Krishna Kanta's Will

Front matter

Krishna Kanta's Will

BY BANKIM CHANDRA CHATTERJEE AUTHOR OF "THE POISON TREE"

TRANSLATED BY MIRIAM S. KNIGHT, WITH INTRODUCTION, GLOSSARY AND NOTES BY J. F. BLUMHARDT, M.A.

Part I, Chapter I

KRISHNA KANTA'S WILL.

PART I.

CHAPTER I.

In the village of Haridrâ dwelt a great Zemindâr. His name was Krishna Kanta Râi, and he was a very wealthy man. The profit from his Zemindâri amounted to nearly two lakhs of rupees. This wealth had been accumulated by himself and by his brother, Râm Kânta Râi, working together. The brothers were warmly attached, and at no time had it entered into the mind of either that the other could deceive him. The estates had all been bought in the name of the elder brother, Krishna Kanta Râi. The brothers messed together. Râm Kânta Râi had one son named Gobind Lâl. After the birth of this son it came into Râm Kânta's mind that the brothers' joint possessions stood in one name, and that for the security of his son proper legal documents should be drawn out. For, though he knew Krishna Kanta incapable of deceiving him, or of acting unjustly towards him, yet what certainty had he as to what Krishna Kanta's sons might do after their father's death? Yet he could not bring himself to propose having legal papers made out, so he put it off from day to day. Necessity called him away to the estates, and there, suddenly, he died.

If Krishna Kanta had ever desired to cheat his brother's son, and appropriate the entire property, there was now no obstacle in his way. But he had no such evil intention. He placed Gobind Lâl with his own family, and treated him in all respects like his own sons; he determined to draw up a will bequeathing to Gobind Lâl the half-share justly belonging to Râm Kânta Râi.

Krishna Kanta Râi had two sons and a daughter. The eldest son was named Hara Lâl, the younger Binod Lâl, the daughter Shoilobati. In his will Krishna Kanta bequeathed to Gobind Lâl half the estate, to Hara Lâl and to Binod Lâl, each three-sixteenths, to the widow and to the daughter each one-sixteenth. Hara Lâl was very unruly; disobedient to his father, and evil-tongued. The provisions of a Bengali will seldom remain secret, and Hara Lâl, becoming acquainted with this disposition of the property, said to his father, his eyes inflamed with anger—

"What is this you have done? Half the estate to go to Gobind Lâl, and to me only three-sixteenths?"

"It is quite just," returned Krishna Kanta; "I have given to Gobind Lâl his father's half-share."

"Gobind's father's share! What is that? Who is he to take from us our ancestral property? And the mother and sister, we will look after them. Why give a sixteenth to each of them? Say only that they are to be fed and clothed."

Somewhat angered, Krishna Kanta said, "Hara Lâl, the property is mine not yours, I shall dispose of it as I choose."

"You must have lost your senses! I will not permit you to please yourself in the matter."

Yet more angry, Krishna Kanta returned, "Hara Lâl, if you were a child I should call in the Guru and get him to give you a caning."

"When I was a child I set the Guru's beard on fire. Now I will serve that will in the same way."

Krishna Kanta made no further reply; he tore up his will, and had another drawn out, in which he gave half to Gobind Lâl, five-sixteenths to Binod Lâl, one-sixteenth each to the widow, to the daughter, and to Hara Lâl.

Enraged at this, Hara Lâl left home for Calcutta, whence he wrote to his father to this effect—

"The Calcutta Pandits say that widow marriage is allowed by the Shâstras. I have resolved to marry a widow. If you choose to change your will, giving me half the estate, and will have the new will registered at once, I will give up this design. Otherwise I shall marry a widow very soon."

Hara Lâl thought that his father, becoming alarmed, would change the will, and assign him a larger portion, but the answer he received destroyed this expectation. Krishna Kanta wrote—

"I no longer recognise you as my son. You may marry whom you will. I shall leave the property to whomsoever I choose. If you effect this marriage, I shall change my will, certainly, but it will not be to your advantage."

Some time later Hara Lâl sent word that he had married a widow. Again Krishna Kanta destroyed his will, intending to make a fresh one.

In the village lived a good, contented man, named Brahmânanda Ghosh. He addressed Krishna Kanta as Uncle, and was much favoured and supported by him.

