared bankruptcy.

Mr Tankha was a man of stratagems — most expert at clinching a deal, at smoothing out an affair, at throwing a spanner in the works, at squeezing oil out of sand, at throttling a man, at slipping away with a flick of the tail. He could, you might say, sail a boat through sand and grow grass on stone. Getting taluqdars loans from moneylenders, floating new companies, putting up candidates at election time — this was his trade. Especially at election time his fortune shone. He would set up some sturdy candidate, work for him with all his heart and soul, and make ten or twenty thousand. When the Congress was strong, he was a helper of the Congress candidate. When the communalist party grew strong, he began to work on behalf of the Hindu Sabha; but for these reversals he had such arguments ready that no one could point a finger. He was on friendly terms with all the rich men of the city, all the officials, all the nobles. Though men might not, in their hearts, approve of his ways, he was so gentle in temper that no one could say anything to his face.

Wiping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief, Mirza Khurshed said, "Today is no day for hunting. Today there ought to have been a mushaira."

The lawyer agreed, "Yes indeed, right there in the garden. It would have been a splendid affair."

After a while Mr Tankha broached the matter of business.

"This coming election there will be great doings! For you too it is difficult."

Mirza said with detachment, "This time I shall not stand at all."

Tankha asked, "Why?"

"Who would engage in profitless chatter? What is the use of it? I no longer have any devotion to this democracy. A trifling bit of work, and months of debate. Yes, it is a fine show for throwing dust in the eyes of the public. Far better, then, to have a single governor — be he Indian or English, no quarrel with that. A carriage that one engine can comfortably drag thousands of miles cannot be dragged half so swiftly by ten thousand men pulling together. Watching all this farce, I have grown disgusted with the Council. If I had my way, I would set fire to the Council. What we call democracy is, in practice, the rule of the great merchants and landlords, nothing else. In an election the man who carries off the prize is the one who has money. By the power of money every facility is made ready for him. Great pandits, great maulvis, great writers and speakers, who by their tongue and pen can turn the public whichever way they wish — all rub their foreheads at the feet of the golden god. I have made up my mind: I shall go nowhere near elections any more. My propaganda from now on will be against democracy."

Mirza Sahib proved by verses of the Quran how lofty were the ideals of the kings of olden times. Today we cannot so much as look in that direction. Our eyes would be dazzled. The king had not the right to spend a single cowrie of the treasury on his private expenses. He earned his living by copying books, by sewing clothes, by teaching children. Mirza counted off a long list of ideal rulers. Where, on the one hand, that king who cherished his subjects, and where, on the other, today's ministers and Ministers — they must have five, six, seven, eight thousand a month. Is this plunder, or democracy!

A herd of deer came into view, grazing. The zeal of the hunt flashed up on Mirza's face. He took up his gun and fired. A blackish deer fell. "Got it!" With this delirious shout Mirza too went tearing off — leaping, bounding, clapping his hands, exactly like a child.

Nearby, a man was cutting wood in a tree. He too clambered down from the tree at once and ran along with Mirza. The bullet had struck the deer in the neck; its legs were quivering and its eyes had glazed over.

Looking at the deer with pitying eyes, the woodcutter said, "It was a good buck. It would weigh not a maund less. If you order, shall I lift it and carry it for you?"

Mirza said nothing. He was watching the deer's drooping, piteous, pain-filled eyes. Only a minute ago there had been life in this creature. Let the slightest leaf so much as rustle, and, pricking up its ears, it would have gone bounding away. Among its friends and offspring it had been eating the grass that God had grown; but now it lay motionless. Strip off its hide, cut it into pieces, mince it to a pulp — it would not even know. The charm that was in its sportive life, the joy that was in it — was that in this lifeless carcass? How beautiful its build had been, how lovely its eyes, how enchanting its grace! Its leaps stirred waves of delight in the heart; with its bounds our minds too began to bound. Its quickness scattered something like life as it moved, as a flower scatters fragrance — but now! To look at it brings only revulsion.

The woodcutter asked, "Where shall it be carried, master? Give me four or five paisa too."

