Tonight Shripati took an inside trail and walked straight to the outcaste hutments on the hillside. In the black new-moon night he saw a hut on fire, burning away. In the light of that fire, various inky forms. He looked from a distance, listened. No one seemed too anxious to put out the fire. Baffled, he waited behind a stump. The hut, built out of bamboo frames, thatched with mats, covered with coconut fronds, burned to cinders in the dry summer heat. It was razed to the ground before his eyes. The inky silhouettes returned to their nests. Shripati stepped softly and clapped his hands a little outside Belli’s hut.
Belli, her hair washed in warm water, wearing only a piece below her waist, naked above, waves of hair pouring over her back and face—came quietly out of her hut, and moved into the bushes in the distance. Shripati waited behind a tree till she disappeared, looked this way and that to make sure no one else was about, then went to the bush where Belli crouched. He turned his flashlight on and off and embraced her, panting hard.
“Ayya, please, not today.”
Belli had never talked like that. Shripati was amazed, but disregarded her words and undid her waist-cloth.
“I don’t know what’s the matter—Pilla and his woman died today—struck by a demon or something, ayya.”
Shripati had no use for words right now. She was naked. He pulled her down to the ground.
“Because both of them died, we left the bodies right there and fired the hut. Some kind of fever. They never opened their eyes.”
Shripati was impatient. She was saying something, was somewhere else. He had come to her with such urgent desire, here she was prating about someone croaking. She had never talked like that at such times. She had always been like ripe ears of corn bending before the falling rain.
Belli, wrapping the cloth round herself, said:
“Ayya, I want to tell you something. I’ve never seen such a thing before. Why should rats and mice come to our poor huts? Nothing there to eat. Our huts aren’t like brahmin houses. Now the rats come like relatives looking for a place to stay. They fall pattering from the roof, run round and round, and die. Like folks running for life from a hut on fire, they run into the forest. I’ve never seen the likes of it. We must get the shaman possessed with the demon and ask him about it. Why do rats come to pariah huts and pop off ? Snap! Like that! Like breaking a twig. We must ask the demon.”
Shripati wrapped on his dhoti again, put on his shirt, took out a pocket comb, combed his cropped hair and ran in a hurry, flashing his light. Belli was all right for sleeping with, she was no good for talk. If she opens her mouth, she talks only ghosts and demons.
Anxious to see Naranappa, he tucked his dhoti up to knee-length and ran downhill. He could drink a glass of water there, sleep there that night and go to Nagaraja’s place in Parijatapura in the morning. He stood quietly before Naranappa’s door and pushed it. It wasn’t latched. “He’s still up,” he thought, and went in happily. He turned his flashlight on and called out, “Naranappa, Naranappa.” No answer. There was a stench of something rotting, enough to make one sick in the stomach. He wanted to go upstairs, knock at the door of his room; he walked in the dark towards the stairs he knew so well. When he turned the corner, his bare foot swished on something soft and cold. Startled, he flashed his light on it. A dead rat, dead on its back, its legs up in the air. The flies on it buzzed in the beam of the flashlight. He ran up the steps to the room upstairs; the steps rattled under his feet. Why is Naranappa sleeping on the floor with the blanket over his head? He must have drunk till the liquor came out of his nose. Shripati smiled and pulled down the blanket and shook Naranappa, calling, “Naranappa, Naranappa.” Like the rat, the body was cold. He pulled back his hand in a hurry and turned on his flashlight. Open-lidded, sightless eyes, turned upwards forever. In the circle of his flashlight, flies, small insects. And a stench.
