Chapter 8

When this performance ended, the bow-sacrifice play in the theatre had already concluded, and preparations were under way for a social farce; but these gentlemen took no particular interest in it. Only Mr Mehta went to watch, and he stayed planted there from beginning to end. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. Every now and then he clapped, and by calling out "Again! Again!" he kept encouraging the actors. In this farce the Rai Sahib had drawn a caricature of a litigious village zamindar. It was called a farce, but it was steeped in pathos. The hero citing clauses of the law at every turn, filing a suit against his wife merely because she had been a little slow in preparing his meal, then the airs and graces of the lawyers and the cunning and dodges of the rustic witnesses — eager to give evidence at first, but at the time of summons to the bench needing endless coaxing, and being made fools of through all manner of hot-tempered displays — all these scenes made people roll over with laughter. The finest scene was the one in which the lawyer was drilling the witnesses in their statements. The witnesses blundering again and again, the lawyer losing his temper, then the hero coaching the witnesses in rural dialect, and finally the witnesses turning their stories around on the bench — it was so vivid and so true that Mr Mehta leapt up, and when the show ended he embraced the hero and announced a medal for each of the players. A feeling of reverence for the Rai Sahib stirred in his heart. The Rai Sahib was directing the drama from behind the stage. Mehta ran and threw himself upon his neck, and said, enchanted, "I had no idea your eye was so keen."

The next day, after breakfast, a hunting programme had been arranged. The meal would be cooked in a garden on the bank of some river, there would be plenty of water-sport, and in the evening the people would come home. The pleasures of country life would be enjoyed. The guests who had pressing business had already departed; only those remained who were on intimate terms with the Rai Sahib. Mrs Khanna had a headache and could not go, and the editor was scorched by this company and absorbed in the notion of taking them down a peg by launching a series of articles against them. Every one of them a hardened ruffian. They squander money got for nothing and twirl their moustaches. What do they know of what is happening in the world? What care do they have for who is dying in their neighbourhood? All they are concerned with is their own pleasure and luxury. This Mehta, who goes about playing the philosopher — his one obsession is, make life complete. You haul in a thousand a month, you have the means — make life complete or make it perfect. But the man crushed by the worry of how to marry off his sons, or how to fetch a physician for his sick wife, or whose house the rent will come from this time — how is he to make his life complete? You roam loose like a stray bull thrusting your muzzle into other men's fields, and you think everyone in the world is happy. Your eyes will open the day there is a revolution and you are told: my lad, get into the field and yoke the plough. Then we'll see how complete your life turns out. And there is that Malti — who has drunk water from seventy-two ghats and still goes about as a "Miss"! She will not marry, because marriage entangles life in bonds, and in bonds life cannot develop fully. So the whole development of life lies in this: keep on plundering the world and keep on enjoying yourself without restraint! Break all bonds, shoot down religion and society, never let the duties of life come near you — and there, your life is complete. What could be easier than that! Don't get along with your parents — show them the door. Don't marry, that is a bond; children would come, that is a 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 perfectly well that the slightest disobedience of the law will land fetters on you. So break only the bonds that don't get in the way of your own appetite for pleasure. Beat a rope as though it were a snake and be a great hero. Why go near a live snake at all? Even its hiss will set the waves rolling. See it coming and you tuck your tail and run. That is your complete life.

At eight o'clock the hunting party set off. Khanna had never hunted, he trembled at the report of a gun, but Miss Malti was going — how could he stay back? Mr Tankha had so far found no chance to discuss the matter of the election. Perhaps the chance would present itself there. The Rai Sahib had not visited his estate for a long while. He wanted to see how things were getting on there. Going to and fro in one's estate now and then forges a bond with the tenants, and one's authority is maintained too. The agents and constables also stay alert. Mirza Khurshed had a taste for fresh experiences of life, especially those that called for some daring. How could Miss Malti stay back alone? She needed a gathering of admirers. Only Mr Mehta was going with a genuine zest for the hunt. The Rai Sahib's wish had been that the cooking provisions, the cook, and — what shall we call them — the attendants, all should come along, but Mr Mehta opposed this.

Khanna said, "But will we eat there, or starve?"

Mehta answered, "Why shouldn't we eat? But today we will do all our own work ourselves. We ought to see whether we can survive without servants or not. Miss Malti will cook and we will eat. In the villages clay pots and leaf-platters are easy enough to find, and there is no shortage of fuel. As for the hunting — that we shall do ourselves."

Malti complained, "Pardon me. Last night you gripped my wrist so hard that it still hurts."

"It is we who shall do the work; you have only to keep telling us how."

Mirza Khurshed said, "Come now, you people just watch the show; I'll arrange the whole thing. It's nothing at all. Hunting for pots and vessels in the jungle is folly. Hunt a deer, roast it, eat it, and snore right there in the shade of a tree."

This proposal was accepted. Two cars set off. One Miss Malti was driving, the other the Rai Sahib himself. About twenty or twenty-five miles on, the hill country began. On both sides the high ranges came running towards them. The road too grew more and more winding. After climbing some distance, all at once a descent appeared and the car ran swiftly downward. From far off the bed of a river came into view, lean and motionless like a sick man. On the bank, in the shade of a dense banyan tree, the cars were halted and the people got down. It was agreed that they should split into pairs, and after hunting return there by twelve o'clock. Miss Malti got ready to go with Mehta. Khanna was left chafing within. The purpose for which he had come seemed to be punctured. Had he known Malti would play him false, he would have gone back home; but the Rai Sahib's company, though not as engaging, was not bad either. He had many matters of business to discuss with him. Khurshed and Tankha were left over. Their pair was made ready-made. The three pairs set off each in its own direction.

After walking some distance over a stony path with Mehta, Malti said, "You just keep walking. Let me catch my breath a little."

Mehta smiled. "We haven't even covered a mile yet. Tired so soon?"

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

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

"I didn't come to hunt."

Mehta said, pretending ignorance, "Indeed, I didn't know that. Then what did you come for?"

"What shall I tell you now?"

A herd of deer was seen grazing. The two of them hid behind a rock and, taking aim, fired. The shot went wide. The herd fled. Malti asked, "Now?"

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

The two walked on in silence for a while. Then Malti, pausing a little, said, "I'm in a sorry state with this heat. Come, let's sit under this tree."

