The scene was magnificent. A pyre was burning and the peasants, all drunk, were chanting bolo hari, hari bol; bolo hari, hari bol. Some were
Teja’s Day with a Tiger Teja, the great old man, aged seventy five, was sitting on his haunches on the open yard of his tin-hut.
One late summer afternoon I was returning back from the day’s rambling around Sarugaon tea garden. I surveyed the long green carpets stretched miles after miles,
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