VI
Lakshmidevamma, turned sixty over ten years ago, the eldest human in the agrahara, pushed the main door with a big groan and let out a long resounding belch: Heeey! She got down into the agrahara street, stood leaning on her staff, and belched again long and loud: Heeey! When she couldn’t sleep, or when her mind was disturbed, she would come out at night into the street and walk up-down down-up three times, stand in front of Garudacharya’s house, invoke sons and grandsons and ancestors, summon gods and goddesses for witness, throw fistfuls of curses at him, go back to her house, draw in her wooden main door with a big scratching noise and go to sleep. Especially as it got close to new moon or full moon, her cursing bouts would reach a pitch. Her door and her belch were famous in the agrahara. Both could be heard from one end to the other. Her fame had spread to the brahmin colonies in all four directions. Because she was a child-widow, they called her Lakshmidevamma the Ill-Omen. She cursed and drove away with her stick all the naughty boys, and also the brahmins who, any time they met her head-on, walked back four paces to undo the ill-luck. But no one really cared. They all called her Sour Belch. But her best known name was Half-Wit Lakshmidevamma. Her life was a Purana by itself. Married at eight, widowed at ten. Her mother-in-law and father-in-law had died when she was fifteen. The agrahara had sneered at her as the ill-starred girl. Before she was twenty her father and mother had died. And then, Garuda’s father had taken custody of the little property and jewellery she had. He’d brought the woman over to his own house. That was his way always. He had managed similarly Naranappa’s father’s property too, saying the man wasn’t bright enough to manage it himself. Lakshmidevamma had spent twenty-five years under that roof. Garuda took over when his father died. His wife pinched pennies, never fed anybody a full meal. Lakshmidevamma and she regularly had got into fights and even come to blows. Then the couple had thrown her out, pushed her into her husband’s old ruined house. From then on she had lived there alone. She’d taken her complaints to Praneshacharya. He’d called Garuda and counselled him. Garuda decided to give her a monthly allowance of a single rupee. So she’d become all venom towards Garuda. Praneshacharya now and then got her some rice from the brahmins. As Lakshmidevamma had got on in years, her misanthropy had risen like poison in the system.
Lakshmidevamma now stood before Garuda’s house, belching long and loud, and started her abuse as usual.
“May your house be haunted; may your eyes go white; you ruiner of towns, you widow-taker, you got black magic done to Naranappa’s father. Get up and come out if you’ve any manhood left. You ate up a poor old shaven widow’s money, didn’t you? Do you think you can digest it? Do you? I’ll die and come back as a ghost to torment your children—I’m that sort, don’t you know?”
She wheezed and belched again.
“You villain! A golden man like Naranappa became an outcaste, got himself a harlot. You fellows call yourselves brahmins, you sit there and don’t want to take out a dead man’s body. Where has your brahminism gone, you rascals! Don’t you know you’ll fall into the lowest hell reserved for outcastes and perish there? In this agrahara, in all my born days, have I seen a body kept uncremated all night? Not once. Rama, Rama, the times are rotten, rotten. Brahminism is in ruins. Why don’t you shave your heads and become Muslims, why do you need to be brahmins, you!”
•
Ayyayyoo . . . shrieked Shripati, rushing out of Naranappa’s verandah, forgetting even to close the door, leaping into the street and breaking into a run.
“Look, look, look! It’s Naranappa’s ghost! Ghost!” cried Half-Wit Lakshmidevamma, running from door to door, beating on it, hobbling on her stick. His heart in his mouth, Shripati crossed the stream in a hurry and ran to Parijatapura, to Nagaraja’s house.
•
Chandri was lying on Praneshacharya’s raised verandah, and she was the only one who recognized the running man as Shripati. She hadn’t slept, she was hungry. She wasn’t the fasting kind, not in any of her births; nor the kind that lies down alone outside a house. Ever since she left Kundapura and joined Naranappa, she had always enjoyed soft mattresses in a room perfumed by joss-stick
s. Now she couldn’t stand her hunger any more, so she got up and walked through the backyard to the plantain grove. She plucked a bunch of bananas left on the tree for ripening, ate them till she was full, went to the stream and drank a lot of water. She was afraid of going home—she had never seen a dead man’s face. If only Naranappa’s body had been properly cremated, all her love for him would have welled up in her and she would have dissolved in tears. But now her heart had nothing but fear in it. Only fear, and anxiety. If Naranappa’s body didn’t get the proper rituals, he could become a tormenting ghost. She had enjoyed life with him for ten years. How could she rest till he got a proper funeral? Her heart revolted. It’s true, Naranappa had given up brahminhood. Ate with Muslims. She too did. But no sin will ever rub off on her. Born to a family of prostitutes, she was an exception to all rules. She was ever-auspicious, daily-wedded, the one without widowhood. How can sin defile a running river? It’s good for a drink when a man’s thirsty, it’s good for a wash when a man’s filthy, and it’s good for bathing the god’s images with; it says Yes to everything, never a No. Like her. Doesn’t dry up, doesn’t tire. Tunga, river that doesn’t dry, doesn’t tire.