"Not yet. If you want to sit, sit. I shan't sit."

"You are very cruel. I mean it."

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

"Then you'll be the death of me. All right, tell me — why did you torment me so last night? I was very angry with you. Do you remember what you said to me — 'You will come with us, sweetheart'? I didn't know you were such a rogue. Now 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 walked on some distance. First the scorching sun of June, then the stony road. Malti sat down, exhausted.

Mehta said, standing where he was, "Very well, you rest. I'll come back here."

"You'll go off and leave me alone?"

"I know you can protect yourself!"

"How do you know?"

"That is the mark of the goddesses of the new age. They do not want the shelter of a man; they want to walk shoulder to shoulder with him."

Malti said, abashed, "You are a mere philosopher, Mehta — truly."

On a tree in front a peacock sat perched. Mehta took aim and fired. The peacock flew off.

Malti said, pleased, "Very good. My curse has fallen."

Mehta set the gun on his shoulder and said, "It was not me you cursed but yourself. Had the game been brought down, I would have given you ten minutes' grace. Now you'll have to walk on at once."

Malti rose and, taking Mehta's hand, said, "Philosophers, it seems, have no heart. You did well not to marry — you would have killed the poor thing. But I won't let you off so easily. You cannot go off and leave me."

With a jerk Mehta freed his hand and moved ahead.

Malti said, her eyes filling, "I tell you, do not go. Or I will dash my head against this very rock."

Mehta quickened his pace. Malti kept watching him. When he had gone twenty paces ahead, she rose in irritation and ran after him. There was no pleasure in resting alone.

Coming up close, she said, "I did not know you were such a beast."

"The deer I kill — I shall present its hide to you."

"To the devil with the hide. Now I won't speak to you at all."

"If we get nothing in hand and the others bring back good game, I shall feel deeply ashamed."

A broad ravine stood gaping in their path. The rocks in its middle looked like its teeth. There was such force in the current that the waves leapt up. The sun had reached midday, and its thirsty rays were sporting in the water.

Malti said, pleased, "Now we'll have to turn back."

"Why? We'll go to the other side. The game will be found just there."

"There's so much force in the current. I'll be swept away."

"Very well. You sit right here, I'll go."

"Yes, you go. I bear no grudge against my own life."

Mehta stepped into the water and walked on, planting his feet carefully. The further he went, the deeper the water grew. So much so that it came up to his chest.

Malti grew restless. Her heart fluttered with dread. Such anxiety she had never felt. She called out loudly, "The water is deep. Stop, I'm coming too."

"No, no, you'll slip. The current is strong."

"No matter, I'm coming. Don't go any further — be careful."

Malti hitched her sari up and entered the ravine. But before she had come ten arm-lengths, the water reached her waist.

Mehta was alarmed. Signalling with both hands for her to turn back, he said, "Don't come here, Malti! Here the water is up to your neck."

Malti, taking one more step forward, said, "Let it be. If you wish me to die, I shall die right beside you."

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

Malti, filling her intoxicating eyes with reproach, said, "I had never seen a man as heartless as you. You are stone all over. Well, torment me today, torment me as much as you can — one day I too shall settle the score."

Malti's feet seemed to lose their hold. Steadying the gun, she clung to him.

Mehta said reassuringly, "You cannot stand here. I'll carry you on my shoulders."

Malti, arching her brows, said, "Is it really so necessary to get to the other side?"

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

Malti said, hiding her own thrill, "What if someone sees?"

"It does look unseemly."

After two steps she said in a piteous voice, "Tell me — if I were to drown right here in the water, would you grieve or not? I think you would not grieve at all."

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

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

"Do you truly think so, Malti?"

"What do you think?"

"I? I'll tell you some day."

The water came up to Mehta's neck. What if the very next step brought it up to his head? Malti's heart began to pound. She said, "Mehta, for God's sake, don't go any further now — or I'll jump into the water."

In that crisis Malti remembered God, whom she was wont to mock. She knew there was no God seated somewhere who would come and rescue them; but where else could the heart find the support and strength it needed?

The water began to grow shallower. Malti said, pleased, "Now set me down."

"No, no, sit quietly. There may be some pit ahead."

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

"You can pay me the wages for this."

A tickle stirred in Malti's heart.

"What wages will you take?"

"Only this — that when such an occasion arises in your life, you must call me."

They reached the bank. Malti wrung the water from her sari on the sand, drained 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?"

"Frightened at first, but then I became certain that you could protect us both."

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

"How much joy I feel to hear this — will you be able to understand that, Malti?"

"When did you make me understand anything? On the contrary, you drag me about through the jungles, and now on the way back we'll have to cross this very ravine again. What a calamity you've thrown my life into. If I had to live with you, we wouldn't get along a single day."

Mehta smiled. He understood the hint of these words very well.

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

"Who would marry such a wood-and-stone creature? You would burn me up day and night 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 such a fool.

Mehta said, as though coming to himself, "You speak truly, Malti! I cannot keep any woman happy. No woman can put on a pretence of love with me. I will reach down to her very depths. And then she will become distasteful to me."

Malti shuddered. How much truth there was in these words.

She asked, "Tell me, then — with what kind of love will you be content?"

"Only this — that what is in the heart should be on the lips! For me, beauty of form and complexion, gestures and charms and coquetry, have just the value they ought to have. I want that food which satisfies the soul. I have no need of stimulants and intoxicants."

Malti, pursing her lips and drawing a breath upward, said, "No one can ever get the better of you. You are a thorough old fox. Now tell me — what is your opinion about me?"

Mehta said, smiling roguishly, "You can do anything — you are intelligent, clever, gifted, kind, lively, proud, capable of sacrifice — but you cannot love."

Malti, fixing him with a keen look, said, "You are a liar — an utter liar. Your claim that you reach down into a woman's heart seems to me hollow."

The two walked on along the edge of the ravine. Twelve o'clock had struck, but now Malti had neither the wish to rest nor to turn back. There was a joy in today's conversation such as was wholly new to her. How many scholars 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 pickaxe — and its hardness drew her on more and more.

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

"Now?"

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

Saying this, he ran across the sand, set the gun on the bank, plunged with a splash into the water, and began to swim with the current; but even after putting forth his full strength for half a mile, he could not reach the bird. The bird, though dead, seemed still to be flying.

