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The sky is turning dark at the western horizon, and the birds are flapping back to their nests. Bhama lifts her hunched body and staggers along the bamboo fence, balancing her feeble frame on a rickety cane. She looks at the sky and then stretches herself, turning her neck toward the opposite side of the fence where, on the premises of a mud hut, an old, frail woman is humming a tune. It sounds like a waning monotone mourning the sun’s departure. Before her, an earthen lamp flickers, its wick trying to lick the loose strands of the old woman’s hair as she wobbles back and forth in the weird rhythm of her song.

“Hira, O Hira!” Bhama’s shrill voice rises above Hira’s baritone. A few birds, dozing after the day’s flight under the spell of Hira’s waning song, startle and flap their tired wings in anxiety and desperation.

“Hira, O Hira!”

Hira stops her song and raises her head. She squeezes her eyes to trace Bhama’s presence in the encroaching darkness.

“What happens to you, old wretch? Why are you shouting? Are you going to die and ask me to call the carriers?”

“Why should I die on earth, leaving you alone to whine at this auspicious moment in your nasal tone?”

“You spooky-haired witch! Who are you to criticize my song? You cannot speak a word properly. Only air passes through your toothless gums. What do you know about song?”

The mention of the gap in her teeth turns Bhama furious. In her youth, Bhama was beautiful, but because of the gap in her teeth, she was rejected thrice before she was married.

Bhama approaches, holding her wooden cane in a firm grip. She tries her best to stand erect and threaten Hira, but Hira spits on the ground and starts her chanting again with more enthusiasm. Till now, she was singing for herself; now she finds an earnest audience.

Bhama stands still for some time. Then, swallowing her vaunted ego, she totters back to her hut.  She feels rejected on such a hopeless evening, their brawl abruptly silenced by Hira’s sudden urge to sing. Finding nothing else to do, she crawls onto her mat and sinks into deep contemplation of how to avenge Hira’s audacity.

Hira is Bhama’s sister-in-law. They were never on good terms from the day Hira came as a new bride, Raghu’s wife. Bhama always threw tantrums, and they quarreled over trifles.

Yet, despite everything, there was a strange bond between them. Neither could truly spend time without the other. When Bhama got married, Hira felt lonely. Very often they visited each other, returning with promises never to see one another’s face again, only to forget those vows the next day.

Unfortunately, Raghu died of cholera, and Bhama’s husband was crushed under a running truck. Bhama returned to her brother’s house. At first, both cursed and abused each other for their ill fate. Then they began sipping leftover rice from the same dented aluminum plate.

It was not long before their frequent bickering began to fray the peace of the neighborhood. Finding no solution, the village people separated them with a fence, dividing their land and building a new hut for Bhama. After uttering a thousand oaths and swearing by countless gods and goddesses, they separated their utensils, clothes, and even their king-size worn-out mattress.

But the story did not end there.

From morning onward, Bhama would threaten Hira, declaring that if she dared to come near her hut or touch the fence, she would do something terrible. And Hira would concoct some scheme to draw Bhama’s attention. Life went on in this manner.

When Bhama retired to her hut and lay on her secluded mat, Hira no longer felt the urge to sing her ballad. She waited for some time, hoping for some sign from Bhama. Finding none, she retreated to her mat and waited for daybreak.

For the morning, she would have to think of something compelling.