Brahmânanda wrote an excellent hand. All these legal documents were written by him. So when Hara Lâl's news came, Krishna Kanta sent for Brahmânanda, and told him to come up to the house after his meal to write a new will. Binod Lâl, who was present at this moment, asked, "Why do you again change your will?"

Krishna Kanta said, "This time nothing will be left to your elder brother."

Binod. "That is not well. Even supposing him to be in fault, still, he has a son. The child is innocent. What will he have to depend on."

Krishna. "I will bequeath him a sixty-fourth share."

Binod. "In the division of the property what will that represent?"

Krishna. "My income is two lakhs of rupees. A sixty-fourth share will come to more than three thousand rupees. With that sum a grihastha can easily get on in the way of food and clothing. I will not give more."

Binod Lâl urged the matter long, but in vain. The Kartâ could not be persuaded to change his purpose.

Part 1, Chapter II

CHAPTER II.

After his bath and meal, Brahmânanda was preparing to sleep, when, to his astonishment, he saw Hara Lâl Râi before him. Hara Lâl advancing, sat down at his side by the head of the bed.

Brahm. "Why, I declare, here is the young master! When did you come home?"

Hara. "I have not been home yet."

Brahm. "You have come straight here? How long is it since you came from Calcutta?"

Hara. "I came from Calcutta two days ago, and have been in hiding here. So there is to be a new will written. Eh!"

Brahm. "So I hear."

Hara. "This time I am to have nothing?"

Brahm. "The Kartâ says so now he is angry. But that won't last."

Hara. "It is to be written this evening, isn't it? And you are to write it?"

Brahm. "How can I help that? I can't refuse the Kartâ."

Hara. "You are not to blame. Do you feel disposed to earn something?"

Brahm. "In the way of a beating, do you mean? Then why don't you strike me?"

Hara. "Not that. A thousand rupees."

Brahm. "By your marrying a widow, I suppose." [That is, marrying for money.]

Hara. "Just so."

Brahm. "You are too old for that."

Hara. "Well, I have other matters to speak of. Let us begin. Take something in advance."

Thus saying, Hara Lâl put a note for five hundred rupees into Brahmânanda's hand.

Brahmânanda turned the note over and over. "What am I to do with this?"

Hara. "Invest it. Give ten rupees of it to Moti, the milkwoman."

Brahm. "I have nothing to do with milkwomen. Tell me what you want me to do."

Hara. "Prepare two pens. Let them be exactly alike."

Brahm. "Very good. I'm listening." As he spoke, Ghosh Mahâshay took two reed pens and cut them exactly alike. Then, trying them, he saw that they produced precisely similar writing.

Hara. "Well, you must keep one of the pens in your box. Use it when you are writing the will. Write something now with the other pen. Have you good ink?"

Brahm. "Are there not pens and ink in your house that I should have the bother of taking these?"

Hara. "I have an object in view, else why should I give you that money?"

Brahm. "I thought as much."

Hara. "Well, they may wonder at your taking your own pen and ink. In that case all you have to do is to find fault with the office ink and paper."

Brahm. "I'll find fault with the Government itself if you like, let alone official pens and ink."

Hara. "There is no need to go so far as that. Now to the point."

Then Hara Lâl placed two sheets of general letter paper in Brahmânanda's hand, who exclaimed, "Why, this is Government paper!"

Hara. "Not Government paper. It is the paper used in attorneys' offices. I know the Kartâ has his wills written on this paper. That is why I have got some of it. Now, write on this paper, and with this ink what I shall tell you."

Brahmânanda began to write. Hara Lâl dictated a form of will, of which the substance ran thus: "This is the last will and testament of Krishna Kanta Râi. Whatever property stands in his name shall, after his death, be divided thus—To Binod Lâl, three-sixteenths; to Gobind Lâl, to the widow, to Shoilabati, and to Hara Lâl's son, each a sixty-fourth part; and to Hara Lâl, the eldest son, the remaining twelve-sixteenths—or three-fourths."

The writing finished, Brahmânanda said, "Now the will is written, who signs it?"

"I do," said Hara Lâl, adding the names of Krishna Kanta Râi, and four witnesses to the will.

Brahm. "A pretty stroke of forgery, this!"

Hara. "This is the genuine will, the forged will is the one that is going to be written this evening."

Brahm. "How can that be?"

