Our guess is that this was some kind of signal. The hole disappeared the same day.

For several days, the villagers could not stop talking about these events. Bhima’s mother, the barber-woman, said, “I am now one hundred and twenty, or maybe even one hundred and thirty years old. I attended the wedding ceremonies of all these old men you see in the village, when they were young. Compared to me, they are only children. I have seen the goddess four times, including this one. Yesterday, at midnight, I went out to relieve myself. Suddenly there was the smell of incense, and I heard the tin-kle of anklets. Looking up, I saw the goddess riding her tiger.

What a huge one it was! I have seen many in my day, but this was the biggest. It was seven to eight arm lengths long; its head was black like a buffalo’s. It glared at me and I fled for my life, bang-ing the door shut behind me.” Four to five old men in the village supported her story and said they too had heard the tiger. Rama, the weaver, claimed that that morning he had noticed the pugmarks. It was now established, beyond a doubt, that the goddess had appeared in the village the night before.

Chapter Eight

Zamindar Sheikh Dildar Mian

Sheikh Keramat Ali used to live in Ara district, and had now moved to Midnapore. Everyone called him Ali Mian, or Mian for short; we will do the same. Ali Mian began his career as a horse trader. He would purchase horses at the West Harihar Chhatar fair and sell them in Bengal and Orissa. Once he sold a horse to the district magistrate of Midnapore. The Sahib was very pleased with it and condescended to inquire about Mian’s business and income. When Mian told him there was not much profit in horse trading, the Sahib, wanting to offer him a job, asked if he knew how to read and write. Mian replied, “Huzoor, I know Persian. If you would kindly give me pen and paper, I could show you I can write my full name.” In the past, the Persian language had been held in high favor; it was the language of the court. With a sharp and pitiless pen, God has inscribed a strange fate for India: yesterday, the language of the court was Persian, today it is English. Only He knows which language will follow tomorrow. Whichever it maybe, we know for certain that Sanskrit lies crushed beneath a rock for ever. English pundits say, “Sanskrit is a dead language.” We would go even further: “Sanskrit is a language of the half-dead.” Anyhow, our Mian got a job through the Sahib’s mercy; he was now a thana daroga. He survived in this job for thirty years without much trouble, and during that time amassed considerable property. He acquired four zamindaris and built himself a big house; he owned farms and gardens and a large number of household goods. In those days, the zamindaris of Orissa were auctioned off in Calcutta. One time, while visiting that city in connection with a murder case, Mian Sahib made a bid for the zamindari of Fatepur Sarsandha, and was successful. You may find this puzzling—how could a thana daroga, who was only an inspector in the Bengal police, raise enough money to buy a zamindari? Nevertheless, the details herein presented are accurate and precise; you may read on with your eyes closed.

We will now recount a well-known incident.