Garudacharya had hardly come home and tried to rest on the floor when Sitadevi began to nag him tearfully. But he said severely, “To me he’s as good as dead. Don’t let me hear a word about that scoundrel.” Yet his wife’s suggestion entered him like a tick and troubled him. Let everything go to hell, let his son go to hell, he wasn’t ready to kill his brahminhood. Yet if only Praneshacharya would say “Yes,” the path would be clear. Then he could even rescue his only son and heir from the army. Only a son could offer his fatherly soul any consolations after death.
Though he had growled at his wife “Shut up, impossible,” Garuda stepped like a thief into Praneshacharya’s house. Without looking at the face of Chandri who was sitting on the raised verandah, he walked into the middle hall.
“Sit down, Garuda. I hear that the Parijatapura folks said they’d do as the Books say. That’s right, of course,” said Praneshacharya and returned to his palm-leaves. Garuda cleared his throat and asked:
“What do Manu’s Laws say, Acharya-re?”
Praneshacharya silently shook his head. Garuda went on.
“Sir, what’s there in the Books that you don’t know? I am not asking you about that. Haven’t I heard you in controversy with great pundits—what do you say—in the monastery that day—what do you say—on the death-anniversary of the Great Commentator—argue with those pundits from the Vyasaraya monastery? Those fellows were beaten by your challenge—to interpret the sentence, ‘Thou art the Original, and me the reflection’—according to our Madhva school. The feast that day went on for four hours. So you mustn’t misunderstand me; I haven’t come to offer you any suggestions. In your presence, I’m a lout, a clumsy bear.”
The Acharya felt disgust rising in him at Garuda’s attempts to flatter and cajole him. This man wasn’t really interested in what was in the Books. All the fellow wanted to hear was: “Yes you can do it.” So this Garuda is now raising him, the Acharya, to the skies, for a “Yes” that would silence all fault- finding tongues. The motive: gold. Generosity creates its exact opposite; just what Naranappa said once. You shouldn’t melt in pity now; you should stand firm, see what the Books say, and do accordingly.
“What do you say, the ancient sages knew past, present and future. Is it possible they didn’t think about this problem, or what?”
The Acharya didn’t answer and continued to read. “Acharya-re, you once said—our Philosophy is called Vedanta, because it’s the end, the anta, of all thinking. Is it ever possible that such Vedanta has no solution for us? Especially when—what do you say—a brahmin corpse lies untouched in the agrahara, thwarting every daily duty for a whole colony of brahmins—what do you say—they can’t eat till they take care of the body—I don’t mean just that—”
Praneshacharya didn’t answer. Garuda was returning all the Vedanta, Purana, and logic he’d heard from him—for what? Gold. Alas for men’s lives.
“Furthermore, what you said was very right. He abandoned brahminhood, but brahminhood didn’t abandon him, did it? We didn’t get him excommunicated, did we? What do you say—if we had really excommunicated him, he’d have become a Muslim and we’d have had to leave the unclean agrahara, what?”
The Acharya lifted his eyes and said, “Garuda, I’ve decided to do just what the Books say—” and continued to read, hoping to end the conversation.
“Suppose one didn’t get an answer in the Books. Not that I mean we can’t get it there. Suppose we didn’t. Haven’t you yourself said, there’s such a thing as a dharma, a rule for emergencies? Didn’t you—what—once suggest that—if a man’s life depended on it we could feed him even cow’s flesh—such a thing wouldn’t be a sin— didn’t you say? What do you say—a story you told us once—Sage Vishvamitra, when the earth was famine-stricken, found hunger unbearable, and ate dog-meat, because the supreme dharma is the saving of a life?—What do you say? . . .”
“I understand, Garuda. Why don’t you just come out and say what you have in mind?” said Praneshacharya, wearily closing his palm-leaf books.
“Nothing, nothing at all really,” said Garuda and looked at the ground. Then he abruptly prostrated himself full length before the Acharya, stood up, and said:
“Who’ll get my son Shyama out of the army, Acharya-re? And tell me, who but my son can do my rites when I die? So, if you’d kindly give me permission, what . . .?”
As he said these words, Lakshmana entered and stood next to him.
•
Lakshmana’s wife Anasuya had come home in tears that day; her sister’s ornaments were now someone else’s; because of that whore, Chandri, her sister had died. Her tears flowed for Naranappa too. Wasn’t he, after all, her maternal uncle’s son? If only Uncle were alive, if only her sister were alive, if only Garuda hadn’t used black magic against our Naranappa and driven him out of his mind, would he have thrown away so much gold, would he have died like a vagabond, a homeless wretch? Would he be lying there now, rotting without last rites? These thoughts made her cry out aloud. She leaned against the wall and shed tears, saying, “O God, O God, whatever he might have done, how can we cut the family bond that binds us?” The very next minute her eye fell on her daughter Lilavati—short, plump and round, a nose-ring in one nostril and a long vermilion mark on the brow, wearing a dwarfish braid of hair very tight—and her heart hardened again.
