The man who was born and called himself generous has only redeemed his family name in word; in truth he hoards wealth like dirt and suffers endless misfortune. When it is time to chant the name, he says there is no food to be had; he sees no reason in devotion. When he hears talk of charity, he ties up his head and pretends to be asleep. When a guest or in-law arrives at his door, he says he is unwell and suggests they visit the physician in their own village. He asks how many more children there will be to feed and prays to God they would simply die, even making vows from his house to that end. When the priest comes at the holy season, he tells the children to scream that the beggar is taking their share. When a coin is spent on a shave, he runs home to his wife demanding she shave her own head to save the cost. He knows neither pilgrimage in waking nor the Ganga in dream, nor worship of the village shrine; he bolts his door and tells every caller the house is empty. Says Tuka, such men do exist, O Hari; deliver even them, for it grieves my heart to think they are headed for hell.