Hara. "When you go to write the will you must take this one concealed in the pocket of your pirân. When there, you must, with this pen and ink, write what they tell you. Paper, pen, ink, and writer will all be the same, so the two wills will, to all appearance, be alike. Then when you have read out the will and got it signed, you must take it back to add your own signature. You must sign it with your back turned to them. Then will be the opportunity to change the wills. You must give this will to the Kartâ, and bring his to me."

Brahmânanda Ghosh was deep in thought. He said to himself, "What is the use of my saying anything? A masterpiece of ingenuity, this, to be sure!"

Hara. "What are you thinking about?"

Brahm. "I should like to do it, but I am afraid. Take back your money, I won't be mixed up in a forgery."

"Give me the money," said Hara Lâl, stretching forth his hand. Brahmânanda returned the note. Note in hand, Hara Lâl was going away, when Brahmânanda called him back, saying, "What! going already?"

Hara (returning). "Not yet."

Brahm. "You just now gave Rs. 500, what more will you give?"

Hara. "When you bring me that other will another 500."

Brahm. "Five hundred — rupees! I can't let it go."

Hara. "Then, do you consent?"

Brahm. "What can I do but consent? But how am I to change the will? They are sure to see me."

Hara. "Why should they see? I will change it before you, and you see if you can detect me."

If Hara Lâl was not clever in other respects he certainly had acquired some amount of skill in sleight of hand. He placed the will in his pocket, and, taking a sheet of paper, prepared to write upon it. During this process how the will got from the pocket into the hand, and the paper from the hand into the pocket, Brahmânanda failed to detect. He praised Hara Lâl's dexterity. "I will show you the trick of it," said Hara Lâl, and forthwith began to initiate Brahmânanda in the practice of that unaccustomed art.

It took the elder man some time to acquire the knack, and then Hara Lâl said, "Now I'm off. When the evening is over I shall bring the rest of the money." And he took his leave.

When Hara Lâl was gone Brahmânanda became terribly frightened. He saw that what he had consented to do was a great crime in the eyes of the law. Who knows but that he might be imprisoned for life. Suppose some one were to find him out in the act of changing the papers! Then why do it at all? But if he didn't he would have to give up the money already received. This he could not possibly do; no, not as long as he lived.

Alas! Vegetable diet! on how many poor Brahmans hast thou inflicted deadly suffering! Vegetable diet for one subject to fever! Then at the sight of a brass dish or a plantain leaf filled with appetising sweetmeats what can a poor Brahman do? Shall he leave it or eat it? I can take my oath that should the Brahman sit for a thousand years before a dish thus adorned, discussing the matter, he could not solve this difficult question, and, not being able to solve it, would, in sheer absence of mind, swallow them up.

Thus felt Brahmânanda Ghosh Mahâshoy. Hara Lâl's money was difficult of digestion; there was fear of the gaol, yet he could not give it up. His covetousness was great, so also his fear of consequences. Brahmânanda could come to no decision, and so, like the poor Brahman, he turned his thoughts towards feasting on the money.

Part 1, Chapter III

CHAPTER III.

Late in the evening Brahmânanda returned from writing the will. He found Hara Lâl waiting for him. The latter said—

"What has been done?"

Brahmânanda was a lover of poetry. With a forced smile he said—

When high my hands I raised, the moon to seize intent, They struck the Babla tree, its thorns my fingers rent."

Hara. "You have not been able to do it?"

Brahm. "There were so many difficulties—"

Hara. "You could not manage it?"

Brahm. "No, I could not. Take your forged will, take your money." So saying, Brahmânanda took the note for Rs. 500 from the box, and handed it over with the counter will. Hara Lâl's eyes inflamed, and his lips trembled with anger and annoyance. "Stupid, useless one!" he exclaimed. "What even a woman might do you fail in! I go, but if the least breath of this gets about, you lose your life!"

Brahm. "Don't be anxious on that account. I shall not reveal the matter."

Hara Lâl went thence to Brahmânanda's kitchen. As a child of the house he could penetrate everywhere. In the kitchen Brahmânanda's niece, Rohini, was cooking.