Mirza started as if from a reverie. He said, "All right, pick it up. Where will you go?"

"Wherever you order, master."

"No, take it wherever you wish. I am giving it to you!"

The woodcutter looked at Mirza with wonder. He could not believe his ears.

"Oh no, master — your honour has done the hunting, so how can we eat it?"

"No, no, I say it gladly — you take it. How far from here is your house?"

"It will be about half a kos, master!"

"Then I too shall come with you. I shall see how glad your children are."

"I shall not take it that way, sir! You came from so far, you hunted in this fierce sun — how can I carry it off?"

"Pick it up, pick it up, don't dawdle. I have realized you are a good man."

The woodcutter, full of fear and again and again glancing apprehensively at Mirza's face lest he should turn nasty, lifted the deer. All at once he set the deer down and stood up, saying, "I understand, master — your honour has not made it lawful by the ritual slaughter."

Mirza said with a laugh, "Quite so, quite so — you have understood perfectly. Now pick it up and let us go to your house."

Mirza was not such an observer of religion. For ten years he had not said the namaz. Once in two months he kept a fast for a day. Wholly without food, without water — but he did not wish to spoil for the woodcutter the contentment he had got from the thought that the deer was now unfit food for these men.

With a lightened heart the woodcutter placed the deer on his neck and set off homeward. Tankha was still standing aloof under that tree. Why should he take the trouble of going to the deer in the sun? He could not make out what the matter was; but when he saw the woodcutter going off in the opposite direction, he came over to Mirza and said, "Where are you going off to over there, sir? Have you lost your way?"

With a guilty smile Mirza said, "I have given the game to this poor man. Now I am going along to his house. Do come too."

Tankha looked at Mirza with a curious gaze and said, "Are you in your senses or not?"

"I cannot say. I do not know myself."

"Why did you give the game to him?"

"Because the joy he will have in getting it, neither I nor you would have."

Tankha said sourly, "Go on with you! I had thought we should feast on roast kebab — and you have ruined all the fun. Well, Rai Sahib and Mehta are sure to bring back something. No grief. I want to put something before you regarding this election. You do not wish to stand — well and good, as you please — but what objection can you have to extracting a good price for it from those who are standing? I ask only this of you, that you let no one find out the secret that you are not standing. Just do me this much favour! Khwaja Jamal Tahir is standing from this very city. The votes of the rich are sixteen annas in his favour, and the officials too are his backers. Yet, because of the influence you have over the public, his flank is exposed. If you wish, you can get ten or twenty thousand rupees from him merely for letting it be made known that you are standing aside for his sake — no, let me put it to you. In this affair you have nothing to do. You sit free of care. I shall issue a manifesto on your behalf, and that very evening you can collect ten thousand in cash from me."

Mirza Sahib looked at him with contempt and said, "I curse such money, and I curse you."

Mr Tankha did not take the least offence. He did not let so much as a wrinkle come to his brow.

"Send as many curses my way as you please, but by cursing money you are only harming yourself."

"I consider such a sum unlawful."

"You are not so very strict an observer of the Shariat."

"To consider the earnings of plunder unlawful, one need not be an observer of the Shariat."

"Then in this matter can you not alter your decision?"

"No, sir."

"Very well, let that pass. You can have no objection, surely, to becoming the director of some insurance company? You will not have to buy even a single share of the company. You have only to give your name."

"No, sir, that too I will not accept. I have been the director of several companies, the managing agent of several, the chairman of several. Wealth kissed my feet. I know how many comforts and luxuries can be amassed with wealth; but I also know how selfish, how pleasure-loving, how crafty, how shameless wealth makes a man."

The lawyer no longer had the courage to put forward any other proposal. The faith he had had in Mirza's intelligence and influence dwindled greatly. For him wealth was everything, and with a man who would kick at Lakshmi he could have no fellowship.

The woodcutter, with the deer on his shoulders, was striding swiftly along. Mirza too quickened his pace, but the bulky Tankha fell behind.

He called out, "Just a moment, Mirza Sahib — you are positively running."

