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Bow-ma recognised the driver's voice and, realising the futility of objecting, without a word she stepped down and helped her little son to alight. "Follow me" was the next rough order. Again she silently obeyed. The man left the road and led her a little distance away under the shadow of some trees. "Take off your jewels. Give them to me." A faint sigh of relief escaped her.

She had started early so that the journey should be accomplished in day-light, and still they did not reach home. She noted the various trees and hedges and was puzzled. Surely, the road seemed different. The sun, a ball of golden fire, sank to rest in a bed of many-tinted clouds, and still they had not arrived. Bow-ma felt strangely anxious. The carriage suddenly swerved.

In India it is not permitted a woman to address any man save her husband, father, and brothers. The child obeyed but the driver made no reply. "Ask again," whispered the mother, "he has not heard you." The boy asked, "When shall we arrive?" again and again, but not a word answered the driver. Bow-ma, now thoroughly alarmed, beat the shutters of the carriage and commanded her son to shout loudly.

Bow-ma knew the road well. Often had she journeyed to and fro in the early years of her married life, and even after the birth of her little son her visits to her parents had been frequent. The carriage was close and her heavy silken saree hot to wear, so she opened the venetians and lazily watched the familiar landmarks as they passed.

He quickened his steps and hastened to the spot. The light from his lantern revealed bow-ma and her son, clinging to each other and weeping piteously. "Who are you? What ails you?" he asked. The distraught mother, unconscious of the flight of time, thinking him the heartless dacoit returned to kill her boy, fell at his feet in an agony of supplication: "Spare my son. Take my life instead."

I will fetch a brick from yonder kiln and pound the breath out of you," With these words he strode forward, tying the jewels in the saree as he went. Now her sorely-tried nerves gave way, and, distracted with grief, bow-ma caught her child in her arms, and their mingled cries rent the air. But the thief did not return. About midnight a village policeman going his rounds heard their cries.

"Yes, dacoit I am," the scoundrel replied to the boy's revilings, "and if you will not be quiet, I will teach you how to." Bow-ma gently strove to console and silence her son. "Fret not! Your father will give me more and better jewels." "Take off your saree" was the next outrageous command. The boy's indignation flamed afresh.

So a hackney-carriage was hired with a driver who had often before been employed by her father-in-law, and everyone felt assured bow-ma would reach her destination safely. Her mother-in-law saw her into the carriage. Her little boy was lifted up beside her, and, with many injunctions to drive carefully and with speed ringing in his ears, the driver whipped up his horses and they were off.

Indian parents-in-law cannot visit at the parental home of their daughter-in-law. Therefore bow-ma journeyed alone with her little son, a child of about five years of age. The distance was not a long one, only from Calcutta to Durgapore, a village a few miles away from the city.