Suddenly he saw a young woman come out from a hut on the bank, and, seeing the bird drifting, hitch her sari up to her thighs and step into the water. In a moment she had caught the bird, and showing it to Mehta, she said, "Come out of the water, Babuji, here is your bird."

Mehta was charmed to see the young woman's agility and courage. At once he plied his arms towards the bank, and in two minutes stood beside her.

The young woman's complexion was dark — and deeply so — her clothes very soiled and slovenly; by way of ornament only two thick bangles on each wrist, the hair of her head tangled and loose. There was no part of her face that could be called beautiful or shapely. But that clean, pure air had infused such loveliness into her darkness, and, nursed in the lap of nature, her limbs had grown so well-formed, so firm and free, that no form more beautiful could have been found for drawing the portrait of youth. Her robust health seemed to fill Mehta's mind with strength and vigour.

Mehta, thanking her, said, "You came at just the right moment, or I don't know how far I would have had to swim."

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

"Yes, we did come to hunt, but it's already noon and this bird is all I've got."

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

Then, a little shy, with bowed head, she said, "We'll have to be given its hide. Come, to my door. There is the shade of a peepal tree there. How long will you stand here in the sun? Your clothes have got wet too."

Mehta, glancing at the wet sari clinging to her body, 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 sun and water. You couldn't stand it for long."

How sensible the girl is — and yet utterly unschooled.

"What will you do with the hide?"

"Our grandfather sells it in the market. That is our trade."

"But if we are to pass the noon here, what will you feed us?"

The young woman said bashfully, "What is there in our house fit for your eating? If you'll eat maize bread, there is some. I'll cook a curry of the bird. You tell me as I go how it should be made. There's a little milk too. A leopard once cornered our cow. She drove it off with her horns and ran home — ever since, the leopard is afraid of her."

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

"She must be your wife?"

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

"Then I'll run and call her. You go and sit in the shade."

"No, no, I'll fetch her myself."

"You must be tired. A city-dweller — why would you come into the jungle? We are jungle folk. She must be standing right at the bank."

Before Mehta could say anything, she was off like the wind. When Mehta climbed up and sat in the shade of the peepal, this free life kindled an attachment in his mind. The range of mountains before him stretched, impassable and infinite, like the principle of philosophy itself, as though spreading out knowledge, as though the soul were seeing that knowledge, that light, that impassability, in its direct, vast form. On a very high peak far off there was a small temple, which stood in that impassability lofty as the intellect, yet as though lost — as if a bird, beating its wings up to that point, sought a place of rest and found none.

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

Malti said listlessly, "The shade of the peepal is very pleasant, true — and here one's life is leaving one's body for hunger."

The young woman brought two large pots and said, "You sit here meanwhile, I'll just run and fetch water, then light the hearth; and if you'll eat from my hand, I'll bake the dough-cakes in a moment — or else bake them yourself. Yes, there is no wheat flour in my house, and there's no shop anywhere here that I could fetch some from."

Malti was angry with Mehta. She said, "Why did you come and land us here?"

Mehta said teasingly, "Enjoy the pleasure of life for one day at least. See — how much flavour there is in maize bread."

"I shall not be able to eat maize bread, and even if I somehow swallow it, it won't be digested. I am sorely regretting having come with you. You ran me to death the whole way, and now you've brought me here and dumped me."

Mehta had taken off his clothes and was sitting wearing only a blue loincloth. When he saw the young woman carrying the pots, he snatched them from her hands and went to draw water at the well. Even in the deep study of philosophy he had guarded his health, and as he walked carrying both pots, his fleshy, broad chest and his sinewy thighs gave evidence of his manliness like the well-formed limbs of some Greek statue. The young woman watched him drawing water with eyes full of affection. He was now no longer an object of her pity but of her reverence.

The well was very deep, some sixty arm-lengths; the pots were heavy, and Mehta, though he kept up his exercise regularly, grew slack while drawing one pot. The young woman ran and snatched the rope from his hands and said, "You can't draw it. Go and sit on the cot, I'll draw it."

Mehta could not bear this insult to his manhood. He took the rope from her hand again, and with one heave drew up the second pot too in an instant, and, carrying both pots in both hands, came and stood at the door of the hut. The young woman quickly kindled a fire, singed the redshank's feathers, made pieces of it 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 Malti, brows knit, lay disgruntled on the cot, watching this scene as though preparations were being made for her operation.

Mehta, standing at the door of the hut and watching the young woman's domestic skill with enamoured eyes, said, "Give me some work to do too — what shall I do?"

The young woman said with a sweet rebuke, "You have nothing to do. Go and sit by the lady — the poor thing is very hungry. The milk is getting warm, give it to her to drink."

She took flour from a jar and began to knead it. Mehta kept watching the grace of her limbs. The young woman too, from time to time, would glance at him from the corner of her eye and go on with her work.

Malti called out, "Why are you standing there? I have a violent headache. Half my head feels as though it will split — as though it will fall off."

Mehta came and said, "It seems you've had a touch of the sun."

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

"You don't have any medicine with you?"

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

Mehta sat down on the ground at her head and slowly began to stroke it. Malti closed her eyes.

The young woman, her hands full of flour, the hair of her head loose, her eyes red and watering from the smoke, her whole body drenched in sweat — through which her swelling bosom showed plainly — came and stood there, and seeing Malti lying with her eyes shut, said, "What has happened to the lady?"

Mehta said, "She has a bad headache."

"Is it in the whole head, or in half?"

"She says it's in half."

"On the right side, or the left?"

"The left."

"I'll run at once and fetch a medicine. Rub it and apply it, and it'll get better straight away."

"Where will you go in this sun?"

The young woman did not even hear. She rushed off in one direction and vanished among the hills. About half an hour later Mehta saw her climbing a high hill. From far off she looked exactly like a doll. He thought to himself — how much spirit of service this jungle girl has, and how much practical knowledge. In the scorching wind and sun she goes climbing up to the sky.

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

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

"These people's medicines do good only to themselves — they won't do me any good. You've quite lost your head over this girl. How vulgar you are. As the spirit, so the angel."

Mehta had no hesitation in speaking a bitter truth.

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

"Her merits — much joy may they bring her; I have no wish to become a goddess."

"If you wish, I'll go and fetch the car, though whether the car can even come here, I cannot say."

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

"She has gone to fetch medicine, and then she'll cook the meal."

