‘No, no, I won’t let you go from the shop without getting my money,’ said the old woman in a sharp irritated tone. ‘What if you have become a soldier? That has nothing to do with me. Tomorrow you may be packed off to Darva, then who will pay me my money? Is wine made without money? You are a clever one, aren’t you? Came along to have a few drinks without any money in your pocket. What do I care if you’ve enlisted as a soldier? Get your liquor from the noble lord who has recruited you into his army and whose life you’re going to guard! Why should you cheat a poor old woman like me? The tax collector has already grabbed two gold pieces from me for the war fund, and here you are, refusing to pay for the drinks.’

‘Give money to the war fund and make the officers rich! Ha, ha!’ someone shouted, interrupting the old woman. ‘Of the two gold pieces you’ve given, Grandma, one will go to the treasury while the other will find its way to the officers’ pockets. There will be little left for Kendras to loot! Grandma, you serve wine free of charge and cheerfully to state officers who extort money from you by force, but from us poor folk you charge double the price for thimblefuls of wine which is one-half water, anyway!’

‘Such is the way of the world, friend,’ laughed another drunkard, slapping the speaker on the back. ‘One dog bites another and protects the wealth of his master. You and I will kill one another at the whim of some civil servant. Friend, if you had an officer’s belt round your waist, you too would growl at every passer-by, just as a dog tied to his master’s porch barks at every dog passing in the street. Feeding the Brahmins is a greater virtue than having your own dinner. Do you know why? Because the Brahmin is the dog of the gods.’

Prithusen, standing in a dark corner on one side, recognized the voice of the speaker: it was Marish, the sculptor–philosopher. Marish’s clothes and hair were so dishevelled that it was difficult to recognize him. To what depths of poverty had Marish sunk after having been dismissed from his assignment, Prithusen thought. Just then, his attention was again drawn towards the old woman, who was holding onto the shirt of the errant customer and was still berating him.

‘You old miser,’ someone was saying to the woman, ‘don’t be so hard on the poor fellow. What if he has drunk a couple of glasses to drown his sorrow after being forcibly recruited into the army?’

Another old boozer, holding his earthen wine bowl in one hand and some food in the other, stepped forward and said, ‘Friend Shandeya, I shall pay for your drinks. Drink as much as you like.’ He put the bowl to Shandeya’s lips. Then smashing the empty bowl on the ground, he said, ‘Of what use is money? The food I eat or the wine I drink, that alone is mine. I stand in front of a scorching fire the whole day long and forge swords. With my sword in hand the state officer drove my son into the army. My son will go to the front line to bear the brunt of Kendras’s attack, while the priest and the sacrificer, with the money I’ve paid in taxes, will drink the wine sanctified by mantras and devour the meat offered in sacrifice, and pray to the gods for protection by chanting hymns. The great warrior, the feudatory chief, will show his prowess by carrying off to bed slave-girls of fair and dark complexions while my son, trembling under the sword of his enemy, will be dubbed a coward. Oh, it would have been far better if he had become a Buddhist monk and thereby gained a longer lease of life!’ The old man sat down on the ground with his head between his hands.