The second month passed as well.
It was a night of amavas. Haridas was settled on the platform like darkness settles on a tainted heart. Today the digging would be over. It would take a little more time and effort. No worries, things were under control. His family might create a little trouble if he got too late. But it would not take long now to find out what was beneath the platform. If I find a stone vault, then there would certainly be wealth. If there isn’t any vault then it would be nothing but a trick. If that happens . . . no, I won’t be able to bear it! I would have been fooled. But no, the pickaxe is making some sound. Yes, there is a rocky surface. He searched for it. There was no doubt now. It was a rock. The vault was found, but Haridas did not jump with joy.
He returned home with a headache. He thought it was because of tiredness, but even sleep did not bring any relief. By night, he had a high fever. For three days, the fever persisted. No medicine brought him any relief.
Haridas was almost convinced that his condition was a punishment for his greed. He wanted to give the invoice to Magan and ask his forgiveness, but the fear of exposure stopped him. He wondered how the followers of Jesus confessed their sins before a priest.4
After Haridas’s death, the invoice passed into the hands of his son, Prabhudas. It was beyond doubt that the invoice had been drawn by Magan’s ancestors. But Prabhudas thought, Father must have deliberated enough before venturing on this path. He was an upright and honest man. Nobody ever doubted his intentions. So if he did not think this conduct reprehensible why should I have any misgivings? If this treasure comes my way my life would be completely different! I can show the rich how to spend money. I can even make them bend down before me. Nobody would then dare look me in the eye! He decided to go ahead with his father’s plan.
Come evening, and he would leave the house. It was the same time, the same alert eyes, and the same pickaxe. It seemed as if Haridas’s spirit was working in a different form.
The base of the platform had been dug up. Now there was the vault itself, the joints of which were difficult to loosen. The material was old and strong; even the pickaxe bounced back. It took some days for the crack to open but the rock did not budge. Then Prabhudas began to work with an iron rod, but despite using all his force, the rock did not move. He had to manage everything alone. It was out of the question to ask anyone for help.
Once again, it was amavas. It was about midnight but Prabhudas’s effort still hadn’t borne fruit.
But today, it was absolutely essential to find a solution. If anyone looked into the basement the game would be up.
Sitting on the rock, he began to think. His brain just didn’t seem to work. Suddenly something clicked . . . why not make use of explosives? He didn’t want to leave the task for the next day, so he went straight to the market, covering the distance of two miles in no time! But when he reached, he found that the shops were closed. The fireworks-maker refused to entertain him: ‘Explosives cannot be sold at this time. It is not a government order. Who are you? What will you do with the explosives? No, if something happens we will be held responsible.’
Prabhudas’s patience had never been tested this way before. He kept pleading with the shopkeeper, and eventually, the sweet music of coins won him over. As Prabhudas left the market, he found it difficult to control his excitement.
At two in the morning, Prabhudas reached the temple. He placed the explosives in the crack of the vault, ignited the wick and quickly got out of the way. The next moment, there was a big explosion. The rock flew up. A dark cave appeared, as if some demon was waiting with his mouth open to swallow him.5
It was morning. Prabhudas was resting in his room. In front of him, there was an iron vault with ten thousand old coins inside it. His mother was sitting beside him with a fan.
Prabhudas was suffering from a fever. He would toss about, moan, throw up his hands and legs, but his eyes never left the iron vault. All his hopes were imprisoned there.
Magan was a munshi at the kiln now. He lived in Prabhudas’s house.
Magan entered Prabhudas’s room and said, ‘Will you come to the kiln? Should I ask for the carriage?’
Prabhudas looked at him, his face full of regret, and said, ‘No, I won’t come today, I am sick. You too stay back.’
Magan went out to call a doctor.
By ten o’clock, Prabhudas’s face had gone completely pale and his eyes were red. When his mother looked at him, she was overwhelmed with grief. It was as if Haridas’s condition was flashing before her eyes. It felt as if the tragic event was repeating itself. While she was praying, Prabhudas’s eyes were still stuck to that same vault to which he seemed to have offered his life.
His wife sat nearby and began sobbing uncontrollably. Tears fell from Prabhudas’s eyes too, but they were still hopelessly fixed on the vault.
The doctor arrived, gave him some medication and left. But the medicines had an adverse effect. Prabhudas’s hands and legs
