The old one died, none, apart from a few of his kin, cried.

The villagers had stood with their heads hung low, sighing with relief.

That night the taverns were full, and the parochial patrons rejoiced,

''The old one was vain and cantankerous," they collectively proclaimed,

''The old one didn't do what he was supposed to do, he was the least dutiful."



The new one has been ill for two weeks, flushing with a fever of one hundred four degrees.

"The new one is kind and wise,"

they express collective gratitude,

"The new one does the village well."

Peasants, daughters, and the erstwhile ostracised— the ones whose touch supposedly defiles and damns ones nirvana goals— respect him for the respect he reclaimed for them.

The new one doesn't think of maintaining and promoting harmony in the society as a favour, a task done beyond the confines the duty; The new one is leader, responsible.

The temples are, now, thronged, and the faces may be myriad, but, the same prayer pleads:

"Save the Sarpanch Ji."