His wife brought ripe plantains on a platter, and said, “Please come in.” They thanked her politely, and went in, Garuda made a hissing sound as he sat down and mentioned Naranappa’s death.
“O God! What happened to him? He was here eight or nine days ago on some business. Said he was going to Shivamogge. Asked me if I wanted anything done. I asked him to find out if the markets had sold any arecanuts. Shiva, Shiva. . . . He had said he’d be back by Thursday. What, was he sick? With what?”
Dasacharya said, “Just four days of fever—he also had a swelling.”
“Shiva, Shiva,” exclaimed Manjayya, as he closed his eyes and fanned himself. Knowing Shivamogge town as he did, he suddenly remembered the one-syllable name of the dread epidemic; and not daring to utter it even to himself, merely said, “Shiva, Shiva.”
In the blink of an eye, all the lower-caste brahmins of Parijatapura gathered on the bund.
“You know—” began Garuda, shrewd man of the world, “we agrahara people had a bad fight with Naranappa, we didn’t exchange even water and rice. But you here were all his friends, what do you say, now he’s dead, his rites have to be done, what do you say? . . .”
The Parijatapura folks were unhappy over their friend’s death, but quite happy they were getting a chance to cremate a highcaste brahmin. They were partly pleased because Naranappa ate in their houses with no show of caste pride.
Shankarayya, priest of Parijatapura, intervened. “According to brahmin thinking, ‘a snake is also a twice-born’; if you happen to see a dead snake, you’ve to perform the proper rites for it; you shouldn’t eat till you’ve done so. As that’s the case, it’s absolutely wrong to sit back with folded arms when a brahmin has passed on to the bosom of God. Don’t you think so?”
He said this really to display his knowledge of the texts, to tell those Madhvas “we here are no less than you,” and to bring down their pride.
Durgabhatta was very agitated by this man’s words.
“Look at this stupid brahmin, rashly opening his stupid mouth. He’ll bring a bad name to the whole Smarta clan,” he thought, and spoke in his own crooked way.
“Yes yes yes, we understand all that. That’s exactly what Praneshacharya also says. But our dilemma is something else: is Naranappa, who drank liquor and ate meat, who threw the holy stone into the river, is he a brahmin or is he not? Tell me, which of us is willing to lose his brahminhood here? Yet it’s not at all right, I agree, to keep a dead brahmin’s body waiting, uncremated.”
Shankarayya’s heart panicked and missed a beat. His clan had already been classed low, and he didn’t like them to fall lower by doing something unbrahminical. So he said:
“If that’s so, wait, we can’t do anything rash. You, of course, have in Praneshacharya a man known all over the South. Let him look into it and tell us what’s right in this crisis. He can untangle the delicate strands of right and wrong.”
But Manjayya didn’t hesitate to say, “Don’t worry about the expenses. Wasn’t he my friend? I’ll personally see to it that all the necessary charities etcetera are done,” meaning really to jibe at the niggardly Madhva crowd.
III
When the brahmins left for Parijatapura, Praneshacharya asked Chandri to sit down, came into the dining-room where his wife lay, and proceeded to tell her how pure Chandri’s heart was, how she’d laid down all her gold and what new complications arose from that generous act. Then he sat down among his palm-leaf texts, riffling them for the right and lawful answer. As far back as he could remember Naranappa had always been a problem. The real challenge was to test which would finally win the agrahara: his own penance and faith in ancient ways, or Naranappa’s demoniac ways. He wondered by what evil influence Naranappa had got this way, and prayed that god’s grace should bring him redemption. The Acharya fasted two nights in the week for him. His painful concern and compassion for Naranappa had stemmed also from a promise he had made to the dead man’s mother. He had consoled the dying woman: “I’ll take care of your son’s welfare, and bring him to the right path. Don’t worry about him.” But Naranappa hadn’t walked the path, he had turned a deaf ear to all counsel. By sheer power of example, he’d even stolen Praneshacharya’s own wards and Sanskrit pupils—Garuda’s son Shyama, Lakshmana’s son-in-law Shripati. Naranappa had incited Shyama to run away from home and join the army. The Acharya, wearied by complaints, had gone to see Naranappa one day. He was lolling on a soft mattress, and showed some courtesy by getting up. He didn’t take counsel well, and talked his head off; sneered at the Acharya and brahmin ways.
