Samskara

by U. R. Ananthamurthy

  If only the Lord would give him the power to know! Suddenly, like a sign from the Unknown, a thought struck him, and he thrilled to it. Early next morning after his baths etc., he should go to the Maruti temple and ask Him, “O Son of the Wind-god, what’s right in this dilemma?” His heart lightened, he paced up and down in the inner room. He remembered suddenly. “Che! That young woman is sleeping in the verandah without even a mat.” He brought out a mat, a blanket, a pillow and called out, “Chandri!” Chandri, who had been thinking of what her mother had said, got up with a start, and pulled her sari-end over her head. Praneshacharya felt it wasn’t proper to stand in the dark like that before a woman, and so he said, “Take this mat and pillow,” and went back. Chandri seemed to have lost the use of her tongue. Praneshacharya stopped as he crossed the threshold. In the lantern light, he saw the woman sitting embarrassed and her body was drawn-in like a bud. As he came in, another thought flashed. He came out with the jewels she had taken off her body earlier in the day, and said, “Chandri.” She sat up quickly, anxiously.

  “Look here, Chandri. Your generosity complicates the question. The brahmin has to follow whatever is right for an emergency. Keep this gold with you. Naranappa’s dead. But you’ve your life to live.” He stood near her, lantern in hand, bent down in the light, looked kindly into her large dark eyes lifted meekly towards him and he put the gold in her hands. Then he went in.

  VII

  Dasacharya couldn’t bear his hunger. In his distress he invoked the name of god. Narayana Narayana! Sighing loudly, he kneaded his belly, he tossed in bed. His son, unable to sleep, woke his mother up.

  “Amma, it stinks, it stinks,” he said.

  Dasacharya, in the distress of unbearable hunger, smelled no smells. But his wife said, “Yes, it’s true it stinks.” And tapped her husband and said, “Look, that stench. It’s summer time, the dead body has rotted. It’s stinking up the whole agrahara.”

  Then she heard Half-Wit Lakshmidevamma cry out, “Naranappa’s ghost! Naranappa’s ghost!” She screamed. She shivered. The dead man’s ghost must be roaming about, spreading the stench.

  •

  In the hut, Belli couldn’t sleep. She sat up. It was a dark night, she could see nothing. She came out. The hut had been fired to cremate the dead outcaste and his woman; it had burned all the way down to cinders. Sparks glimmered within the ash at each movement of the wind. In the distant bush, she saw a great many fireflies twinkling. She tiptoed softly towards them, unwrapped her piece of cloth, stood naked, pleasured by the soft wind; then carefully spread out the cloth and captured the lightning-bugs, their twinkling lights; and ran back to her hut and shook them out on the floor. Twinkling and darkening, they lit the hut dimly and flew about. Belli groped for them on the floor with her hand. Her groaning father and mother, when Belli’s groping hand touched them, grumbled, “What’s this bandicoot doing here?”

  “Dead rats, it stinks, isshi!” cried Belli, as her searching hand touched a chilling-cold dead rat; she saw it in the light of the fireflies, and cried out, “Ayya . . . Ayya . . . yapaa!” She picked it up by its tail and threw it out. She cursed them. “What’s come upon these damned bastard rats to run about and die like this all over!” Then she wrapped the cloth around herself, lay on the floor and fell asleep.

  •

  Hunger beat drums in their bellies and banished sleep, giving red eyes to the brahmins. They got up in the morning, washed their faces, and came to the village-court, cursing Naranappa for the awful things now happening to the agrahara. Because of the stench indoors, children jumped about in the verandahs and backyards. The women were scared that Naranappa’s ghost now roaming the streets would touch their children. So, the unwilling urchins had to be spanked, pushed in and the doors had to be shut. Never before had they shut a door in broad daylight like this. There were no sacred designs to bless and decorate the threshold, nor any sprinkling of cowdung water for the yard without them. The agrahara didn’t feel that morning had dawned yet. Things looked empty, desolate. Bikoooo! they seemed to cry. It felt as if there was a dead body in every house, in some dark room. The brahmins sat in the village hall, their heads in their hands, not knowing what to do next.

