‘What the diligent officer says is perfectly correct. It was my mistake. Please accept one more nishk,’ Pratool replied laughing.

The assistant with the state seal again spoke to the customs officer, this time in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘Is this second wife a bought slave or a formally wedded spouse?’

Overhearing the whispered question, Pratool laughed jovially and said, ‘The young officer’s vigilance is truly commendable, but this trader does not cheat for the sake of one nishk. Among high-born people, transactions in slaves are always made in writing, whereas marriage—the giving away of a daughter and her acceptance as wife—are executed by word of mouth only, holding the invisible gods as witness. For that reason, a document on palmyra-leaf cannot be produced. My friend, the aphorism “You as wife, I as husband” explains the traditional mode of marriage among the Aryas of Jambu Dweep. I was enamoured of the beauty and accomplishments of the daughter of a high-caste tradesman of Sagal, Naimityak by name, and I took her in marriage. And look at the superior worth of a high-born girl; she is already bearing in her womb the continuity of my family. My first wife, despite three years of married life, is still childless. That’s why a second wife …’ He laughed again.

‘May fortune smile on you! May your family prosper,’ the customs officer said, also laughing. ‘But how can we expect your fortunate wife to be happy, away from the free land of Madra and its cool climate, in areas where the climate is so sultry and hot and where princes rule with an iron hand? But of course, the poor girl couldn’t know anything about foreign places where people suffer under tyrants and the climate is so much harsher than our own. It all shows that man is only a plaything in the hands of fate!’

On the veranda of the Customs House, Divya sat with Anjana—the wife of the slave trader, listening to the pleasantries being exchanged between Pratool and the customs officers. She felt a stab of pain in her heart. She was being pulled away from her motherland—the free state of Madra, the beloved city of Sagal—where she had spent her carefree childhood. Divya knew that she had only to cry out in protest and she would be free, free from the clutches of the slave trader, free from bondage. But then, where would she go? Was there anywhere that she would be truly free? Where would she find shelter and security? Where would she get protection for her child? Freedom had little meaning for a person who did not have the means to survive!

Pratool was saying to the customs officer, ‘Love of land and country is linked with life. My motherland is wherever I can earn my living. And what do you say to love? Hasn’t lover’s feeling any importance?’

To Divya, the word ‘love’ connoted terror and dread. Love was what had brought on her predicament; her deception by Prithusen. From the elderly Pratool too, she had known nothing but terror. He had called her ‘daughter’ but had been nothing but a tyrant. He had snatched Dhata, her only support, away from her. Since the night Divya had been locked up alone, she had heard nothing of Dhata. Whenever she cried or complained, Pratool would pretend to be kind and sympathetic, and would ask her to have patience. Anjana would again and again show surprise and say, ‘Oh! God alone knows where that crafty woman has gone!’