Manhordás.—Don't make me speak out, Veshadhári. I know you and the widows of your family!
Veshadhári.—They are your mothers, you rascal!
Manhordás.—Ah! they never keep their children!
Veshadhári (losing temper).—Oh, you slanderous murderer! Is not your widowed sister a witch?
Manhordás (relapsing into street Arabism).—Your daughter, your sister, your mother!
Veshadhári.—Your aunt, your grandmother—were they not Mahomedans?
Manhordás.—And can you swear who is your father?
Veshadhári.—Yes, and I can also swear who your real father is. Now, will you fight it out, you malicious liar?
Thákar Khokhrá (waking from his nap and falling back upon the hubble-bubble).—Is the business before the meeting over?
Manhordás.—No; you must listen to me.
Khokhrá Shett (striking his belly).—I will listen to this first. I have put you out of caste, also all your family and friends, unless you do