"So today you are her guest. Perhaps the plan is to stay here for the night too. Game is found in plenty at night."

Mehta said, irritated by this gibe, "The love and reverence I feel in my heart for this young woman are such that if I looked upon her with desire, may my eyes burst. I would not go up that high hill in this sun and scorching wind even for one of my closest friends. And we are guests for only an hour — she knows that. She would run with the same eagerness for any poor woman. I can only write articles, only deliver speeches, on universal brotherhood and universal love; she practises that love and sacrifice. To do is far harder than to say. You too know this."

Malti said mockingly, "Yes, yes — she is a goddess. I grant it. There is a swell in her bosom, a heaviness in her hips — what more is needed to be a goddess?"

Mehta was stung. He rose at once and put on his clothes, which had dried. He picked up the gun and got ready to leave. Malti hissed, "You cannot go and leave me alone."

"Then who will go?"

"That goddess of yours."

Mehta stood at a loss. How easily a woman can win a victory over a man — of this he had today his first experience in life.

She came on, running and panting — that same dark young woman, a herb in her hand. Coming up close and seeing Mehta ready to go somewhere, she said, "I've found that root. I'll grind it and apply it now — but where are you going? The meat must be cooked; I'll bake the bread. Eat one or two pieces. The lady will drink the milk. When it cools, then go."

Without hesitation she undid the buttons of Mehta's coat. Mehta was holding himself in with great effort. He longed to kiss the feet of this rustic woman.

Malti said, "Let your medicine be. On the river bank, under the banyan, our motor-car is standing. Other people will be there. Tell them to bring the car here. Go, run."

The young woman looked at Mehta with humble eyes. With such effort she had brought the herb, and this was the contempt it met! If this rustic woman's medicine did not appeal to them, so be it — but they could have let a little be applied just to humour her; what would have been the harm?

Setting the herb down on the ground, she asked, "By then the hearth will go cold, Bai-ji. If you say so, shall I bake the bread and keep it ready? Let Babuji eat, you drink the milk, and let the two of you rest. By then I'll go and call the people with the motor."

She went into the hut, kindled the dying fire again. She found the meat had boiled over — some of it had even burned a little. She quickly baked the bread; the milk was hot, she cooled it and brought it in a bowl to Malti. Malti made a face at the crudeness 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 plate. The young woman stood fanning him.

Malti said to the young woman, "Let him eat. He's not running away. You go and fetch the car."

The young woman looked at Malti once with questioning eyes — what does she want? What is her meaning? She saw on Malti's face no humility, gratitude, or entreaty such as belong to the sick. In its place there was a flash of pride and arrogance. The rustic woman was shrewd at reading feelings. She said, "I am no one's slave-girl, Bai-ji! You are a great person, the lady of your own house. I do not come to ask anything of you. I shall not go to fetch the car."

Malti scolded, "Oho, so you've girded your loins for insolence! Tell me — in whose estate do you live?"

"This is the Rai Sahib's estate."

"Then I'll have you whipped at the hands of that very Rai Sahib."

"If you find happiness in having me whipped, then have me whipped, Bai-ji! I'm no queen or empress that an army would have to be sent."

Mehta had swallowed two or four mouthfuls when he heard these words of Malti. The mouthful stuck in his throat. He hastily washed his hand and said, "She will not go. I am going."

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

Mehta said in English, "By insulting her, you are not increasing your own honour, Malti!"

Malti retorted scornfully, "It is just such slave-girls that men like — who, whatever other merit they may or may not have, run about waiting on men with a cheerful heart and bless their fate that this man asked me to do this work for him — they are goddesses, powers, divine glories. I used to think that manliness was at least not lacking in you — but within, in your instincts, you too are that same barbarian."

Mehta was a master of psychology. He understood the secrets of Malti's mind. He had never met so strange an example of jealousy. In that woman, who was so soft-natured, so generous, so cheerful of face — such a fierce flame of jealousy!

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

There was such force in Mehta's voice that Malti rose quietly and got ready to leave. She said, burning, "Very well, then, I'll go myself; you stay behind and worship her feet."

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

The young woman, her eyes filling, saluted him with both hands and went inside the hut.

The second pair was that of the Rai Sahib and Khanna. The Rai Sahib was in that same silk kurta and silk shawl of his. But Khanna had got himself up in a hunting suit, which had perhaps been tailored for this very day; for how should Khanna, who hunted his tenants, have leisure enough to hunt animals? Khanna was a short, slender, handsome man, wheat-coloured complexion, large eyes, smallpox marks on his face, very skilled in conversation.

After walking a while, Khanna brought up the subject of Mr Mehta, who had been lodged in his mind like an evil planet since yesterday.

He said, "This Mehta is rather an odd fellow. He seems to me something of a fraud."

The Rai Sahib respected Mehta and considered him a true and guileless man, but he had dealings of give-and-take with Khanna, and was somewhat peace-loving by nature too, so he could not contradict him. He said, "I regard him merely as an object of amusement. I never argue with him, and even if I wanted to, where would I get so much learning? When a man who has never once set foot in the field of life starts intoning some new doctrine about life, it makes me laugh. He comfortably rakes in a thousand a month — no wife, no millstone, no worry, no obstacle — if he doesn't hold forth on philosophy, who will! Free of all care, he dreams of making life complete. What is the use of arguing with such a man?"

"I've heard his character is not good."

"How can character stay good in carefreeness? Live in society and observe the duties and decencies of society — then it will be known."

"I wonder what Malti sees in him, that she's so smitten."

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

"Why would she make me jealous, poor thing? I think of her as no more than a toy."

"Don't say that, Mr Khanna — you would lay down your life for Miss Malti."

"In that case I could level the same charge at you."

"I truly think of her as a toy. It is you who have made her into an idol."

Khanna burst into a loud guffaw, though there was nothing to laugh at.

"If by offering a pot of water one can obtain a boon, what's the harm in it?"

This time the Rai Sahib burst into a loud guffaw, which had no purpose at all.

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

"Then she ought to be running towards you."