She asked for the tenth time, “Did Shripati say when he was coming back?”
Lilavati said, “I don’t know.” She had married her daughter to orphan Shripati, but then her own blood-kin Naranappa had misled him and perverted him. That serpent eats its own eggs. Who knows what awful things he poured into her son-in-law’s head? Shripati hardly stays home, hardly two days in a month. Roams from town to town, on the heels of Yakshagana players’ troupes; keeps the company of Parijatapura boys. News had reached her through Durgabhatta’s wife that he even had a prostitute or two. She knew long ago he would come to ruin; ever since she’d seen him one day sneak furtively in and out of Naranappa’s house; she knew he’d gone astray. Who knows what godawful things he ate and drank in that house? No one could escape falling for that woman Chandri. So Anasuya had taught her daughter a trick, just to teach her roving son-in-law a lesson: “Don’t you give in to your husband when he wants it. Knot up your thighs, like this, and sleep aloof. Teach him a lesson.” Lilavati had done exactly as she was told. When her husband came at night to embrace her, she would come crying to her mother, complaining that he pinched and bit her—and she started sleeping next to her mother.
Shripati didn’t learn his lesson. Anasuya’s methods didn’t work with him, though these had once worked on her husband and forced him to give in to her. Shripati cut off his brahmin tuft, wore his hair in a crop, Western style, like Naranappa. He saved money and bought a flashlight. He had taken to roaming round the agrahara every evening, whistling obscenely.
Lakshmanacharya came home and fell on his bed, looking leaner than ever, wearied by heat and hunger—his frame already thinned by fevers, eyes sunk in their sockets. He seemed to be counting his days. Anasuya nagged him. “Wasn’t Naranappa my own maternal uncle’s son? Sinner he may be. But if any lowcaste man is allowed to pick up his dead body, I’ll die of shame. Praneshacharya is much too soft-hearted. That Garuda is clever, quite ready to gobble up the whole town. He’s no milksop like you. If he should get permission to do the death-rite, all that jewellery will go to his wife Sita; she already struts about so proudly. God has pretty well taken care of their mean hearts, though—why else would their son Shyama run away and join the army? These same people say such things about Naranappa, my cousin, my uncle’s son—these very people—where’s the guarantee their son is keeping the faith in those army barracks? Don’t you let that man Garuda go to Praneshacharya and win over his heart. You’d better go too. You lie here like a log and that fellow is out there—don’t I know it?”
Then she came out and carefully examined the back and front of Garuda’s house, and pushed her husband out.
Garuda felt tremendous rage when he saw the thin Kuchela-like form of Lakshmana right next to him, appearing suddenly like a bear let loose in the middle of a service for Shiva. Lakshmana sat down, gasping, holding in his protruding heavy belly with one hand, and leaning on the ground with the other. Garuda looked at him as if he would devour him whole. He wanted to call him all sorts of names like niggard of niggards, emperor of penny-pinchers, mother-deceiver, but held them in because Praneshacharya was sitting right there. This fellow doesn’t buy a spoon of oil for his bath, his fist is rigid as stone, this is the meanest of brahmins. Who in the agrahara doesn’t know it? When his wife nags him about an oil-bath he gets up in the morning and walks four miles to the Konkani man’s shop. “Hey, Kamat, have you any fresh sesame oil? Is it any good? What does it sell for? It isn’t musty, is it? Let me see.” With such patter, he cups his hands and gets a couple of spoons as sample, pretends to smell it and says: “It’s all right, still a bit impure. Tell me when you get real fresh stuff, we need a can of oil for our house.” And smears the oil all over his head. Then he puts his hands into the sack of red peppers, and while asking the price, picks up a fistful and transfers it to his bag, all the while chatting casually. From there he walks a mile to Shenoy’s shop; there he slanders Kamat’s shop, and picks up another couple of spoons of oil for his bath and for a fresh-cooked meal. Then he forages again in someone or other’s grove, brings home some cuts of banana-leaf to dry them in the sun and make leaf-cups which he will sell for a few pice. Or sells sacred thread to make a few more pice. Waits like a vulture to get invited to meals. Now his eyes are on the gold. Come what may—one must see to it that he doesn’t get the loot.
Lakshmana gasped. “Narayana, Narayana.” He wiped the sweat off his body, closed his eyes, and said, “Acharya-re, if the Books have no objection, I’ve none either. Naranappa is my wife’s sister’s husband, isn’t he, after all? If you don’t mind, no one but me has the right to perform the death-rites.” And opened his eyes.