“Your texts and rites don’t work any more. The Congress Party is coming to power, you’ll have to open up the temples to all outcastes,” and so on irreverently.
The Acharya had even said, “Stop it, it isn’t good for you. Don’t separate Shripati from his wife.”
A guffaw was the answer. “O Acharya, who in the world can live with a girl who gives no pleasure—except of course some barren brahmins!” “You fellows—you brahmins—you want to tie me down to a hysterical female, just because she is some relative, right? Just keep your dharma to yourself—we’ve but one life—I belong to the ‘Hedonist School’ which says—borrow, if you must, but drink your ghee.”
The Acharya pleaded, “Do whatever you want to do yourself. Please, please don’t corrupt these boys.”
He just laughed. “Your Garuda, he robs shaven widows, he plots evil with black magic men, and he is one of your brahmins, isn’t he? . . . All right, let’s see who wins, Acharya. You or me? Let’s see how long all this brahmin business will last. All your brahmin respectability. I’ll roll it up and throw it all ways for a little bit of pleasure with one female. You better leave now—I don’t really want to talk and hurt you either,” he said finally.
Why had he, the Acharya, objected to excommunicating such a creature? Was it fear, or compassion? Or the obstinate thought he could win some day? Anyway, here is Naranappa testing out his brahminhood in death, as he did in life.
The last time he saw Naranappa was three months ago, one evening on the fourteenth day of the moon. Garuda had brought in a complaint. Naranappa had taken Muslims with him that morning to the Ganapati temple stream, and before everyone’s eyes he’d caught and carried away the sacred fish. Those free-swimming man-length fish, they came to the banks and ate rice from the hand—if any man caught them he would cough up blood and die. At least that’s what everyone believed. Naranappa had broken the taboo. The Acharya was afraid of the bad example. With this kind of rebellious example, how will fair play and righteousness prevail? Won’t the lower castes get out of hand? In this decadent age, common men follow the right paths out of fear—if that were destroyed, where could we find the strength to uphold the world? He had to speak out. So he had walked quickly to Naranappa’s place and confronted him on the verandah.
Naranappa was probably drunk; his eyes were bloodshot, his hair was dishevelled. And yet, didn’t he, as soon as he saw the Acharya, put a cloth to his mouth?
The Acharya felt a dawning of hope when he saw this gesture of respect and fear. He sometimes felt that Naranappa’s nature was a tricky maze he had no way of entering. But here in this gesture, he saw a crack, a chink in the man’s demoniac pride, and felt his forces of virtue rush towards him.
He knew that words were useless. He knew, unless his goodness flowed like the Ganges silently into Naranappa, he would not become open. Yet, a desire welled up in the Acharya, a lust, to swoop on Naranappa like a sacred eagle, to shake him up, tear open the inward springs of ambrosia till they really flowed.
He looked at Naranappa cruelly. Any ordinary sinner would have been terror-struck and fallen to the ground under that gaze. Just two repentant drops from this sinner’s eyes, and that would be enough: he’d hug him as a brother—and he looked at Naranappa with desire.
Naranappa bowed his head. He looked as if the sacred bird of prey had swooped and held him in its talons, as if he’d been turned to a worm that minute,
bewildered as when a closed door suddenly opens.
Yet, no; he put aside the cloth that covered his mouth, threw it on the chair, and laughed out aloud: “Chandri! Where’s the bottle? Let’s give the Acharya a little of this holy water!” “Shut up!” Praneshacharya was shaking from head to foot.
He was angered at the way the man slipped from under his influence, and felt he had missed a step on the stairs he was descending.
“Aha! The Acharya too can get angry! Lust and anger, I thought, were only for the likes of us. But then anger plays on the nose-tips of people who try to hold down lust. That’s what they say. Durvasa, Parashara, Bhrigu, Brihaspati, Kashyapa, all the sages were given to anger. Chandri, where’s the bottle? Look, Acharya—those are the great sages who set the tradition, right? Quite a lusty lot, those sages. What was the name of the fellow who ravished the fisherwoman smelling of fish, right in the boat and gave her body a permanent perfume? And now, look at these poor brahmins, descended from such sages!”
“Naranappa, shut your mouth.”