"Towards me! I am wholly outside that society of pleasure-seekers, Mr Khanna — I tell you truly. Whatever intelligence and strength I have is spent entirely on managing this estate. Every soul in my household is absorbed in his own pursuit — some in worship, some in sensual pleasure. 'One is lost in this, another in that.' And to provide food for all these pythons is my work, my duty. Many of my fellow taluqdars indulge in pleasure and luxury — I know this. But those men burn their houses down to watch the spectacle. The burden of debt keeps piling up on their heads, decrees are passed against them daily. From whom they borrow, they don't know how to repay — disgraced on all sides. I think it better to die than live such a life! I don't know by what conditioning a little life is left in my soul, which keeps me bound in the bonds of country and society. The civil-disobedience movement broke out. All my brothers were sunk in drink and feasting. I could not hold myself back. I went to jail and bore the loss of lakhs of rupees, and I am still paying the fine for it. I have no regret over 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. Does it please me to suck the blood of lifeless peasants and gather the means to satisfy the appetites of my family? But what can I do? Though I loathe the system in which I was nurtured and have lived, I cannot give up my attachment to it, and I am caught day and night in that very treadmill, somehow to keep my honour and dignity intact and to keep the soul from being murdered. Such a man cannot run after Miss Malti — or any Miss at all — and if he does, take it as his utter ruin. Yes, a little amusement is another matter."

Mr Khanna too was a man of courage, one who pressed forward in the struggle. He had been to jail twice. He knew not how to cower before anyone. He wore khaddar and drank French wine. When the need arose he could endure great hardships. In jail he did not touch wine, and though placed in 'A' class he went on eating 'C' class bread, although he could have had every comfort; but even a chariot going to the battlefield cannot move without oil. A little zest for pleasure was indispensable in his life. He said, "You can become an ascetic; I cannot. I think that one who is not a man of enjoyment cannot go into the struggle with full zeal either. In the patriotism of one who cannot love a woman, I have no faith."

The Rai Sahib smiled. "You've begun firing your shots at me."

"It's not a shot, it's a matter of principle."

"Perhaps it is."

"Look inside your own heart and you will see."

"I have looked inside, and I assure you, whatever other faults may be there, the lust of the senses is not."

"Then I feel pity for you. The sole cause of your being so unhappy and disappointed and anxious is your self-restraint. As for me, I shall play out this drama to the end, even if it be a tragedy. She mocks me, she shows that she does not care for me, but I am not a man to lose heart. I have not yet been able to fathom her temper. Where the shot will strike home — that I have not been able to determine. The day I find that key, victory is won."

"But that key you will hardly ever find. Mehta may carry off the game from you."

A stag was grazing with several does — a great-horned one, jet black. The Rai Sahib took aim. Khanna stopped him. "Why commit murder, friend? The poor thing is grazing; let it graze. The sun has grown fierce. Come, let's sit down somewhere. I have a few things to discuss with you."

The Rai Sahib fired, but the stag fled. He said, "I found one bit of game, and the shot went wide too."

"One murder spared."

"Yes, tell me — what were you going to say?"

"Does sugarcane grow on your estate?"

"In great abundance."

"Then why not join in with our sugar mill? Shares are selling like hot cakes. Won't you buy, not many, just a thousand shares?"

"Heavens, where would I bring so much money from?"

"Such a renowned estate-holder, and short of money! It comes to only fifty thousand in all. And of that only twenty-five per cent has to be paid now."

"No, Bhai Sahib, I have no money at all just now."

"Take as much money as you want from me. The bank is yours. Yes, you have probably not insured your life yet. Take a good policy with my company. You can easily pay a hundred or two hundred rupees every month, and you'll get a lump sum — forty or fifty thousand. You cannot make a better arrangement for your sons than this. Look at our rule-book. We work on the principle of complete cooperation. Apart from office and staff expenses, not a single pie of the profit goes into anyone's pocket. You'll be surprised that the company keeps running on this policy at all! And on my advice, start a little speculation work too. These hundreds of millionaires you see — they have all been made by speculation. Speculate in some commodity — cotton, sugar, wheat, rubber. In minutes there's a turnover of lakhs. The work is a little tricky. Many people come to grief, but only those who are amateurs. For experienced, educated, far-sighted people like you, there is no work more profitable. The rise and fall of the market is no accidental event. It too has its science. Study it carefully once, and then there's not a chance of being deceived."

The Rai Sahib distrusted companies; he had had bitter experience of them once or twice; but he had watched Mr Khanna rise before his own eyes and had become convinced of his capability. A man who only ten years ago had been a clerk in a bank was now honoured in the city solely by his own application, enterprise, and talent. His advice could not be disregarded. If in this matter Khanna were to become his guide, he might achieve much. Why let such an opportunity slip? He kept asking all sorts of questions.

Suddenly a villager was seen passing, carrying in a large basket some roots, some leaves, some flowers.

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

The villager was flustered. He was afraid he might be seized for forced labour. He said, "Nothing at all, master — it's just this grass and leaves."

"What will you do with them?"

"I'll sell them, master — they are medicinal herbs."

"Which herbs are they? Tell me."

The villager opened his dispensary and showed it. They were ordinary things, which jungle folk dig up and carry off and sell in the city to herbalists for two or four annas. Such as nightshade, country mallow, sahadeya, kukraundha, datura seeds, milkweed flowers, karanja, gunja, and so on. He showed each thing and went on describing their properties in rehearsed words. "This is nightshade, sir! Fever, indigestion, enlarged spleen, palpitation, colic, cough — one dose and there's relief. These are datura seeds, master — for rheumatism, for arthritis..."

Khanna asked the price. The man said eight annas. Khanna tossed him a rupee and ordered him to deposit it at the camping place. The poor man not only got the price he had asked, he got double it. He went off blessing them.

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

Khanna said, smiling, "I'll turn them into gold mohurs. I am an alchemist. Perhaps you didn't know that."

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

"Yes, yes, with pleasure. Become my disciple. First bring a seer and a quarter of sweets as an offering, then I'll tell you. The thing is, I have to deal with all sorts of people. Some come who would lay down their lives for herbs. Let them merely learn that this is a herb given by some holy man, then they'll flatter you, rub their noses on the ground, and if you give them that thing, they'll become your debtors for life. If for one rupee you can fasten the saddle of obligation on ten or twenty fools, what's the harm? With a trifling favour great matters are accomplished."

