The red-faced man jerks away from you as if he’s been struck by lightning, the knife spinning from his hand. He collapses to the ground, but not before grabbing at you in an attempt to stay on his feet and sending you swinging again. The boss and the pale, lank man’s eyes are drawn to something out of your field of vision – but you can hear what’s startled them. Hooves. The rapid hoof-fall of a galloping horse. You’re still twisting in the breeze and on the end of one revolution when you catch sight of the white horse and its rider, their plate armour flashing brilliant in the sunshine filtering into the grove, a sky-blue cloak fluttering around their shoulders. A knight? In the Forest of Isil? They’re almost on top of you now and for a moment you wonder if they’re going to ride right through you and finish the bandits’ job for them. The red-faced man, clutching his wounded hand, has already broken into a run, his bulk crashing through the undergrowth at the edge of the clearing.. His mother's criticism was getting bitter by the day, she had labeled me as 'Baanjh' (infertile) woman even. It made me furious and I was about to tell her about her son, but just then the maid entered the house and I did not want to create a scene and humiliate the old lady. I had been able to administer medicines to him for all these months and made sure that we had sex on the days I was expected to ovulate, but this had not helped. I was myself getting upset, 'what if his sperm count did not imrove?', I used to think.I noticed that his two friends, Johari and Sreenath, who were regular on Saturdays for drinks, were small manufacturers like my husband. Both were in their mid-thirties, had average height and ogled me on every visit, especially Sreenath, who was a south Indian. I had on many occasions noticed his lustful eyes undressing me. He would run his tongue on his lips while slyly taking a peek at me. He unashamedly would stare at my breasts for long enough to embarrass me,.
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