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When the noon descended on the suburban hamlet like a medieval school teacher and put the trees and houses and the tea-stall under a spell of fright and when even the indefatigable pedlar of ever-hot groundnuts kept quiet, Lakshmi stole out of her house and peeped into the temple from the shadow of the Krishnachura tree.

She wanted to make a dash for the temple, to pop up before the deity, but she feared the old priest. Being a pundit, he could not help asking a child the meaning of some important phrase or the solution to some arithmetical problem. Besides, as the confidant of the deity, it was his duty, naturally, to keep the periphery of the temple clear of children.

It was after some days that she spied upon the priest lying soundly asleep, snoring lustily. Lakshmi crossed over him and immediately touched her forehead with her right hand as a mark of penitence for irreverently jumping over a holy being.

She knelt down inside the sanctum sanctorum, before the deity, and gazed at the beautiful image and the floral decorations in awe. And soon she began to murmur:

“You haven’t forgotten me, have you? I am Lakshmi, of course! Good God! How many times have I tried to sneak into your presence, to be with you alone. But the priest would always find me out in my effort. Luckily, he is asleep today. Well, God, does the priest snore like this even at night? How do you sleep then? Our teacher also snores—although his style is different—while we sit memorizing a verse. It is a pity, isn’t it, that the wise ones cannot do without snoring! Tell me, God, if I learn how to snore, will that make me a pundit? Please, God, do not give me any boon in a haste. I am not sure I will like to be a pundit if I have to snore on that account.

“But I can ask you for a boon, can’t I? Before I forget, will you please repeat what you have told me in my dream a month or so ago? Why I do not play with you—why I forgot you—you certainly complained of some such thing, didn’t you? Believe me, I have been trying my best to meet you ever since I dreamt of you. But what can I do if I do not succeed?

“Well, well, who has given you such a huge bunch of bananas—and with so many of them ripe? Do you propose to eat all of them, alone? Mind you, God, do not eat more than you should. One, two, three, four, five . . . there are twelve bananas pretty ripe. You can eat two a day. Oh, you will like to eat more, is that so? All right, eat four a day, but not one more. So, you will take four days to finish the twelve. I am sorry, three days. This is the trouble with me, God! I do not have any talent for arithmetic!

“Yes, I wanted to ask you, can’t you perform a miracle overnight? How wonderful it will be if one fine morning all the people woke up with arithmetic clean vanished from the world!

“But, wait, God! Just do not say all right to that. Perhaps arithmetic is good, after all. Perhaps I’m not old enough, although I’m already six, to realise its goodness.

“But God, if you will be pleased to grant a boon, then grant that people should convey their devotion to you with less noise. The other night, towards the last part of it, I was dreaming of you when the prayer from the temple woke me up with a jolt. Prayer is good and good also is the gramophone which plays it. But must they send the prayers to you through the loudspeakers?

“Behind our house there is another shrine belonging to the people of another religion. They too must call you through loudspeakers. Tell me, God! Can’t you really hear unless called so very loudly? I asked mummy the other day: ‘Do you think, mummy, that Dhruva and Prahlada put their prayers into loudspeakers?’ Mummy thought for a little while and said, ‘No.’ And mummy always speaks right, doesn‘t she? Now I am talking so low and still, as I see, you can hear everything all right.

“But God, if I am wrong, you will please pardon me. If you are fond of noise, then you need not stop them only because I dislike them. To be frank. I am rather timid. Noise frightens me. And I believe, papa is no different. You know, he had high fever last week. Our neighbours played music at a very high pitch, with the loudspeaker pointed, all through the day, towards our house. Poor papa wriggled in disgust. He took my hands and tried to plug his ears with them. God! Please make my papa a little more brave.

“And God, can’t you arrange for some money for papa? Do you know what happened the other day? I whispered to him that I needed a new frock. Papa told mummy: ‘My daughter never asks me for anything. Since she desires to have a new frock, I must buy one for her.’

“Mummy rarely goes out of home. It was after a long time that she got ready to accompany papa and myself to the bazaar. She would buy me a frock and we would together enjoy the bazaar and all the things around and the evening on the lake.

“But, O God! We had just come out to the veranda when a huge man who reminded me of a stalking tiger I had seen in a picture confronted us. With a sigh papa quietly emptied his purse. Do you know why? Papa had borrowed some money from that fellow. Once a week the fellow comes for collecting the interest, but he comes carrying a huge lathi in his hand. Papa says that the fellow had already collected as interest more than what he had given. Don’t you think, God, that he should stop asking papa for more?