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

Khanna burst out laughing. "You too, Rai Sahib! You say the most delightful things. Whatever property you wish to ascribe to a herb, ascribe it — it depends on your skill. Health is got for eight annas in the rupee out of faith. These high officials you see, and these long-tailed scholars, and these noblemen — they are all superstitious. I know a professor of botany who doesn't even know the name of kukraundha. Our Swamiji makes great fun of these scholars. You've probably never had the good fortune to meet him. Next time you come, I'll introduce you. Ever since he's been staying in my garden, there's a stream of people day and night. Maya hasn't even touched him. He drinks milk only once. Such a learned holy man I have never seen to this day. He spent who knows how many years in penance on the Himalayas. He is a fully accomplished man. You must take initiation from him. I'm sure all these difficulties of yours will vanish into thin air. The moment he sees you he'll tell your past and future. He is so cheerful of face that the moment you see him your heart blooms. The wonder is that, though he himself is so great a holy man, he calls renunciation and self-denial, temple and monastery, sect and order — he calls them all sham, calls them hypocrisy. Break the bonds of custom and become a man — give up the idea of becoming a god. Becoming a god, you will cease to be a man."

A doubt arose in the Rai Sahib's mind. He too had that faith in holy men which is usually found in men of power. He too yearned for that peace which a suffering soul finds in self-awareness. When he grew despairing of his financial difficulties, the thought would come — to turn his face from the world and sit in solitude and meditate on liberation. He too, like ordinary men, regarded the bonds of the world as obstacles in the path of self-improvement, and to be free of them was the ideal of his life as well; but without renunciation and self-denial, what other means is there of breaking the bonds?

"But when he calls renunciation a sham, why has he himself taken renunciation?"

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

"I can't make any sense of it. What is the meaning of freedom of thought?"

"I haven't made any sense 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 entranced."

"Have you introduced Miss Malti to him or not?"

"You're joking again. How would I introduce Malti to him?"

The sentence was not finished when, hearing a rustling sound in the bushes ahead, they started and, prompted by the instinct of self-preservation, Khanna got behind the Rai Sahib. A leopard came out of the bushes and walked slowly forward.

The Rai Sahib raised his gun and was about to take aim when Khanna said, "What are you doing? You're provoking it for no reason. What if it turns back on us?"

"Why would it turn? It'll be laid out right there."

"Then let me climb up that mound. I am not so fond of hunting."

"Then what did you set out to hunt for?"

"For misfortune, what else!"

The Rai Sahib lowered his gun.

"A fine bit of game has got away. Such chances come rarely."

"I can't stay here any longer. It's a dangerous place."

"Let me bag at least one or two. It's shameful to return empty-handed."

"Be so good as to get me to the car, then hunt leopard or panther, whatever you please."

"You're a great coward, Mr Khanna — truly."

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

"Very well then, you may turn back if you wish."

"Alone?"

"The path is perfectly clear."

"No, sir. You'll have to come with me."

The Rai Sahib explained at length, but Khanna would not listen at all. With fright his face had gone pale. At that moment, had even a squirrel come out of the bushes, he would have fallen with a shriek. Every fibre of him was trembling. He was drenched in sweat. The Rai Sahib was forced to turn back with him.

When the two men had got far away, Khanna recovered his wits.

He said, "I'm not afraid of danger, but to thrust a finger into the mouth of danger is folly."

"Oh, come now. You saw one little leopard and your soul departed."

"I consider hunting an instinct of the age when man was a beast. Culture has advanced far beyond that since."

"I'll expose your true colours to Miss Malti."

"I don't think it shameful to be a believer in non-violence."

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

Khanna said proudly, "Yes, sir, this was my non-violence. You take pride in the names of Buddha and Shankara, and you kill animals — shame should come to you, not to me." For some distance the two walked on again in silence. Then Khanna said, "So when will you come? I want you to fill in the policy form this very day, and the sugar-share form too. I have both forms with me."

The Rai Sahib said in a worried voice, "Just let me think it over."

"There's no need to think about it."

The third pair was that of Mirza Khurshed and Mr Tankha. For Mirza Khurshed past and future were like a blank sheet of paper. He lived in the present. There was no regret for the past, no anxiety about the future. Whatever came before him, he gave himself to it with heart and soul. In the company of friends he was the very image of mirth. In the council there was no member more enthusiastic than he. Whatever question he took up, he reduced the ministers to tears. He knew not how to show favour or partiality to anyone. In between he kept up his jesting too. For him there was life today, of tomorrow there was no knowing. He was hot-tempered too — such that he came forward, slapping his thigh in challenge. Before humility he prostrated himself, but wherever anyone displayed pride, he washed his hands and went after him. He remembered neither what was owed to him nor what he owed to others. His taste was for poetry and for wine. Woman was merely an object of amusement. Long ago he had declared the bankruptcy of his heart.

Mr Tankha was a man of stratagems — a master at clinching a deal, at settling a matter, at throwing in an obstacle, at pressing oil out of sand, at strangling someone, at wagging his tail and slipping away. Tell him, and he would sail a boat over sand, grow grass on stone. To get taluqdars loans from moneylenders, to float new companies, to put up candidates at election time — this was his trade. Especially at election time his fortune blazed. He would put up some strong candidate, work for him heart and soul, and make ten or twenty thousand. When the Congress was strong, he was the helper of the Congress candidate. When the communal party became strong, he began working on behalf of the Hindu Sabha; but for justifying these turnabouts he had such arguments that no one could point a finger at him. He was on friendly terms with all the noblemen of the city, all the officials, all the rich. People might in their hearts dislike his ways, but he was so mild of disposition that no one could say anything to his face.

Mirza Khurshed, wiping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief, said, "This is no day for hunting. There ought to have been a mushaira today."

The lawyer endorsed it. "Yes indeed, there in the garden. There would have been great delight in it."

After a little while Mr Tankha brought up the matter.

"This time at the election great fireworks will be set off! It'll be difficult for you too."

Mirza said with a detached mind, "This time I shan't even stand."

Tankha asked, "Why?"