  Only Venkataramanacharya’s naughty children defied their mother’s orders, and stood in the backyard counting the rats leaping and tumbling from the store-room into the yard. They clapped hands and jumped about. They counted, in the style of their fathers counting measures of paddy:

  gain-O gain

  two-O two

  three-O three

  four-O four

  five-O five

  six-O six

  one-more-O one-more

  When mother came down, broom in hand, to spank them, they shrieked, clapping and leaping, “Look Ma, look, eight-O eight, nine-O nine, ten-O ten. Ten rats! Look Ma, look!”

  Mother responded angrily.

  “The rice you’ve wolfed down has gone to your head, hasn’t it? What’s all this business of counting filthy rats? Get in, or else I’ll beat you till you have welts all over. The store-room is full of them, the filthy things. The rice and the lentils are covered with rat droppings.”

  Grumbling, she drove her kids inside and shut them up. In there, a rat appeared from nowhere, and turned like a kid turning round and round himself, and fell dead on his back. The children were delighted.

  Slowly the brahmins got down from their verandahs, walked towards Praneshacharya’s house, holding their noses. Durgabhatta stopped everyone and said, “What the half-wit granny said could be true, couldn’t it, Acharya?”

  The brahmins, quite scared in their hearts, said, “Let’s wait and see,” and walked softly to Naranappa’s house. They stopped outside, gripped by fear when they saw that the big door was open. The corpse was certainly walking about as a ghost. If the correct rites are not done, he would certainly become a brahmin-demon and terrorize the whole place. Dasacharya, eyes full of tears, blamed the other brahmins.

  “We’re ruined by your lust for gold. Didn’t I say so? That’s a brahmin corpse. Unless the funeral rites are properly done, he’ll become a demon. Who cares here for a poor man’s words? Will it not rot in this summer heat and stink up the place? How long can one fast and not perish—with a dead body out there. . . .”

  Durgabhatta, raging in hunger, said, “What sort of Madhvas are you? What sort of orthodoxy is this? You can’t think of a way out on such an occasion!”

  Garuda had mellowed. “I’ve no objection, if Praneshacharya says Yes. What do you say—let’s set aside the problem of the gold and jewellery. What. Let’s first get the dead body to the cremation ground. What do you say. It’s enough if Praneshacharya saves our brahminhood.”

  Everyone went straight to Praneshacharya and stood humbly in the hall. The Acharya carried his wife to the backyard, waited for her to pass water, helped her wash up, gave her medicine, came out and saw the gathered brahmins. He explained to them his decision of the previous night. Garuda submitted the opinion of the entire group in a humble voice.

  “Our brahminhood is really in your hands. You must save us from accusations and bad names. We may get blamed whether we take out the dead man or don’t, either way. What do you say. We’ll wait here for you to bring back Maruti’s divine decree.”

  The Acharya, starting out, said, “You all know, don’t you, that your children can eat; there’s no objection.”

  Wicker basket in hand, he plucked jasmine and champak flowers from the trees of the agrahara. He filled the basket with leaves of the sacred basil. After a bath in the river, he wrapped a wet cloth round himself, changed his sacred thread in preparation for this special visit to Lord Maruti. He crossed the water, walked in the woods for two miles, and came to the Maruti temple, which stood peacefully in the silence of the forest trees. He drew some water from the temple well, poured two pitcherfuls over his body to purify himself of any pollution that might have besmirched him on the way. He carried another pitcherful to the man-sized Maruti
idol; removed all the old dry petals and basil leaves from the god’s body, and bathed it thoroughly. Then he sat in front of the image, and uttering sacred chants for a whole hour, he rubbed sandalwood on the wet stone and made sandalpaste. He covered the idol with the fragrant paste, and adorned it with flowers and basil leaves. He meditated with eyes closed, and presented the conflicts in his mind to the Lord.

  “If your orders are Yes, give me the flower at your right; if you forbid the death-rite, give me the flower on the left. I’m limited, I come to you.” Thus he formed his thoughts behind closed eyes in utter devotion, and sat there gazing at Monkey-god Maruti in the light of the oil lamp.

