Mangaraj treated his farmhands like his own children.

Now, parents are never satisfied unless they personally make sure their children have eaten their fill. So as soon as his farmhands sat down in a row for their midday meal, the zamindar would call out: “Cook, bring the rice gruel. Hurry up. My boys are dying of thirst.” As he had done many times in the past, the cook would then serve two large bowls of the watery liquid to each one. And if a farmhand ever resented having to drink so much gruel before the meal, Mangaraj would deliver a long lecture on its beneficial effects and health-giving properties, per-suading them to drink it up. Only after that would he arrange for rice to be served, and then go for his bath.

There were seventeen drumstick trees in the master’s orchard, and their leaves possessed certain medicinal properties. They aided digestion, were nourishing and delicious; besides, they helped restore the sick to health. We do not know if books really claim such properties for the leaves of the drumstick tree, but then we have no expertise in that field. We have merely written down what we have heard from Mangaraj himself. Naturally enough, not a single leaf found its way to the market; they were reserved exclusively for the nourishment and well-being of the farmhands. And the flowers of these trees, in Mangaraj’s view, constituted the most wholesome food in the world; when cooked with mustard, they were wonderful. In God’s creation, good and bad are everywhere intertwined. Consider how a jack-fruit is sweet and wholesome, while its fibers harm the stomach. People who are wise, however, can effortlessly sort the good from the bad. They know that everything the drumstick tree produces is good, except, of course, the drumsticks themselves. Which is why Mangaraj never served those to the farmhands; they went straight to the market.

Chapter Four

Inspecting the Paddy Field

Ayam nijah paro veti ganana laghucetasam.

Our Mangaraj was never one to discriminate between his own property and that of others. According to the Shastras, only the small-minded make a distinction between mine and thine. Thus the zamindar gave almost as much attention to his own fields as he did to those belonging to others. For our wise readers, it will suffice to recount just one incident: after all, to know if rice is cooked, you needn’t press more than a single grain between your fingers.

One morning the head farmhand, Gobinda Puhan, came to the zamindar and said, “Master, only an acre and a half remain to be planted, but we don’t have any more seedlings.” Mangaraj listened to him and remained silent for a while; the farmhand stood waiting in the courtyard, his hands respectfully joined.

Mangaraj then got up and went out to inspect his fields, wearing only a length of matha cloth, with an ocher-colored towel tied round his waist, and a big palm-leaf umbrella resting on his shoulder. Gobinda Puhan walked behind him talking about the management of the farm, while another farmhand, Pandia, followed carrying a pair of yokes. It was so early that some of the villagers were still in bed. Mangaraj and his farmhands came upon Pandit Sibu who, smelling snuff and with a tumbler of water in his left hand, was on his way to the fields to answer the call of nature. Suddenly discovering the master behind him, he hurriedly stepped aside. Putting the tumbler on the ground, he bent down, arching himself into the shape of a bow, joined his hands, and prayed aloud in ritual form for the zamindar’s long life, fame, and prosperity. But Mangaraj took no notice of him and continued on. Once the zamindar was a safe distance away, the Brahmin slowly picked up the tumbler and recited a sloka: Adya pratar evanistadaršhinim jatam, na janekim anabhimatam daršayisyati.

The day begins with the sight of an evil man.

I know not what that day will bring! Brahmins often chant slokas; there isn’t much we can do about that.

Shyam Gochhaita was a Bauri, an untouchable. He had already planted his crop; his fields, on the outskirts of the village, were now as green as a parrot’s wings. When Mangaraj and his party arrived, they found him busy working on an unfinished ridge. The zamindar went over to him and said tenderly, “Shyama, my dear son.” Shyam was startled. He threw the spade down and flung himself at the zamindar’s feet.