But these brahmin women, before they bear two brats, their eyes sink, cheeks become hollow, breasts sag and fall—not hers. Perennial Tunga, river that doesn’t dry up, doesn’t tire. Naranappa had guzzled at her body like a ten-year old, tearing and devouring like a gluttonous bear at a honeycomb. Sometimes he leaped like a raging striped tiger. All we need now is a proper funeral for him. Then she could go away to Kundapura and weep for him there. This can be done only by brahmin hands. It’s true Naranappa had thrown out brahmin ways, but they had still clung to him. Angry, mad, strong-willed man—he had capered and somersaulted, said he would turn Muslim if they excommunicated him. But who knows what was going on inside him? She certainly didn’t. Whatever his capers, he never used obscenities against Praneshacharya. Though he did talk out of turn, say rash things, he was quite afraid inside. He forgot his quarrels quickly. Someone like herself, who knew jealousy, couldn’t fathom such hatred. When she joined him first, she had begged of him: “Don’t eat my cooking, don’t eat meat and stuff. I’ll give it up myself; if I crave for it, I’ll go to the Shetti’s and I’ll eat my fish there, not in the agrahara.” But he hadn’t listened, he wasn’t the kind who would. Sheer pig-headedness. And his hysterical wife didn’t have the guts to stand up to his strong will; she’d gone back to her mother’s place, cursed him and died there. Who wants complications? Once the rites get done, she could offer her salutes and go home.
But something gnawed at her now. It was weird. Naranappa, who wouldn’t fold his hand before a god any time, had started talking strangely as his fever rose to his brain. As coma set in, he mumbled, “O mother! O God Ramachandra, Narayana!” Cried out, “Rama Rama.” Holy names. Not words that come out of a sinner’s or an outcaste’s mouth. She hadn’t quite understood what was going on deep inside him. If they don’t give him a death-rite according to the Books, he’ll surely become an evil spirit. She’d eaten his salt, she, Chandri . . .
Everything now depended on Praneshacharya. How gentle he was, how kind. Like Lord Sri Krishna in the play, who came smiling to His devotee Draupadi, when she cried out for Him. How he glows. Poor man, he probably knew nothing of the body’s pleasures, his wife lay there like a dry log, the good woman. Yet how patient he was, what a halo around him. Not even once had he raised his eyes and looked at her. Her mother used to say: prostitutes should get pregnant by such holy men. Such a man was the Acharya, he had such looks, virtues; he glowed. But one had to be lucky to be blessed by such people.
She had eaten her fill of plantains and her eyes drooped. Sleep hovered close, now far, now near. She could hear some sounds now and then in her drowsiness. Praneshacharya’s wakeful pacing in the hall, reading aloud his mantras. How could she sleep when he was awake? She tried to push her sleep away. Worrying about things, she lay on the verandah, head pillowed in her forearm, shyly pulling up her knees to her belly, curled up—and slept, her sari over her face.