"Who wants idle prattle for nothing? What's the gain in it? I have no devotion left for this democracy. The least bit of work, and months of debate. Yes, as a fine show for throwing dust in the eyes of the public, it serves. Far better than this would be to have a single governor — be he Indian or English, no argument about it. A train that one engine can comfortably haul thousands of miles cannot be hauled by ten thousand men working together at anything like that speed. Watching this whole spectacle, I have grown sick of the council. If I had my way, I'd set fire to the council. What we call democracy is, in practice, the rule of the great merchants and zamindars, nothing else. At the election the man who carries off the prize is the one who has money. By the power of money all conveniences are made ready for him. Great pandits, great maulvis, great writers and speakers, who with their tongues and pens can turn the public whichever way they please — all rub their foreheads at the feet of the golden god. I have made up my mind — I shall not go near the election now. My propaganda will now 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 no right to bring even a cowrie of the treasury into his private expenditure. He maintained himself by copying books, sewing clothes, teaching boys. Mirza recited a long list of ideal monarchs. On the one hand that king who nourished his subjects, and on the other today's ministers — they must get five, six, seven, eight thousand a month. Is this plunder, or democracy!

A herd of deer was seen grazing. The zeal of the hunt flashed on Mirza's face. He steadied his gun and fired. A blackish deer fell. "There — got him!" With this frenzied cry, Mirza too ran madly off — exactly like a child, leaping, jumping, clapping his hands.

Close by, a man was cutting wood on a tree. He too clambered down quickly from the tree and ran along with Mirza. The bullet had struck the deer in the neck; its legs were trembling and its eyes had glazed over.

The woodcutter, looking at the deer with pitying eyes, said, "A fine specimen — not less than a maund. If you give the order, I'll lift it and carry it for you."

Mirza said nothing. He kept looking at the deer's hanging, helpless, pain-filled eyes. Only a minute ago there had been life in this. At even the rustle of a leaf, it would have pricked up its ears and bounded away in leaps. With its friends and offspring it had been eating the grass God had grown; but now it lay motionless. Strip off its hide, cut it into pieces, mince it — it would not even know. The attraction, the joy, that had been in its sportive life — is it in this lifeless carcass? How beautiful its build had been, how lovely its eyes, how charming its grace! Its leaps had set waves of joy rising in the heart; with its bounds our minds too began to bound. Its liveliness scattered something like life as it went, as a flower scatters fragrance — but now! To look at it brings only revulsion.

The woodcutter asked, "Where is it to be carried, master? Give me a few paisa too."

Mirza Sahib started, as though from a reverie. He said, "Very well, lift it. Where will you go?"

"Wherever you order, master."

"No — wherever your wish takes you, carry it there. I am giving it to you!"

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

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

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

"About half a kos, master!"

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

"I won't take it like that, sir! You came from so far, hunted in this fierce sun — how can I lift it away?"

"Lift it, lift it, don't delay. I've understood — you are a good man."

The woodcutter, with fearful hesitation and glancing again and again uneasily at Mirza's face lest he turn angry, lifted the deer. Suddenly he set the deer down and stood up and said, "I've understood, master — the gentleman has not made it halal."

Mirza Sahib said with a laugh, "Just so, just so — you've understood very well. Now lift it and let's go home."

Mirza Sahib was not so bound by religion. For ten years he had not said his prayers. He kept one fast in two months. Quite without food, without water; but he did not wish to dampen the satisfaction the woodcutter had got from the thought that the deer had now become forbidden food for these people.

The woodcutter, with a light heart, set the deer on his neck and started for home. Tankha had so far been standing apart there under the tree. Why should he take the trouble of going to the deer in the sun? He could make nothing of what the matter was, but when he saw the woodcutter going off in the wrong direction, he came up and said to Mirza, "Where are you going off that way, sir? Have you lost the road?"

Mirza said, smiling guiltily, "I have given the game to this poor man. Now I'm going to his house for a bit. Do come along too."

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

"I can't say. I myself don't know."

"Why did you give the game to him?"

"Because the joy he will get from getting it, you and I would not."

Tankha said sourly, "Go on with you! I thought we'd feast splendidly on kebabs, and you've spoiled the whole pleasure. Well, the Rai Sahib and Mehta are bound to bring back something. No matter. I want to submit something about this election. You don't wish to stand — so be it, 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 much of you — that you let no one find out that you are not standing. Just do me this much kindness! Khwaja Jamal Tahir is standing from this very city. The votes of the gentry are all sixteen annas in his favour, the officials too are his helpers. Even so, the influence you have over the public is undermining his position. If you wish, you can get ten or twenty thousand rupees from him merely for making it known that you are stepping down for his sake — no, let me submit it. In this matter you have nothing to do. Sit at ease, free of care. I'll bring out a manifesto on your behalf, and that very evening you can collect ten thousand cash from me."

Mirza Sahib, looking at him with contempt, said, "I send a curse upon such money and upon you."

Mr Tankha took it not the least amiss. He did not let so much as a wrinkle come to his brow.

"Send as many curses as you like upon me, but by sending a curse on money you are harming only yourself."

"I consider such a sum forbidden."

"You are not so bound by the religious law."

"To consider plundered earnings forbidden, one need not be bound by the law."

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

"No, sir."

"Very well, let that be. You have no objection to becoming director of an insurance company? You won't have to buy a single share. You need only lend your name."

"No, sir, this too I do not accept. I have been director of several companies, managing agent of several, chairman of several. Wealth kissed my feet. I know how many means of comfort and luxury can be gathered with wealth; but I also know how selfish wealth makes a man, how fond of ease, how cunning, how shameless."

The lawyer had not the courage to make any further proposal. The faith he had had in Mirza's intelligence and influence diminished greatly. For him money was everything, and with a man who kicked Lakshmi away, he could have no concord.

The woodcutter went striding off with the deer on his shoulders. Mirza too quickened his pace, but the bulky Tankha was left behind.

He called out, "Just listen, Mirza Sahib, you're running off."

Mirza answered without stopping, "That poor man goes so fast carrying a load. Can't we, carrying only our own bodies, keep up with him?"

The woodcutter had set the deer down on a stump and was resting.

Mirza Sahib came up and asked, "Tired, eh?"

The woodcutter said hesitantly, "It's very heavy, sir!"

"Then give it here, I'll carry it some way."

The woodcutter laughed. Mirza was far taller and stouter in build than he, yet that lean, thin man laughed at this saying of his. It was as though a whip had fallen on Mirza Sahib.

"Why did you laugh? Do you think I can't lift it?"

The woodcutter, as though begging pardon, said, "You are a great man, sir. Carrying loads is the work of labourers like us."

"Am I not twice your size!"

"What does that have to do with it, master!"