We have special need of this Rohini, so we must say something of her looks and character; but description of charms is not the fashion nowadays, and as to character, it is not safe under existing laws to discuss any but one's own. Suffice it to say that Rohini was in the full glory of womanhood, and of remarkable beauty—the splendour of the full autumnal moon. She had early become a widow, but had many faults unsuited to the widowed condition. For instance, she wore a black-bordered cloth, and bracelets on her arms. I rather think she ate the betel leaf too. Moreover, in cooking she equalled Draupadi. At soups, acids, curries of small fish or of vegetables, parched grain, &c., she was an accomplished hand. Again, in drawing figures on the floor, in making ornaments of Khayer, toys of artificial flowers, and in needlework, she was without a rival. She was the only one in the village who could be depended upon in the braiding of hair and adorning of brides. Having no nearer relative, she dwelt in Brahmânanda's house.

The beautiful Rohini was stirring the pulse in the pan with a stick. At some distance sat the cat, her paws spread out. Rohini now and then cast sweetly fascinating glances at the cat, to see if animals too, like women, could be made to thrill by the snare of lightning flashes from the eye (as a snake fascinates a frog). The cat, taking these sweet glances as an invitation to eat the fried fish, was gradually advancing, when Hara Lâl came tramping in. The cat, frightened, gave up her desire, anxious to escape; Rohini, leaving the stick in the pulse, and wiping her hands, drew her cloth over her head and stood up. Nervously working her fingers, she asked, "When did you come?"

Hara. "Yesterday. I've something to say to you."

Rohini with a thrill of delight asked, "You will eat here to-day, won't you? Shall I put some fine rice on to boil for you?"

Hara. "Yes, yes, set it on if you like, but never mind about that. Do you remember what happened to you one day?"

Rohini looked silently on the ground. Hara Lâl resumed, "That day on which, coming with a troop of pilgrims to bathe in the Ganges, you lagged behind. Do you remember?"

Rohini, holding four fingers of the left with the right hand and looking down. "I remember."

Hara. "The day when you lost your road and found yourself in a plain?"

Rohini "Yes."

Hara. "Night had come on, and you were all alone on that plain. A band of villains came upon you. You remember that?"

Rohini. "I do."

Hara. "Who was it that rescued you on that occasion?"

Rohini. "You did. You were going somewhere on horseback along that plain …"

Hara. "To my sister-in-law's house."

Rohini. "You saw the danger I was in, and rescued me, and sent me home in a palanquin. How should I not remember? I can never repay that obligation."

Hara. "You can repay it to-day. More than that, you can purchase my goodwill for life. Will you do it?"

Rohini. "What do you say? I would give my life even to help you."

Hara. "Whether you do it or not, to no one must you reveal the matter. You must not let a single soul know what I am going to tell you."

Rohini. "Not while I live."

Hara. "Swear it."

Rohini obeyed.

Then Hara Lâl explained about the real and the counterfeit wills, and ended with, "You must steal the real will and put this counterfeit will in its place. You go freely about our house. You are clever, and can easily accomplish it. Will you do it for me?"

Rohini shuddered. "Theft!' If I were to be torn in pieces I could not do it."

Hara. "Just like women—worthless things! a mass of words only. I understand now that never in this world will you repay that debt."

Rohini. "Anything else you bid me I will do. Tell me to die and I will. But that treacherous deed I cannot do."

Hara Lâl, unable to persuade Rohini, offered her the notes for Rs. 1,000, saying, "Take this money as your reward beforehand. You must do the thing."

Rohini would not take the notes. "I was not looking for money," she said. "If you gave me the whole of your father's possessions I could not do it. If it were possible I would have done it simply at your bidding."

Hara Lâl sighed deeply. "I thought you wished me well, Rohini. Outsiders are not like one's own people. If my wife were living I should not have needed to be coaxing you. She would have done it for me."

Rohini laughed.

Hara. "What are you laughing about?"

Rohini. "Talking about your wife brought to my mind the subject of widow-marriage. You are going to marry a widow. Isn't it so?"

Hara. "I have the desire, but where can I find a widow to my taste?"

Rohini. "Well, whether it be a widow or a married woman—I mean a widow or a maiden—it is just as well to get married and settled. We should all be delighted."

Hara. "See, Rohini. Widow-marriage is allowed by the Shâstras."

Rohini. "So people are saying now."

Hara. "You also can marry. Why not do so?"

Rohini pulled forward the cloth on her head and turned away.

Hara. "We are already connected with you in the village, but there is no degree of relationship to prevent it."

At this Rohini pulled her cloth completely over her, and, sitting down near the oven, began to stir the pulse.

Much cast down by this, Hara Lâl turned to go. When he reached the door Rohini said, "You may as well leave the paper. I'll see what I can do."