Naranappa, now angry that Chandri didn’t bring the liquor to him, ran upstairs making a big noise, brought the bottle down and filled his cup. Chandri tried to stop him, but he pushed her aside. Praneshacharya closed his eyes and tried to leave.
“Acharya, stop, stay a while,” said Naranappa. Praneshacharya stayed, mechanically; if he left now he would seem to be afraid. The stench of liquor disgusted him. “Listen,” said Naranappa in a voice of authority. Taking a draught from his cup, he laughed wickedly.
“Let’s see who wins in the end—you or me. I’ll destroy brahminism, I certainly will. My only sorrow is that there’s no brahminism really left to destroy in this place—except you. Garuda, Lakshmana, Durgabhatta—ahaha—what brahmins! If I were still a brahmin, that fellow Garudacharya would have washed me down with his aposhana water. Or that Lakshmana—he loves money so much he’ll lick a copper coin off a heap of shit. He will tie another wilted sister-in-law round my neck, just to get at my property. And I’d have had to cut my hair to a tuft, smear charcoal on my face, sit on your verandah and listen to your holy-holy yarns.”
Naranappa took another draught and belched. Chandri stood inside watching everything fearfully, folded her hands and gestured to the Acharya to go away. Praneshacharya turned to go—what’s the point of talking with a drunkard?
“Acharya, listen to this. Why this vanity, why should the agrahara listen to your words all the time? Why don’t you listen to a thing or two I say? I’ll tell you a holy yarn myself.
“Once, in an agrahara, there lived a very holy Achari—that is, once upon a time. His wife was always ill and he didn’t know what it was to have pleasure with a woman—but his lustre, his fame had travelled far and wide to many towns. The other brahmins in the agrahara were awful sinners—they knew every kind of sin, sins of gluttony, sins of avarice, love of gold. But then, this Achari’s terrific virtue covered up all their sins; so they sinned some more. As the Achari’s virtue grew, so did the sins of everyone else in the agrahara. One day a funny thing happened. What, Acharya-re are you listening? There’s a moral at the end—every action results not in what is expected but in its exact opposite. Listen to the lesson and you can go tell the other brahmins too.
“Here comes the funny part. There was a young fellow in the agrahara. He never once slept with his one lawfully wedded wife because she wouldn’t sleep with him—out of sheer obedience to her mother’s orders. But this young man didn’t miss an evening of this Achari’s recitations of holy legends—every evening he was there. He’d good reason. It’s true, that Achari had no direct experience of life, but he was quite a sport with erotic poetry and things like that. One day he got into a description of Kalidasa’s heroine, Shakuntala, in some detail. This young man listened. He was already disgusted with his wife, because the stupid girl complained to her mother that he came to her bed only to pinch her at night. But now the young man felt the Achari’s description in his own body, felt a whole female grow inside him, a fire burn in his loins—you know what it means, don’t you, Acharya-re?—He couldn’t stand it, he leapt from the Achari’s verandah and ran. He couldn’t bear to hear any more, he ran straight to plunge his heat in the cold water of the river. Luckily, an outcaste woman was bathing there, in the moonlight. Luckily, too, she wasn’t wearing too much, all the limbs and parts he craved to see were right before his eyes. She certainly was the fish-scented fisherwoman type, the type your great sage fell for. He fantasied she was the Shakuntala of the Achari’s description and this pure brahmin youth made love to her right there—with the moon for witness.
“Now, you explicate it, Acharya-re—didn’t the Achari himself corrupt the brahminism of the place? Did he or didn’t he? That’s why our elders always said: read the Vedas, read the Puranas, but don’t try to interpret them. Acharya-re, you are the one who’s studied in Kashi—you tell me, who ruined brahminism?”
As Praneshacharya stood silently listening to Naranappa’s words, he began to worry: is this a drunkard’s rigmarole? Could it be he himself was responsible for such awful things?
With a sigh, he said: “Only sin has a tongue, virtue has none. God have mercy on you—that’s all.”
“You read those lush sexy Puranas, but you preach a life of barrenness. But my words, they say what they mean: if I say sleep with a woman, it means sleep with a woman; if I say eat fish, it means eat fish. Can I give you brahmins a piece of advice, Acharya-re? Push those sickly wives of yours into the river. Be like the sages of your holy legends—get hold of a fish-scented fisherwoman who can cook you fish-soup, and go to sleep in her arms. And if you don’t experience god when you wake up, my name isn’t Naranappa.” Then he winked at the Acharya, quaffed the liquor in his cup and let out a loud long belch.
