The house was full of relatives and other people. From all parts of the house one could hear the sounds made by the shouts of the servants at work. Pari, the maid, returning from the bazaar through the front courtyard, her vegetables in a basket on her hip; Dukhon the bearer carrying Ganga water in a yoke across his shoulder, the weaver woman going into the inner apartments to trade the newest style of sari; Dinu the goldsmith, who received a monthly wage, sitting in the room next to the lane, blowing his bellows and carrying out the orders of the family, now coming to the counting-house to present his bill to Kailash Mukherjee, who had a quill pen stuck behind his ear. The carder sits in the courtyard cleaning the mattress-stuffing on his twinging bow. Mukundalal, the durwan was rolling outside on the ground with the one-eyed wrestler, trying out a new wrestling fall. He slapped his thighs loudly and repeated his movements twenty or thirty times, dropping on all fours. A crowd of beggars were waiting outside for their regular dole. This was a regular routine Rabindranath witnessed and it became tedious.