Overjoyed, Hara Lâl placed the false will and the bank-notes near Rohini. She exclaimed, "Not the notes, only the will."

Leaving the will, Hara Lâl took the money and departed.

Part 1, Chapter IV

CHAPTER IV.

That evening at eight o'clock Krishna Kanta Râi was sitting on his bed in his sleeping chamber, a pillow supporting his back, pulling at his hukâ, and gently nodding over that one physic of the world, that best among intoxicants—the fumes of opium. As he thus nodded, in fancy he saw his will suddenly become a mortgage deed put up to sale. Hara Lâl had bought his entire estate for three rupees, thirteen annas, and two and two-thirds of a cowry. Then he thought that some one told him the will was not a deed of gift but a bond. Instantly it flashed across his mind that Vishnu, son of Brahma, the king of the gods, had come to Mahâdeva and, borrowing a canister of opium from him, had executed this bond, giving him a mortgage on the universe. Mahâdeva, under the stupefying influence of gânjâ, had forgotten to foreclose the mortgage. Just then Rohini came gently into the room and said, "Thâkur Dâdâ! what, sleeping?"

Krishna Kanta, still nodding, replied, "Who is that? Nandi? Tell your master to foreclose at once."

Rohini saw that Krishna Kanta was in one of his frequent bouts of opium-smoking. She laughed and said, "Who is Nandi? Thâkur Dâdâ."

Krishna Kanta, without raising his head, replied, "It is quite correct what I said. He (Nandi) has eaten up the milkmaid's butter at Brindâban, and has not paid yet."

Rohini burst out laughing, which startled Krishna Kanta. Raising his head, he looked at her and said, "Who is that? Aswini, Bharani, Krittikâ, Rohini?"

Rohini. "Mrigashirâ, Ârdrâ, Punarbâsu, Pujyâ."

Krishna. "Asleshâ, Maghâ, Purbaphalguni."

Rohini. "Thâkur Dâdâ have I come to learn astronomy from you?"

Krishna. "Then what do you want? Some opium?"

Rohini. "Is it likely I've come for that? Why, you would sooner part with life than opium. Uncle sent me, that's why I have come."

Krishna. "What for? Opium?"

Rohini. "No, Thâkur Dâdâ, no. I don't want your splendid opium. My uncle says that the will that was written to-day has not your signature."

Krishna. "What's that? I remember perfectly that I did sign it."

Rohini. "No, uncle says that he remembers that you did not sign it. Well, why should we remain in doubt? Why don't you open it out and see?"

Krishna. "Certainly; hold a light then while I look." Thus saying, from beneath his pillow, Krishna Kanta took a key. Rohini held a light that was standing near. Krishna Kanta first opened a small despatch box, and out of it took a special key with which he opened a drawer, and, after some search, took out the recently made will. Then, he took his spectacles from the box and tried to fix them on his nose, but in the process the opium fumes repeatedly made him nod, so he was long about it. Finally, the spectacles duly fixed, Krishna Kanta glanced at the will, and, laughing, said, "Rohini, you think I am old and wandering? See! there is my signature."

Rohini. "Heaven forbid! You are not old. You are obliged to call us your grand-children, but that counts for nothing. Well, I'm off. I'll go and tell uncle."

In the dead of night Krishna Kanta's sleep was suddenly broken in upon. Waking, he perceived there was no light in his room. He always kept a light burning through the night, but now he saw it was extinguished. At the same time a sound entered his ear as though some one were turning a key; also it seemed as if some one were stepping about the room. The person came to the head of his bed, put a hand under his pillow. Krishna Kanta was heavy with opium. He was neither asleep nor awake, and so could not quite comprehend anything. He was not quite sure that there was no light in the room. Now half asleep—now half awake—even awake — his eyes would not open. When he did manage once to open his eyes, the darkness did indeed strike him, but Krishna Kanta then fancied himself in gaol for giving false evidence in Hari Ghosh's lawsuit. The gaol was very dark. After awhile, suddenly, a sound as of the turning of a key fell gently on his ear. "What!" thought he, "has the key of the gaol dropped down?" Instantly he roused himself, felt about for the tube of his hukâ, but could not find it. From habit he called out "Hari!"