The Acharya, angered by Naranappa’s sneering at his invalid wife, scolded him, called him a low-born scoundrel, and came home. That night, when he sat down for his prayers, he couldn’t “still the waves of his mind.” He said, “O God,” in distress. He gave up telling the luscious Puranic stories in the evenings and started on moral tales of penance. The result—his own enthusiasm for reciting the Puranas faded and died. The young listeners who used to look at him with lively eyes and bring joy to his heart, stopped coming. Only women bent on earning merit, uttering the names of god over yawns in the middle of the stories, and old men, were his audience now.
As he sat reading and contemplating his palm-leaves, he heard his wife’s moan and remembered he hadn’t given her the afternoon’s medicine. He brought it in a small cup, and leaning her head against his chest, poured it into her mouth, and said, “You’d better sleep now.” He came back into the hall, muttering to himself obstinately, “What do I mean by saying there’s no answer to this dilemma in the Books?” And started reading through them again.
IV
The brahmins came back from Parijatapura, muttering “Hari Hari Hari” as they walked hungry in the sun, thinking of a little rest in the afternoon. But the wives, especially Garuda’s wife and Lakshmana’s, wouldn’t let them rest, and treated them to the Lord’s Counsel.
In the agrahara they gave all sorts of reasons why Garuda’s single son and heir, Shyama, had run away from home and joined the army. Garuda’s enemies said, that the son couldn’t take his father’s punishments any more. Naranappa’s enemies said he had incited Shyama to join the army. Lakshmana’s opinion was different—the black magic Garuda used against Naranappa’s father must have boomeranged back on himself, why else should Shyama go wrong and run away in spite of Praneshacharya’s teaching? Anyone who uses black magic, like the Ash-Demon who wanted to burn his own creator, ends up burning himself. Lakshmana’s wife, Anasuya, smarting over Naranappa who had sullied her mother’s family name, used to blame him also on Garuda: if Garuda didn’t resort to black magic why would a well-born man like Naranappa have gone astray and become an outcaste?
Garuda’s wife, Sitadevi, had given up food and drink, and pined away, for
her son was “ruined by that scoundrel Naranappa.” She’d waited night and day, and groaned for three months. At last a letter came from Shyama—he was in Poona, had joined the army. He was bonded to them by a signature on legal paper, so he couldn’t leave unless he put down six hundred rupees as penalty. After that Sitadevi had accosted Naranappa on the street, her arms akimbo, and scolded and wept. Then she’d got a letter written to her son saying, “Don’t ever eat meat, don’t give up your baths and twilight prayers.” She’d fasted Friday nights so that her son’s heart might turn good and clean. Garudacharya had raged like Durvasa, and jumped about as if overrun by red ants, shouting, “He’s as good as dead to me, if he so much as shows his face here I’ll break his head.” Sitadevi had offered vows to the goddess: “Give my husband peace, may his love be constant for his son.” And had given up her food even on Saturday nights. Durgabhatta, that hater of Madhvas, had fuelled the already burning fire, shaming Garuda into lying low forever, by saying, “He’s in the army, he’ll have no baths, no prayers; and they’ll force him to eat meat now.”
Today Sitadevi came home happy thinking they might even be able to buy off her son from the military bond, if only Chandri’s jewellery came into their hands. The Law Books must have it somewhere that her husband could perform Naranappa’s rites. But she was worried. Would Lakshmana forestall her own husband and offer to do the rites?—Or those people of Parijatapura? They seemed to have no sense of pollution at all, clean and unclean seemed all one to them. She vowed offerings of fruit and coconut to Maruti—“O God, please let my husband be the one to do the rites, please.” Now, Naranappa’s meat-eating didn’t look too heinous. One of these days her son would return from the army—will the cruel tongues of the agrahara keep quiet about it? What’ll happen if he gets excommunicated? She’d once maligned Praneshacharya for hesitating to excommunicate Naranappa. Now she thought of him worshipfully: he’s truly a man of loving kindness, surely he’ll take on her son’s sins also and protect him. No doubt about it.
Samskara Page 3