My mother told me a story every evening while we waited for father to close the shop and come home. The shop remained open till midnight. Bullock carts in long caravans arrived late in the evening from distant villages, loaded with coconut, rice, and other commodities for the market. The animals were unyoked under the big tamarind tree for the night, and the cartmen drifted in twos and threes to the shop, for a chat or to ask for things to eat or smoke. How my father loved to discuss with them the price of grain, rainfall, harvest, and the state of irrigation channels! Or they talked about old litigations. One heard repeated references to magistrates, affidavits, witnesses in the case, and appeals, punctuated with roars of laughters—possibly the memory of some absurd legality or loophole tickled them. My father ignored food and sleep when he had company. My mother sent me out several times to see if he could be made to turn in. He was a man of uncertain temper and one could not really guess how he would react to interruptions, and so my mother coached me to go up, watch his mood, and gently remind him of food and home. I stood under the shop—awning, coughing and clearing my throat, hoping to catch his eyes. But the talk was all-absorbing and he would not glance in my direction, and I got absorbed in their talk, although I did not understand a word of it. After a while my mother's voice came gently on the night air, calling, 'Raju, Raju' and my father interrupted his activities to look at me and say, 'Tell your mother not to wait for me. Tell her to place a handful of toffee and buttermilk in a bowl, with just one piece of lime pickle, and keep it in the oven for me. I'll come in later. ' It was almost a formula with him five days in week. He always added, 'Not that I'm really hungry tonight. ' And then I believe he went on to discuss health problems with his cronies. But I didn't stop to hear further. I made a quick dash back home. There was a dark patch between the light from the shop and the dim lantern shedding its light on our threshold, a matter of about ten yards, I suppose, but the passage through it gave me a cold sweat. I expected wild animals and supernatural creatures to emerge and grab me. My mother waited on the doorstop to receive me and said, 'Not hungry, I suppose ! That'll give him an excuse to talk to the village folk all night, and then come in for an hour's sleep and get up with the crowing of that foolish cock somewhere. He will spoil his health. ' I followed her into the kitchen. She placed my plate and hers side by side on the floor, drew the ricepot within reach, and served me and herself simultaneously, and we finished our dinner by the sooty tin lamp, stuck on a nail in the wall. She unrolled a mat for me in the front room, and I lay down to sleep. She sat at my side, awaiting father's return. Her presence gave me a feeling of inexplicable coziness. I felt I ought to put her proximity to good use, and complained, 'Something is bothering my hair,' and she ran her fingers through my hair, and scratched the nape of my neck. And then I commanded, 'A story. ' Immediately she began, 'Once upon a time there was a man called Devaka. ' I heard his name mentioned almost every night. He was a hermit, saint, or something of the kind. I never learned fully what he did or why, sleep overcoming me before my mother was through even the preamble. What can we infer from the conversation between the uriter's father and the cartmen?