Without stopping, Mirza replied, "That poor fellow is going so fast under a load. Can we not, even with our bare bodies, keep up with him?"

The woodcutter had set the deer down on a tree-stump and stopped to catch his breath.

Coming up, Mirza Sahib asked, "Tired, eh?"

The woodcutter said hesitantly, "It is very heavy, sir!"

"Then give it here — I shall carry it some way."

The woodcutter laughed. In build and bulk Mirza was far taller and sturdier than he; and yet that lean, thin man laughed at this proposal of his. It was as if a whip had fallen on Mirza.

"Why did you laugh? Do you think I cannot lift it?"

The woodcutter seemed to beg pardon. "Sarkar, you are a great man. Carrying loads is the work of labourers like us."

"And am I not twice your size?"

"What does that matter, master!"

Mirza's manhood could bear no more this insult of his. He stepped forward and lifted the deer onto his neck and set off; but he could hardly have walked fifty paces when his neck began to feel as if it would split, his legs began to shake, and butterflies began to dance before his eyes. He braced his heart and walked another twenty paces. Where, confound it, had the fellow got to? It was as if this corpse had been filled with lead. If I could just lay it across Mr Tankha's neck, that would be a fine thing. He goes about swelling like a waterskin — let him have a taste of it too. But how to set the load down? Each will say to himself, off he went to show his great manliness, and in fifty paces he cried out for mercy.

The woodcutter took a sly dig. "Well, master, how do you find it? Very light, is it not?"

The load began to feel a little lighter to Mirza. He said, "I shall carry it at least as far as you have carried it."

"Your neck will ache for several days, master."

"Do you think I am puffed up for nothing?"

"No, master, now I do not think so. But pray do not distress yourself — there is the rock; set it down on that."

"I can carry it just this much further still."

"But it does not look well, that I should walk empty-handed while you stay laden."

Mirza Sahib set the deer down on the rock. The lawyer came up.

Mirza threw out the bait. "Now you too will have to carry it some distance, sir!"

In the lawyer's eyes Mirza now had no importance at all. He said, "Pardon me. I lay no claim to being a wrestler."

"It is not very heavy, truly."

"Oh, do leave it be!"

"If you carry it a hundred paces, I promise I shall accept whatever proposal you put before me."

"I do not fall for these tricks."

"It is no trick, by God! Whatever constituency you tell me to, I shall stand for. When you give the order, I shall sit down. Of whatever company you bid me — director, member, accountant, canvasser, whatever — I shall become it. Only carry it a hundred paces. I get on best with such friends as can do anything when occasion arises."

Tankha's mind tingled with eagerness. Mirza was a man of his word. There was no doubt of that. How very heavy could a deer be? After all, Mirza had carried it this far. He did not seem too greatly tired. If he refused, a golden opportunity slipped from his hands. After all, it was no mountain. At most it would be four or five times five seers in weight. The neck would ache for a couple of days, that was all! With money in the pocket, a little illness is a thing of pleasure.

"A hundred paces it is."

"Yes, a hundred paces. I shall count as you go."

"Mind you do not cheat."

"I curse the man who cheats."

Tankha tied the lace of his shoe afresh, took off his coat and gave it to the woodcutter, hitched his trousers up, wiped his face with a handkerchief, and looked at the deer as though he were going to put his head in a mortar. Then he tried to lift the deer and place it on his neck. After two or three heaves the carcass did get onto his neck, but the neck could not rise. His back bent, he gasped for breath, and he was on the point of dashing the carcass to the ground when Mirza, supporting him, pushed him forward.

Tankha took a stride as though setting his foot into a quagmire. Mirza urged him on. "Bravo! My lion, well done, well done!"

Tankha took one more stride. It felt as if his neck were breaking.

"You've won the field! Bravo! Long life to you, my lad!"

Tankha advanced two more strides. His eyes were starting from their sockets.

"Just one more effort, friend! The wager of a hundred paces is off. Let it be just fifty."

