The hill woman stopped singing as soon as she saw Beena and began to call to her goats. ‘Hurrieyeh . . . urrieyey. Aoh, aoh, aoh.’ The goats paused in their grazing and looked up.

‘Why have you stopped singing? I came to hear you.’

‘What singing, Bibi? This is only to while away the time. We poor people can’t go to the cinemas and learn new songs . . . aoh, aoh.’ The goats looked up again, saw their mistress busy, and resumed their nibbling. The woman sat down on her haunches. She was old and full of wrinkles but her smile had the gay abandon of youth. She had a flat gold coin of the size of a rupee on one side of her nose and her arms were full of cheap glass bungles. ‘What can we sing, Bibi,’ she repeated. ‘Aoh, urreieyh.’

‘Your song was better than the songs in the films. Why don’t you go on?’ asked Beena sitting down at little distance from her. The old woman just looked down at her feet.

‘Have you a family?’ asked Beena to encourage the other to talk.

‘Family? Don’t ask me anything. Five daughters!’ she replied, slapping her forehead. ‘It was written on my forehead; I cannot grumble.’ She smiled baring a set of pearl white teeth.

‘What’s wrong with having five daughters?’

The peasant woman spat on the ground between her legs. ‘One has got to get them married; that costs money. We can’t pay our debts and now we have to borrow more because the eldest is thirteen. We are marrying her off next month. You can’t keep a young girl in the house, can you?’ You must be married.’

‘No, I am single.’

‘You rich people have no worries. It’s us poor folk who can’t get enough to fill our bellies. Five daughters and nothing to give to any one of them.’ She smacked her forehead again. ‘It is all written there’—and she smiled again. Her worries did not last long.

Beena took off one of her gold bangles. ‘Give this to your eldest for her dowry. And now sing me a song.’ Beena flung the bangle on the ground.

The hillwoman picked it up and placed it on her open palms. ‘Bibi! You are unmarried and will need it yourself. Take this back.’

‘No! I don’t take back anything I have given. Now sing.’

The woman came up to Beena, touched her feet, and began a loud sing-song of blessing. ‘Bibi, may all your wishes be fulfilled! May you get a handsome bridegroom; may you be the mother of seven sons; may you . . . . ’

‘Stop! Stop!’ laughed Beena. ‘You have seven sons yourself; one will be enough for me. Now sing.’

‘I will sing you a song of a young girl waiting for her lover.’