Garuda was nonplussed. How can he counter this? It was his turn.
“If it’s the problem of who’s qualified to perform the rite—what do you say. You can do it yourself. After all we are born as brahmins only to take on others’ sins. But that gold must be submitted to the court. Or else, according to the decree at Dharmasthala, it must come to me.”
Praneshacharya felt disturbed. Even if the problem of the dead man’s rites should be solved, the problem of the gold ornaments would not be easy to solve. Minute by minute his own responsibilities seemed to grow. Naranappa’s challenge was growing, growing enormous like God Trivikrama who started out as a dwarf and ended up measuring the cosmos with his giant feet.
Just then the poor brahmins came over in a group, led by poor Dasacharya.
Dasacharya fondled his belly as a mother fondles a crying child. He said: “You know I’m not well. I’ll die if I miss meals. You must find a way. This is an emergency and there must be a special rule for it. Tell us if we can eat while there’s a dead body in the agrahara. In a day the body will begin to stink. My house is quite close to his. This isn’t good for anyone. For the sake of the whole agrahara, Lakshmanacharya or Garudacharya should come to some clear decision. . . .”
He stopped and looked round at everybody. What lust was to Naranappa, hunger was to Dasacharya. At this moment, hunger saved him, gave him a large heart.
“All it takes is a word from you, Acharya-re. Your word is gospel; it’s like the Vedas. We don’t want the gold, or anything. You tell us. Four of us will pick up the body this minute and finish the cremation rites. You can take the gold, make a crown, offer it to Lord Maruti on our behalf.”
Goodness suddenly stirred within Praneshacharya. Only Garuda and Lakshmana were crestfallen. Garuda thought hard and searched for the right thing to say. It would be sinful to contradict Dasacharya’s suggestion that the gold should go to God Maruti.
“Let our Acharya do as the dharma dictates. Some people won’t like it. When the Acharya searches for the answer—what do you say—it shouldn’t seem wrong to the guru—what—then what’ll be our fate? Nothing should hurt the good name of our Acharya also. What do you say? We shouldn’t fall out of favour like the Parijatapura people, with the highcaste brahmins . . .”—said Garuda, smiling, pretending to agree with Dasacharya. Even Lakshmana, who didn’t know how to sweet-talk his way out, was pleased.
“Please. Go home now, all of you. I’ll find the answer even if I’ve to turn the whole science of dharma upside down. I’ll sit up all night,” said Praneshacharya, very tired.
•
It was evening. He hadn’t yet offered his prayers or had his dinner. Agitated, Praneshacharya walked up and down, indoors, outdoors, and back. He asked Chandri, who was in the verandah, to come in and sit inside. He lifted his ailing wife with both hands like a baby, took her to the backyard, let her pass water, brought her back to her bed and made her drink her evening dose of medicine. Then he came back to the middle hall and sat there turning over and over the ancient books in the light of the kerosene lantern.
V
Shripati had gone to Shirnali the night before, to see Jambavati’s Wedding performed by the troupe from Kelur. He didn’t really know anything about Naranappa’s return from Shivamogge or about his being sick in bed, or his dying. If he’d known it, he would have been grief-stricken. For Naranappa had been his one secret friend in the whole agrahara. He’d left home over a week ago. He made friends with the balladeer of the Kelur troupe, stayed with him wherever the troupe stopped, ate with them, went to their night shows, slept all day. In his spare time he’d gone to the neighbouring villages and persuaded them to invite the troupe for performances. He’d forgotten the whole world for a week, happy in greetings and casual conversations. And tonight he was returning, flashlight in hand, singing loudly, in the scary forest dark. His hair was brushed back, uncut; he’d grown it long; down his neckline, because the balladeer had promised him a girl’s role in next year’s play. After all, his tongue had been trained by Praneshacharya, hadn’t it? The balladeer had admired his pure enunciation, his clear voice. Shripati had heard enough Sanskrit and logic and ancient epics from the Acharya to give him enough culture for the ad-lib dialogues and profundities of these players of epic plays. If only he could get a part in the troupe, he could escape the brahmin dump, escape the endless funeral cakes and funeral porridge, escape all that living and dying for jackfruit curry. The thought filled Shripati with joy; so he wasn’t scared any more of the dark forest. He’d also had a drink of toddy in shaman Shina’s hut, and being a little high on it, didn’t shiver any more at the fearful silence of the forest. Two bottles of toddy; a flashlight pouring forth brilliant light at the touch of a button to the great amazement of peasants—what ghost or demon can touch a man armed with