Mirza Sahib's manhood could bear no more insult to itself. He stepped forward and lifted the deer onto his neck and started; but he had hardly gone fifty paces when his neck began to split, his legs began to tremble, and butterflies began to flit before his eyes. He hardened his heart and walked another twenty paces. Where the devil had the fellow stayed behind? It was as though lead had been poured into this carcass. Let me lay it on Mr Tankha's neck for a bit — that would be amusing. Watching him strut along puffed up like a waterskin, let's see his sport too; but how to set the load down? The two of them would say in their hearts — quite the hero he set out to be. In fifty paces he squeaked surrender.

The woodcutter teased, "Well, master, how do you find it? Very light, isn't it?"

The load began to feel a little lighter to Mirza Sahib. He said, "I'll carry it at least as far as you've carried it."

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

"You think I'm puffed up for nothing?"

"No, master, now I don't think so. But don't trouble yourself — there's the rock, set it down on that."

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

"But it doesn't look right that I should walk empty and you stay loaded."

Mirza Sahib set the deer down on the rock. The lawyer arrived.

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

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

"It's not very heavy, truly."

"Oh, do leave off!"

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

"I don't fall for such tricks."

"It's no trick, by God! From whichever constituency you say, I'll stand. When you order, I'll step down. Director, member, accountant, canvasser of whichever company — whatever you say, I'll become. Just carry it a hundred paces. I get along precisely with such friends, who can do anything when the occasion arises."

Tankha's mind grew restless. Mirza was firm in his word. There was no doubt of that. How very heavy could a deer be? After all, Mirza had carried it this far. He didn't seem too greatly tired. If he refused, a golden chance would slip from his hand. After all, it was no mountain. At most it would be four or five panseris. Just two or four days the neck would ache! With rupees in the pocket, a little illness is a thing of pleasure.

"It stands at a hundred paces."

"Yes, a hundred paces. I'll keep counting."

"Mind you don't slip out of it."

"I send a curse on the man who slips out of it."

Tankha tied the lace of his shoe again, took off his coat and gave it to the woodcutter, rolled his trousers up, wiped his face with a handkerchief, and looked at the deer as though about to put his head into a mortar. Then he tried to lift the deer and set it on his neck. After two or three heaves the carcass did come onto his neck, but the neck could not rise. His back bent, he began to pant, and he was about to dash the carcass to the ground when Mirza, giving him support, urged him forward.

Tankha took one stride as though setting his foot into a swamp. Mirza encouraged him. "Bravo! My lion, well done, well done!"

Tankha took another stride. It felt as though his neck were breaking.

"You've won the field! Bravo! Long live, my lad!"

Tankha advanced two more strides. His eyes were popping out.

"Now, one more heave, friend! The hundred-pace bet is off. Let it be just fifty paces."

The lawyer was in a sorry state. That lifeless deer, gripping him like a lion, was sucking the life-blood of his heart. All his powers had given out. Only greed, like some iron girder, held up the roof. There was a stake of from one to twenty-five thousand. But in the end that beam too gave out. The back of the greedy man too gave way. Darkness spread before his eyes. His head spun, and with the game on his neck he fell upon the stony ground.

Mirza lifted him up at once and, fanning him with his own handkerchief, patted his back.

"You heaved hard enough, friend, but your luck is rotten."

Tankha, panting and drawing a long breath, said, "You very nearly took my life today. That cursed thing must be all of two maunds."

Mirza said, laughing, "But, brother of mine, I too had carried it this far, hadn't I?"

The lawyer began to flatter. "I only had to fulfil your demand. You wanted to see the spectacle, and you've seen it. Now you must keep your promise."

"When did you complete your bargain?"

"I tried my level best."

"There's no proof of that."

The woodcutter lifted the deer again and went striding off. He wanted to show that just because you had, with grunting and groaning, lifted it ten paces, you should not think you had passed. In this field I, though weaker, shall stay ahead of you. Yes — blacken as much paper as you please, and frame as many false suits as you please.

They came upon a ravine which had very little water. On the other side of the ravine, on a knoll, was a tiny hamlet of five or six houses, and several children were playing beneath 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 hit, where did it hit, why did it hit this one, and why not the other deer? The woodcutter, muttering "hm" and "ah," reached the tamarind and, setting the deer down, ran 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 off the other children.

The smallest child said, "This is ours."

His elder sister, who was fourteen or fifteen, glancing at the guests, scolded her little brother, "Quiet, or the policeman will take you away."

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

The child established his possession by sitting on the deer and said, "But Bapu brought it."

The sister coached him, "Say, brother — it's yours."

The mother of these children was plucking leaves for the goat. Seeing two new gentlemen, she drew her veil a little and felt ashamed that her sari was so soiled, so torn, so short. How was she to come before the guests in this dress? And without coming, things could not be managed. There was water and the rest to be given.

There was still a little while to noon, but Mirza Sahib resolved to pass the afternoon in this very village. He gathered the village folk. He sent for liquor, the game was cooked, ghee and refined flour were sent for from a nearby market, and he gave a feast to the whole village. Men and women, young and old, all enjoyed the banquet. The men drank plenty of liquor and, intoxicated, kept singing till evening; and Mirza Sahib was a child with the children, a drinker with the drinkers, an old man with the old, a youth with the young. In just that little while he had grown so intimately acquainted with the whole village that it seemed he were a resident of the very place. The children fairly hung upon him. One would put his tasselled cap on his own head, another would walk strutting with his rifle on his shoulders, another would unfasten the watch on his wrist and tie it on his own. Mirza himself drank plenty of country liquor and went on singing, swaying, with the jungle folk.

When these people 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 those poor people's lives — that a hunter should have feasted them. Surely this is some king, or else who would have so generous a heart? When would they ever set eyes on him again?

After walking some distance Mirza looked back and said, "How happy the poor things were. If only such occasions came every day in my life. Today's day was a most blessed one."

Tankha said with indifference, "Blessed it may be for you; for me it was an inauspicious one. Not a single useful thing was done. After roaming the jungles and hills the whole day, we're going back crestfallen."

Mirza said unkindly, "I have no sympathy for you."

When the two men reached the banyan tree, both the other pairs had already returned. Mehta was downcast. Malti sat apart, low in spirits, which was something new. The Rai Sahib and Khanna had both gone hungry, and no one had a word to say. The lawyer was unhappy because Mirza had broken faith with him. Mirza Sahib alone was glad, and that gladness was something unearthly.