These three were the outer mahals.  Behind these came the three inner ones.  The inner mahal behind the kacheri bari was for Nagendra’s private use.  In that only himself, his wife, and their personal attendants were allowed; also the furniture for their use.  This place was new, built by Nagendra himself, and very well arranged.  Next to it, and behind the puja bari, came another mahal; this was old, ill-built, the rooms low, small, and dirty.  Here was a whole city-full of female relations, mother’s sister and mother’s cousin, father’s sister and cousin; mother’s widowed sister, mother’s married sister; father’s sister’s son’s wife, mother’s sister’s son’s daughter.  All these female relatives cawing day and night like a set of crows in a banian tree; at every moment screams, laughter, quarrelling, bad reasoning, gossip, reproach, the scuffling of boys, the crying of girls.  “Bring water!” “Give the clothes!” “Cook the rice!” “The child does not eat!” “Where is the milk?” etc., is heard as an ocean of confused sounds.  Next to it, behind the Thakur bari, was the cook-house.  Here a woman, having placed the rice-pot on the fire, gathering up her feet, sits gossiping with her neighbour on the details of her son’s marriage.  Another, endeavouring to light a fire with green wood, her eyes smarting with the smoke, is abusing the gomashta (factor), and producing abundant proof that he has supplied this wet wood to pocket part of the price.  Another beauty, throwing fish into the hot oil, closes her eyes and twists her ten fingers, making a grimace, for oil leaping forth has burnt her skin.  One having bathed her long hair, plentifully besmeared with oil, braiding it in a curve on the temples and fastening it in a knot on the top of her head, stirs the pulse cooking in an earthen pot, like Krishna prodding the cows with a stick.  Here Bami, Kaymi, Gopal’s mother, Nipal’s mother, are shredding with a big knife vegetable pumpkins, brinjals, the sound of the cutting steel mingling with abuse of the neighbours, of the masters, of everybody:  that Golapi has become a widow very young; that Chandi’s husband is a great drunkard; that Koylash’s husband has secured a fine appointment as writer to the Darogah; that there could not be in the world such a flying journey as that of Gopal, nor such a wicked child as Parvati’s; how the English must be of the race of Ravan (the ten-headed king of Ceylon); how Bhagirati had brought Ganga; how Sham Biswas was the lover of the daughter of the Bhattacharjyas; with many other subjects.  A dark, stout-bodied woman, placing a large bonti (a fish-cutter) on a heap of ashes in the court, is cutting fish; the kites, frightened at her gigantic size and her quick-handedness, keeping away, yet now and again darting forward to peck at the fish.  Here a white-haired woman is bringing water; there one with powerful hand is grinding spices.  Here,