Krishna Kanta did not sleep in the inner apartments, nor in the outer rooms. He had a room between the two, and slept there. There also slept his Khânsâmâ, a man named Hari. No one else. It was to this attendant Krishna Kanta was speaking when he called out "Hari!"

He called to him a second time, and then, still heavy with opium, he dozed off. At this time the genuine will vanished from his room. The counterfeit will had been substituted for it.

Part 1, Chapter V

CHAPTER V.

Early next morning, Rohini was again sitting cooking, when, once more, Hara Lâl peeped into the room. Fortunately, Brahmânanda was not at home, else who knows what he might have thought? Hara Lâl slowly approached Rohini, but she did not look particularly at him. Hara Lâl said, "Look this way—the pot won’t burst."

Rohini looked and laughed. Hara Lâl asked, "What have you done?"

Bringing the stolen will, Rohini gave it to Hara Lâl to look at. He read it over, and saw that it was indeed the genuine will. The villain’s face lit up with glee. Holding the will in his hand he asked, "How did you manage it?"

Rohini began the story, but took care not to tell him the truth. She made up some false account and, as she narrated it, took back the will from Hara Lâl’s hand to show him how she had found the document lying in a writing case. As she ended her story she suddenly got up and went away, will in hand. When she returned, Hara Lâl, seeing her to be empty-handed, asked, "Where have you left the will?"

"I have put it by."

Hara. "What is the use of that? I must be going now."

Rohini. "Now, must you? What is the hurry?"

Hara. "I must not stop here any longer."

Rohini. "Then go."

Hara. "And the will?"

Rohini. "Will remain with me."

Hara. "How is that? You will not give me the will?"

Rohini. "It is all the same whether you keep it or I."

Hara. "But if you won't give it to me, why have you stolen it?"

Rohini. "I stole it for you, I keep it for you. When you marry a widow I will give this to your wife. If you take it you will destroy it."

Hara Lâl understood and said, "That can't be, Rohini, whatever money you want, I will give you."

Rohini. "A lakh of rupees would not suffice. What you said you would give is what I want."

Hara. "That can't be. If I commit a forgery, or steal, I do it for my own rights. You have committed a theft, but to benefit whom?"

Rohini's countenance fell at these words. She remained with downcast eyes.

Hara. "Whatever I have become, I am Krishna Kanta's son. The person who has committed a theft I can never make my wife."

Rohini, suddenly rising, threw back the covering from her face, and, looking straight at Hara Lâl, said, "I am a thief! You a saint! Who told me to steal? Who bribed me to do it? Who was it deceived me, seeing I was but a simple woman? The greatest of swindles, the falsest of lies, which the commonest rustic would not have deigned to utter, you, the son of Krishna Kanta Râi, have been guilty of. Alas! alas! I unworthy of you! Never unfortunate woman met so base a swindler as you are! Were you a woman I would have shown you the besom. As you are a man—go in honour."

Hara Lâl felt he had got his deserts. Dismissed—in honour—he went out with an embarrassed laugh. Rohini also felt that each had been served aright. Tightening the knot of her hair, which in her anger had become loosened, she resumed her cooking, tears starting to her eyes.

Part 1, Chapter VI

CHAPTER VI.

Oh! Kokil! Sweet harbinger of spring! Sing out thy joyous lay; it ill becomes me to object, still would I counsel thee to choose aright thy times for song. It is not well to sing alike in season and out of season. See! after much search, I had found pen and ink, and after yet more labour, had collected my ideas, and had sat down to write in full detail the story of Krishna Kanta’s will, when from the sky comes kuhu! kuhu! kuhu! You have a fine voice, I admit, but that alone does not give you the right to call to any one you choose. However, with me, whose hairs are grey, and whose pen runs smoothly on, your calling matters little. But, see! when a man in youthful prime, worried with money matters, sits poring over his accounts, and racks his brain in vain attempts to set them straight, maybe, you, from the broken office wall, call out kuhu! How is he then to balance his accounts? When a lovely woman, grieving at the loss of her lover, sits down, the long, long day over, maybe at nine o'clock, to take her simple fare of rice, and has just taken up the cup of boiling milk, straightway you call kuhu! She leaves the milk untouched; or perhaps, her thoughts far off, she mixes salt with it and drinks it up. In truth there is some enchantment in your voice, else, when you were sitting singing in the bâbul tree, and the widow Rohini was going to fetch some water, carrying the kalsi on her hip, then―but first of all let me account for her going to fetch water.