“I told papa: ‘lf borrow you must, then please take care to choose a shorter money-lender with a shorter lathi and less violent moustache.’

“For your information, God, we did not go to the bazaar, for who will give me a frock without money?

“I told mummy, I had no particular desire to buy a frock. I should be happy to make one out of a torn but colourful saree which I had seen lying useless in her trunk for a long time!

“You can certainly guess, God, that I lied to mummy. I had in fact seen a beautiful frock displayed at the window of a shop in the bazaar which I would have loved to put on.

“Mummy sat down, that very evening, to make a frock out of her saree. She tried her best to hide her tears, though she did not quite succeed. Only once before had I seen mummy weeping. That was when papa was sick and the man with the lathi began banging on our door. Mummy opened the door halfway and told him that papa was away and would return in a week. After the money-lender left, I whispered my surprise to her: ‘Mummy, didn’t you tell me that it was wrong to tell a lie?’ Mummy answered, ‘It is wrong. I am unfortunate that circumstance compelled me to utter a lie.’ She then took me into her lap and said. ‘But you should grow up to be a much better woman. You should not tell a lie under any circumstance.’

“But, God, I saw mummy, after a while, weeping secretly. And should I tell you what I realised then? My mummy might have uttered a lie, but she was not a liar. All the others in the world may be liars, but not my mummy. She was above all else and nobler than all.

“And you know, God, don’t you, that if I had spoken a lie in regard to the frock, it was to console mummy. However, I expect you to pardon me and mommy in case you consider our faults very grave. I know you will be kind, for you are so good!

“But, God, if it is a trouble for you to arrange some money for papa, then forget about it.

“I am sorry, God, I have talked a lot. But I have not yet said what was uppermost in my mind. I saw you in a dream the other night and I was so excited. But I could not quite catch what you said. Will you please appear once more in my dream and tell me what you wanted me to understand? And if you could somehow put the priest to sleep at noon every day I could visit you often.

“O God! The priest is snoring no more! I must be off then.

“And to remind you again—do not eat all the bananas at a time. I expect you to remember this. Did you say something? Oh, you want me to take a couple of them, do you? But . . . well then, I shall take. But no more than two—well?”

Lakshmi plucked two bananas from the bunch, prostrated herself to the deity and came out to the open.

It was scorching sun outside. She had lost the sense of time. She had been too dazed to walk steadily.

Suddenly an angry growl surprised her: “Stealing from the temple in the broad daylight, is it? Audacity!”

The priest was rushing at her. She stood dumb-founded for a moment. Then she started running.

And the priest pursued her.

There was a pond across the road. Lakshmi had probably lost her sense of direction too. She dashed into the pond.

The priest’s screaming had begun to attract people. They gathered on the road—the crowd rapidly swelling-and stared into the pond, amazed.

Lakshmi stood waist-deep in the water, and held the two bananas close to her chest.

“Come out!” commanded the priest and “come out!” bellowed many more voices. But Lakshmi did nothing except cast a blank look at the crowd.

Soon her papa elbowed his way through the crowd. Lakshmi began to cry. Papa entered the water without a word and took her in his arms.

The crowd commented excitedly, “What a daughter!” “Virtue personified!” “The issue is not just a few bananas, but the character of the girl.”

Papa gently removed the bananas from Lakshmi’s hands and surrendered them to the priest and moved away from the crowd.

Lakshmi did not speak any more. She had an attack of fever. After silently suffering for three days, she died.

Devout people who collected at the temple the next Sunday to hear the weekly reading from the scriptures praised the deity. The deity whom they had nurtured and maintained was alert indeed! How could anybody escape his vengeance after stealing the food meant for him?

Among those who participated in the lively discussion were the local leader who had robbed the deity at the installation ceremony, and two of the trustees who took from the temple fund a regular supplement to their income. Not being sure whether the deity had any knowledge of their deeds, they were the loudest in their praise of the lord. They hoped that the deity would hear them and feel flattered.

The priest alone sat quiet. At last, when the wise ones raised a slogan congratulating the deity, the priest felt as though the spirit of the deity suddenly escaped from the shrine with a dart and what remained behind was only a meaningless form.

“What is this, Punditji! You seem to be having high fever!” exclaimed an attendant of the temple who happened to touch the priest. But the priest did not speak.

For the remaining days of his life the priest often mumbled a rather queer prayer, “God! Next time let this sinner be born without a tongue!”