Its high rate
of interest, which made the villagers flock so enthusiastically
to put in their money, ended by swamping the bank altogether.
The old officers of the estate felt troubled and frightened.
There was jubilation in the enemy's camp. Of all the family,
only my husband's grandmother remained unmoved. She would scold
me, saying: "Why are you all plaguing him so? Is it the fate of
the estate that is worrying you? How many times have I seen this
estate in the hands of the court receiver! Are men like women?
Men are born spendthrifts and only know how to waste. Look here,
child, count yourself fortunate that your husband is not wasting
himself as well!"
My husband's list of charities was a long one. He would assist
to the bitter end of utter failure anyone who wanted to invent a
new loom or rice-husking machine. But what annoyed me most was
the way that Sandip Babu [9] used to fleece him on the pretext of
__Swadeshi__ work. Whenever he wanted to start a newspaper,
or travel about preaching the Cause, or take a change of air by
the advice of his doctor, my husband would unquestioningly supply
him with the money.
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