Munshi Din Dayal was one of those men who were straightforward with straightforward people, but with crooked people became not merely crooked themselves, but downright devilish. If Dayanath opened his mouth wide and talked of thousands, Din Dayal would give him such a runaround that he would remember it all his life. Dayanath's decency had won him over. His intention had been to give a thousand rupees, but he had already given a thousand at the tilak. Manki said, “If you gave a thousand at the tilak, you will have to give the same amount at home. Where will it come from?”
Din Dayal said irritably, “God is the master. When those people have shown generosity and entrusted their son to me, I too want to show that we are gentlemen and know the value of good manners. If they had shown arrogance, I would certainly have taught them a lesson.”
Din Dayal had given a thousand rupees, but instead of lightening Dayanath's burden, he had made it heavier. Dayanath fled from debt as though from a great distance. For this wedding he had intended to follow the policy of “using the groom's money to pay for the groom's shoes.” But Din Dayal's generosity broke his restraint. All the wedding pomp, dancing, and entertainments whose very conception he had strangled now appeared before him in grand form. The horse that had been tied up had been released from its stall—who could stop it now? He became determined to celebrate the wedding with great fanfare. Earlier he had considered clothes and jewelry secondary; now they had become the most important thing. There had to be such a display that everyone at the wedding pavilion would be thrilled.
Everyone's eyes must be opened. He had goods worth three thousand rupees made. The goldsmith received one thousand in cash and was promised another thousand within a week, so he raised no objection. He thought, “Two thousand are practically secured; five or seven hundred rupees will remain. Where are they going anywhere?” Once a merchant has recovered his cost, he does not insist on receiving the profit immediately. Even so, the Chandrahār was still missing. A jeweled Chandrahār could not be had for less than a thousand rupees. Dayanath's heart was tempted to take it as well while he was at it, so that no one would have cause to turn up their nose; but Jageshwari would not agree.
The tide had turned.
Dayanath said heatedly, “What do you care? You will stay at home. I will be the one to die when the people on the other side begin wrinkling their noses.”
Jageshwari: “Have you thought about where you will get the money?”
Dayanath: “At least a thousand rupees will certainly be received there.”
Jageshwari: “Have you developed a taste for blood?”
Dayanath said shyly, “No, no, but surely something will be received there too?”
Jageshwari: “If something is received there, it will also be spent there. A person's reputation does not come from clothes and jewelry; it comes from gifts and generosity.”
Thus the proposal for the Chandrahār was rejected.
But although Dayanath considered show and display unnecessary, Ramanath considered them essential. The wedding procession should go with such pomp that the whole village would be buzzing. At first there had been an idea of a palanquin for the groom. Ramanath insisted on a motorcar. His friends approved the proposal, and it was accepted. Dayanath was a solitary man; he had neither friendships nor much social contact. Ramanath was a sociable young man, and at this point his friends were taking the lead in every matter. Whatever they did, they did wholeheartedly. If they arranged fireworks, they were of the highest quality. If they arranged dancing, it was of the highest quality; the same went for the musicians and bands. There was no question of anything second-rate or third-rate. Dayanath did become worried when he saw his son's extravagance, but he could say nothing. What could he say?