•
Every palm-leaf text had been turned over, looked into, end to end. No solutions there, nothing acceptable to his conscience. Praneshacharya was afraid of admitting that the Book of Dharma had no solution to the present dilemma. Another fear too hovered over him: wouldn’t the other pundits scornfully ask, is that all you know? What would he say if they mock him—you’ve had the ultimate lessons, is this all your knowledge? He sat there thinking, “Whatever one loses, one shouldn’t lose one’s good name, it can never be retrieved.” But he felt ashamed at the drift of his thinking. Even in this situation, thinking only of his reputation! He wished he could burn out his egotism. He opened the palm-leaves again, devotedly. Meditating for a second, he shut his eyes, picked up a single leaf and read. No, it didn’t work. Closed his eyes again, picked up another leaf and read it. Nothing there, either. His wife groaned as she lay in the kitchen. He got up, leaned her to himself, and fed her two mouthfuls of lemon juice. His wife moaned, “Why didn’t I die instead of Naranappa? Why doesn’t death come to me? I would like to die as an auspicious wife. . . .” He made her unsay it; he made her say, “May it only be good,” to undo her self-cursing; consoled her, came back to the hall and sat in the lantern light, distraught. If there’s no answer in the ancient code-books, it’s truly victory for Naranappa, and defeat for him, the Acharya. The original question was really why he hadn’t helped excommunicate Naranappa all these years. It was because of Naranappa’s threat to turn Muslim. By that threat, the ancient codes had already been defiled. There was a time when the brahmin’s power of penance ruled the world. Then one didn’t buckle under any such threat. It’s because the times are getting worse such dilemmas torment us . . .
If one looks at it, was it only his threat to become a Muslim and pollute the agrahara that had kept the Acharya from excommunicating him? No, there was also compassion. The infinite compassion in his heart. As the thought flashed, Praneshacharya reproached himself, saying, “Che! Che! that’s self-deception.” That wasn’t pure pity, it covered a terrible wilfulness. His wilfulness couldn’t give in to Naranappa’s. “I must bring him back to the right paths; I will, by the power of my virtue, my austerities, my two fasts a week. I’ll draw him to right thinking.” Such was his uncontrollable wilfulness.
The wilfulness had taken a shape all its own—the shape of a resolution to use love, compassion, austerity, to make Naranappa walk the narrow path. In such a resolve, how much was wilfulness, and how much the kindness in his bowels? His nature’s main impulse seemed to be kindness. When this body wilts in age, lust will leave it but not compassion. For a human, compassion is deeper-rooted than desire. If such compassion hadn’t worked in him, how could he have tended an ailing wife through the years, uncomplaining, and never once falling for other women? No, no, only compassion had saved his humane brahmin nature.
Compassion, the right way of dharma, being humane—brahminhood. They all twist together into knots and torment him. The original question was, why had Naranappa gone sour, become venomous? The Books say, one gets to be a brahmin only by merit earned in many past lives. If so, why had Naranappa thrown his brahmin-hood into the gutter with his own two hands? It’s amazing how, to the end, one works out one’s nature. Praneshacharya remembered a tale from the Rigveda.
Once there was a brahmin who was addicted to gambling. Whatever he did, he couldn’t overcome his nature. The well-bred brahmins debarred him from places of sacrifice. They shooed him away, like a dog. He called upon gods and angels and wept, “O Lord, why did you make me a gambler? Why did you give me such a vicious need? O guardians of the eight directions, give me an answer. Indra! Yama! Varuna! you gods! come and give me an answer.”
In the places of sacrifice, the other brahmins held out their offerings and called upon the gods, Indra, Yama, Varuna and the rest, to come and receive them.
But the gods went to answer the gambler’s call. The
brahmins had to swallow their brahminical pride and go where he, the scoundrel, was. It’s hard to know the inner workings of dharma. An archsinner, an outcaste, reaches salvation and paradise by merely uttering the name Narayana with his dying breath. The Lord once asked his gatekeepers, Jaya and Vijaya, to choose between reaching Him in seven lives as devotees and reaching Him in just three lives as enemies, and they chose the latter. The quicker way of salvation was through conflict. For such as us, wearing away our karma like a log of sandalwood by daily worship and ritual, it takes life after life to work our salvation. The inner meanings of dharma are inscrutable. Who knows in what storms Naranappa’s inmost life was involved? He leaped and played, but died in a twinkle.
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