Screaming with pain, the poor little creature worked on, trembling if the
sister-in-law even looked her way. This was one day. Each of the seven long
years contained three hundred and sixty-five such days, and now they were
growing worse. The last year, in token of the deep disgrace of widowhood,
the child's soft dark tresses had been shaved off, and her head left bare.
When that has been done, but one meal a day is permitted a widow, no matter
how she works.
Most of the little girls who saw Sita ran from her, fearing pollution. But
there was one who shone on her like a gleam of sunshine whenever she saw
her. One day after the woman had abused her at the well, Sita found a
chance to tell Tungi about it.
"There is a better God than that," Tungi said. "Our people do not know him,
and that is why I am not allowed to talk with you. I am married, and my
husband lives in a distant city. If I speak to you, they believe that he
will die. But in the school I attend, many do not believe these things."
"How can you go to school?" Sita asked. "My sister-in-law says that only
bad people learn to read.
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