There were the days of New Year around Diwali. In a thrashing place of the village Vadod, the heaps of reaped harvests were lying ready. Daughters and daughters-in-law of Jaga Patel while sowing seeds were dreaming of receiving new clothes and new ornaments. Cold breeze was blowing. Pearl like water drops were raining on the soil and hem of chundadi of women harvest reaper were fluttering. In the winter sun, bright, thick granules of millet were laid in a thrashing place. Jaga Patel stared at the pile of his own millet. This green millet grew so abundantly that Jaga Patel could not embrace its vastness in one glance. In the early morning, Jaga Patel’s sinful motive overpowered his mind. He…