_pice_ jingle as they change hands; the haggling and chaffering are
without parallel in any market at home. Here is a man apparently in the
last madness of intense passion, in fierce altercation with another,
who tries his utmost to outbluster his furious declamation. In a moment
they are smiling and to all appearance the best friends in the world.
The bargain has been concluded; it was all about whether the one could
give three _brinjals_ or four for one pice. It is a scene of
indescribable bustle, noise, and confusion. By evening however, all
will have been packed up again, and only the faint outlines of yet
floating clouds of dust, and the hopping, cheeky crows, picking up the
scattered litter and remnants of the market, will remain to tell that
it has been bazaar day in our village.

Generally, about the centre of it, there is a more pretentious
structure, with verandahs supported on wooden pillars. High walls
surround a rather commodious courtyard. There are mysterious little
doors, through which you can get a peep of crooked little stairs
leading to the upper rooms or to the roof, from dusky inside verandahs.
Half-naked, listless, indolent figures lie about, or walk slowly to and
from the yard with seemingly purposeless indecision. In the outer
verandah is an old _palkee_, with evidences in the tarnished gilding
and frayed and tattered hangings, that it once had some pretensions to
fashionable elegance.

The walls of the buildings however are sadly cracked, and numerous
young _peepul_ trees grow in the crevices, their insidious roots
creeping farther and farther into the fissures, and expediting the work
of decay, which is everywhere apparent. It is the residence of the
Zemindar, the lord of the village, the owner of the lands adjoining.
Probably he is descended from some noble house of ancient lineage. His