Why this book

In modern India, this novel became a mirror. Bhandari took the machinery of elections, caste, and public grief, and showed the nation its own reflection. Therefore it endures — not as a story of one village, but as an anatomy of every corridor of power.

The Story

The village of Saroha is small and poor, yet a by-election is coming, and every vote there has suddenly become precious. Therefore powerful men who never noticed the village now arrive, smiling, promising, and measuring the ground beneath their feet.

In our democracy, a single seat can tip the balance of power, and so this poor village becomes a prize. Ministers who cannot name its wells now know the caste of every voter. Therefore Saroha's misery turns, overnight, into a marketplace of promises.

Then one morning the village wakes to horror. Bisu, a young man from the poorest quarter, is found lifeless on the railway tracks. The officials arrive quickly, glance at the body, and declare it a suicide — but the people who knew Bisu do not believe them.

The poorest quarter gathers around the body in silent dread. They have seen this before — a troublesome poor man dies, and the papers say he chose it. Therefore they grieve quietly, swallowing their questions, because in Saroha a spoken suspicion can cost a family everything.

For Bisu was no ordinary villager. He was educated, sharp, and fearless — the one poor boy who had learned to read the law and refused to look away. Therefore his people had begun to hope, and the powerful had begun to worry.

Months earlier, the huts of the poorest families had burned in the night, and several people died in the flames. The authorities called it an accident. But Bisu had gone quietly from door to door, gathering what everyone else was too frightened to say aloud.

That night of fire had been a small apocalypse. Thatch roofs roared into flame while families ran into the dark, and when dawn came, the ash held the shapes of those who had not run fast enough. The powerful called it fate. Bisu called it murder.

Bisu had learned that the fire was no accident. It had been set on the orders of Zorawar, the local strongman, to drive the poor off contested land. Therefore Bisu wrote it all down, names and dates, and hid the papers — a poor man's only weapon.

Zorawar is everything Da Sahab is not — loud, brutal, openly greedy. He burns huts and boasts of it in private. Yet he is only a blunt instrument. The true danger is the soft-spoken master who uses such men and keeps his own white cloth spotless.

But a weapon is only as strong as the hand that holds it. Before Bisu could bring his papers to anyone who mattered, he was dead on the tracks. And now, into this small village, the greatest hand of all reaches down: Da Sahab, the Chief Minister.

Da Sahab is not a loud man. He wears simple white cloth, folds his hands, and speaks of the poor with tears in his gentle eyes. Everyone calls him a saint. But behind that serene smile works the coldest arithmetic in the state.

Da Sahab studies Bisu's death the way a merchant studies goods. A murdered poor boy, killed for exposing the powerful — this is not a problem. Therefore he decides Bisu will become a martyr, and that martyr will win him the votes of every poor family in Saroha.

Yet there is a knot to untie. The man who ordered the fire, Zorawar, is Da Sahab's own ally — useful, obedient, and deep in his debt. Therefore Da Sahab cannot let the truth about Zorawar surface, even while he weeps publicly for Zorawar's victim.

Da Sahab rules not by force but by balance. He keeps rivals leashed to one another, rewards loyalty, and lets each man believe he is the favourite. Therefore no one dares betray him, for every ally is also a hostage, bound by secrets that Da Sahab alone can unlock.

Into this tangle steps one honest man. Saxena, a police officer of stubborn conscience, is assigned to examine Bisu's death. Unlike the others, he does not glance and turn away. Therefore he begins, patiently, to pull at the loose threads no one wants touched.

Saxena examines the body and the tracks, and the story of suicide falls apart in his hands. The wounds are wrong; the timing is wrong. Therefore he concludes what the village already knew in its heart: Bisu did not die by his own hand. He was murdered.

But a murder needs a murderer, and the machine will not name Zorawar. Therefore a scapegoat is chosen: Binda, Bisu's closest friend, a poor and defenceless young man. A quarrel between them is invented, and suddenly the loyal friend wears the mask of the killer.

Binda cannot fight this. He has no money, no name, no voice that reaches beyond his own lane. He protests his innocence, but who will listen to a poor man accused? Therefore the false story hardens around him, day by day, like drying clay.

In the poorest lane, Bisu's old mother sits by a cold hearth. She does not understand the politics that swirl above her son's name. She knows only that he is gone, and that the great men who praise him loudest are the ones she should fear most.

Saxena, meanwhile, completes his honest report. It points away from Binda and toward the truth — toward the fire, toward Zorawar, toward the men who profit. Therefore his report becomes the most dangerous document in the state, and it lands, inevitably, on Da Sahab's quiet desk.

Da Sahab summons Saxena and offers him the world — promotion, comfort, a bright career — if only he will soften his findings. But Saxena will not sell the dead boy's name. Therefore, since he cannot be bought, he must be removed, and the transfer order is the gentlest of Da Sahab's knives.

Da Sahab does not shout or threaten. He simply smiles, praises Saxena's diligence — and signs a transfer order. Therefore the honest officer is lifted out of Saroha and set down far away, his report buried beneath him, before he can strike a single match.

A young journalist smells the story and prints the first honest questions. For a moment, hope flickers — perhaps the truth will reach the wider world. But Da Sahab's men know every editor and every purse-string. Therefore the questions fade, and the flicker is smothered before it can catch.

Now the by-election arrives, and Da Sahab mounts the stage. Before the poor of Saroha he speaks Bisu's name like a prayer. He calls him a son of the soil, a martyr, and he swears — hand on heart — that justice will be done.

And the poor believe him. The very people whose son was murdered to protect Da Sahab's ally now weep with gratitude and give him their votes. Therefore the death that should have destroyed the powerful instead crowns them — grief itself becomes the ladder they climb.

As for Binda, the innocent friend, there is no rescue. With Saxena gone and the truth buried, the case against him stands unchallenged. Therefore Binda is condemned for a murder he did not commit, and the man who truly ordered the killings walks free and honoured.

Consider the two poor friends now. Bisu, who sought the truth, lies dead. Binda, who only stood beside him, rots in a cell. Neither raised a weapon; both are destroyed. Therefore Saroha learns its oldest lesson again — that to be poor and honest is the most dangerous thing of all.

So the account is closed. Bisu is dead and praised; his evidence is ash; his friend is caged; his killer is safe; and Da Sahab is stronger than ever. Every hungry mouth of power has been fed — and the feast, at last, is complete.

What it means

This is why Bhandari named it a feast. The powerful do not hate the poor; they consume them — their deaths, their grief, even their hope — and call it service. The horror is not that the villain wins. It is that he wins wearing the face of a saint.

🎧 Read-along audio is being prepared — text-only for now.