these weapons? As he neared Durvasapura, his body warmed to the thought of the pleasures awaiting him. Who cares if his wife tightens and twines up her thighs? There was Belli. An outcaste, so what? As Naranappa would say—who cares if she’s a goddess or a shaven widow? But Belli was neither. Which brahmin girl,—cheek sunken, breast withered, mouth stinking of lentil soup,—which brahmin girl was equal to Belli? Her thighs are full. When she’s with him she twists like a snake coupling with another, writhing in the sands. She’d have bathed by now in water heated in mudpots outside her hut; she’d have drunk her father’s sour toddy, she’d be warm and ready—like a tuned-up drum. Not utterly black-skinned, nor pale white, her body is the colour of the earth, fertile, ready for seed, warmed by an early sun. Shripati’s footfall stopped dead. With pleasure, he squeezed the flashlight button, turning it on and off. He turned it around in the forest, happy like the actors in demon roles. Ththai ththai thaka ththai ththai: he danced to their rhythms. He tried a quick sit-down like them, rotating his knees like them, but hurt a knee and stood up. The forest was empty. Birds flapped their wings, wakened and frightened by the flashlight. He got a little more drunk with it. As
he called on them, the Nine Essences of feeling presented themselves to him as to any artist—rage, disgust, terror, tender devotion, love, whichever. His fancy glided from one to the other. Now Goddess Lakshmi wakes at dawn her lord, Vishnu, asleep on the serpent-coil, with her morning song:
Wake, wake, O Narayana
Wake, O Lord of Lakshmi
Wa . . . aa . . . ke, it’s morni . . . ii . . . ng. . . .
Shripati’s eyes filled and glowed with tears. Garuda, Lord Vishnu’s carrier-bird, comes to wake Him up. “Wake up, O Narayana.” Narada, messenger and sage, comes strumming on his strings to wake Him. “Get up, O Lord of Lakshmi.” Birds and beasts, monkeys, and singing orders of supernaturals, come and beg of Him to wake up. “O wake, it’s mo . . . oo . . . rni . . . ing!” Shripati, in a dancing measure, held his dhoti as if it were a woman’s sari, and shook it, moved his neck to one side, and danced. Shina’s toddy had really made him high. He should go to Naranappa’s and drink some more. He remembered all the heroines. In the legends there isn’t a sage who doesn’t fall for some woman. That temptress Menaka, who destroyed the penance of Sage Vishvamitra. What a wench she must have been. Must have been lovelier than Chandri. It’s amazing that no one’s eye had fallen on Belli; she walked around everywhere in rags, picking up manure. But then it wasn’t surprising either. How can brahmin eyes see anything, dimmed by looking for meals everywhere? Praneshacharya describes women again and again, talking as if to infants: “The sage must have been thrilled, as he looked at the goddess of dawn. The Lord put these words into his mouth: ‘Like the thighs of a blossoming woman, pure after her monthly baths.’ What a bold conception, what a lovely simile!” But then, to these barren brahmins it’s one more chant, one more formula for making a living. That Nagappa of Kundapura who plays king’s roles, how haughtily, how seductively he speaks! “O what bees, what blossoming parijata and champak and jasmine and scented screw-pine in this garden! O who are you, lovely woman, alone, downcast? You seem so burdened with sorrow, O who are you?” Shripati walked on, smiling. In the entire agrahara, only two people had an eye for beautiful things: Naranappa and Chandri. Chandri was utterly beautiful, beyond compare. In a hundred-mile radius, show me such a doll, and I’ll say you’re a man. That fellow Durgabhatta does have some good taste. But he doesn’t have the guts to do more than paw at a coolie-woman’s breast. Actually, the best connoisseur of them all is Praneshacharya, really one in a million. Every evening, as he reads the Puranas and expounds the stanzas, the beauty of his style is enough to make any balladeer turn green with envy. What delicate phrasing, what gentle smiles and what striking handsomeness. His tuft of hair, the caste-mark—circlet and stripe—on his forehead. Really, only he can don a gold-embroidered shawl, and it looks becoming. He’s supposed to have fifteen such shawls—all won in argument and controversy in eight monasteries, against great southern pundits. But he doesn’t brag about it. Poor man, his wife’s a chronic invalid— no children, nothing. This man who speaks so beautifully about Kalidasa’s women, does he feel any desire himself? Actually, Shripati had taken Belli at the river when she had come to get water, only after he had heard the Acharya speak of Shakuntala’s beauty. He couldn’t stand it any more. Belli was carrying a pitcher of water on her head, the rag on her body had slipped, and as she stood in the moonlight bouncing her breasts, the colour of earth—she’d looked like Shakuntala herself. He had then personally, carnally, enjoyed the Acharya’s description.
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