Nearly six years! Zira, drawing water from the stream, set down the jar, straightened her aching back, and shaded her eyes with her hand. There was a man standing under the teak tree. He seemed travel-worn, but a well-looking man for all that.
Zira made to lift the jar to her shoulder and go away. The man spoke. “Are the people friendly in this village?”
“That is as it is looked at,” said Zira. “To many they are friendly.”
The man came nearer. “Whose house is that among the trees?”
“Gângya’s.”
“Are Gângya and Itura living, and their sons and daughters?”
“You have been in the village before?—Gângya and Itura are living, and their daughters and all their sons save one.”
“Which one is that?”
“Madhava.”
“I remember him.—How did he die and when?”