The lawyer was in a sorry plight. That lifeless deer, like a lion, had him pinned down and was sucking the lifeblood from his heart. All his powers had given out. Only greed, like some iron beam, was holding up the roof. He had a stake of twenty-five thousand riding on it. But at last that beam too gave way. The miser's back was broken as well. Darkness spread before his eyes. His head spun, and, with the game on his neck, he fell to the stony ground.

Mirza lifted him up at once, and fanning him with his handkerchief, slapped him on the back.

"You put forth a fine effort, friend, but fortune is against you."

Drawing a long, panting breath, Tankha said, "You very nearly took my life today. It would weigh not less than two maunds, the wretched thing."

Mirza said with a laugh, "But, my brother, I too had carried it that far, after all."

The lawyer began to flatter him. "I was only doing your bidding. You wished to see a spectacle, and that you have seen. Now you must keep your promise."

"When did you fulfil the bargain?"

"I tried with all my might, at any rate."

"There is no proof of that."

The woodcutter lifted the deer again and went striding off. He wished to show that just because they had grunted and groaned and lifted it ten paces, they were not to think they had passed the test. In this field, weak though he was, he would stay ahead of them. Yes, as for blackening paper, you may do as much of that as you please, and frame as many false lawsuits as you like.

They came to a ravine that had very little water in it. On the other side of the ravine, on a mound, was a small hamlet of five or six houses, and several boys were playing under a tamarind tree. The moment they saw the woodcutter, they all ran to welcome him and began to ask — who killed it, Bapu? How did he kill it, where did he kill it, how did the bullet strike, where did it strike, why did it strike this one and not the other deer? Saying "Hm, hm" to all of it, the woodcutter reached the tamarind tree, set the deer down, and ran off to a nearby hut to fetch a cot for the two gentlemen. His four sons and daughters took the game into their charge and began trying to drive away the other boys.

The smallest boy said, "This is ours."

His elder sister, who was fourteen or fifteen, looked at the guests and scolded her little brother. "Hush, or the policeman will carry you off."

Mirza teased the boy. "It is not yours, it is ours."

The boy sat down on the deer and so established his possession, and said, "But Bapu brought it."

The sister coached him. "Say it, brother — say it is theirs."

The mother of these children was plucking leaves for the goat. Seeing two strange gentlemen, she drew a small veil over her face and was ashamed at how dirty, how torn, how skimpy her sari was. How was she to go before the guests in such a dress? And without going there was no managing — water and the rest had to be given.

It still wanted a little of noon, but Mirza Sahib resolved to spend the heat of the day in this very village. He gathered the men of the village together. He had liquor sent for, had the game cooked, fetched ghee and fine flour from the nearby market, and gave a feast to the whole village. Young and old, women and men, all of them feasted. The men drank plenty of liquor and, intoxicated, went on singing till evening; and Mirza became a child with the children, a drinker with the drinkers, an old man with the old men, a young man with the young. In that short while he had grown so intimate with the whole village that one would think he was a resident of the place. The boys clambered all over him. One would put his tasselled cap on his own head, another would walk along strutting with his rifle on his shoulder, another would unfasten the wristwatch from his wrist and tie it on his own. Mirza himself drank plenty of the country liquor and went on singing, swaying, with the jungle folk.

When these men took their leave at sunset, the whole village, men and women, came a long way to see them off. Some of them wept. Such good fortune had perhaps come for the first time in the lives of those poor people, that a hunter should have given them a feast. Surely this is some king, or where would anyone have so generous a heart? When would they ever set eyes on him again?

After walking some distance, Mirza turned and looked back, and said, "Poor creatures, how happy they were. Would that such occasions came every day in my life. Today has been a most blessed day."

Tankha said with curtness, "For you it may have been blessed; for me it was nothing but ill-starred. Not a word of business was spoken. After roaming the jungles and hills the whole day, we go back with hangdog faces."

Mirza said without mercy, "I have no sympathy for you."

When the two men reached the banyan tree, both the other parties had already returned. Mehta had a long face. Malati, which was a new thing, sat apart, low in spirits. Rai Sahib and Khanna had both gone hungry, and not a word would come from anyone's mouth. The lawyer was unhappy because Mirza had been false to him. Mirza Sahib alone was content, and that contentment was something out of this world.