  The heat of the day was fierce, though it was hardly ten in the morning. Even in the dark temple, it was sultry and sweaty. The Acharya poured another pitcher of water over himself and sat there waiting, his body still wet. “Till you give me an answer, I’ll not rise,” he said.

  When Praneshacharya left his house, Chandri, who was afraid of facing the angry brahmin faces, returned to the plantain grove. After a clean scrub in the river, she filled the lap of her sari with ripe sweet plantains, and walked on—her glossy black hair loose on her wet body, her wet sari clinging to her limbs. She now sat against a tree, at a little distance from the Maruti temple. From the distant shrine she could hear the sound of the bells rung by the Acharya. The holy sound of temple bells took her back to an experience that had moved her. Just as she was remembering her mother’s words, hadn’t the Acharya come close with mat and pillow, holding a lantern in the darkness, and called her “Chandri,” ever so softly? Suddenly she regretted that she was past thirty. Ten years she’d lived with Naranappa, she still hadn’t had a child. If she had borne a son, he could have become a great musician; if a daughter, she could have taught her to dance, classical style. She had got everything, yet had nothing. She sat there looking at the little birds that whirred and perched on the trees.

  VIII

  Dasacharya was afraid he would die if he didn’t eat right away. The smells of all that food cooking for the children, O to smell them on this fasting day! It was like melted butter poured into a burning fire. He spat out some of the rising spittle in his mouth, and swallowed some of it. Finally, unable to bear it any more, he got up and left. Unseen by anyone, he went into the waters of the Tunga river, bathed in the burning sun, and walked towards Parijatapura. He soon stood in the shade of Manjayya’s thatched canopy. How could he ask here openly for food? In all his born days, he hadn’t even touched water in the houses of these crosslined brahmins. After all, he was a brahmin who lived on ritual meals. Bad things would happen if others heard about it. Yet his legs brought him, faster than thought, to Manjayya who was eating spicy uppittu, made of flattened rice.

  “O O O, come in, come in, Acharya. How come you brought yourself so far? Did Praneshacharya come to some decision or what? Really a pity. Unless the body is disposed of, none of you can eat, can you? Please sit down. Rest a while. Look here, bring a seat for the Acharya!” And so on, Manjayya rolled out his courtesies.

  Dasacharya stood there in a trance, looking only at the uppittu. Manjayya looked at him kindly and said, “Are you feeling dizzy, or something, Acharya-re, shall I get you some fruit-drink?”

  Dasacharya said neither yes nor no, but squatted on the low seat. How could he open his mouth and ask him? Mustering enough courage, he started beating about the bush; Manjayya listened, eating his uppittu.

  “I didn’t really like the way our folks talked here yesterday, Manjayya.”

  “Che Che Che, you shouldn’t say such things,” said Manjayya for politeness’ sake.

  “If you really look—how many real brahmins are there in this kali age, Manjayya?”

  “I agree, I agree, Acharya-re. The times are rotten, it’s true.”

  “How are you less than any other brahmin, Manjayya, in orthodoxy and in keeping to the rules? Here you are, ready to perform the funeral rites without a pice. But Garuda and Lakshmana of our agrahara fight there like crows, over a piece of gold. . . .”

  “Ayyo ayyo, is that so?” said Manjayya, glossing over things, not interested in getting into anyone’s bad books.

  “Manjayya, one thing, between ourselves—everyone says Garuda’s black magic ruined Naranappa. It back-fired, so his own son ran away and joined the army. Look, he even swallowed up that poor widow Lakshmidevamma’s jewellery and money.”

  Manjayya, though pleased, said nothing.

  “I ask you, where are the real brahmins today? I’ve nothing against Garuda, really. Just because we get stamped and branded five ways by the guru once a year, do all our sins get burned away? I didn’t like those fellows wanting you to do what they themselves won’t do. Whatever you may say, Manjayya, Praneshacharya is our one true brahmin. What lustre, what ascetic penance!” he clucked.

  “True, true; very true, isn’t it?” agreed Manjayya, and asked, “You’ve had your bath, Acharya-re?”

  “O yes, I’ve just had a dip in the river,” he said.

  “Then, eat something with us, Acharya-re.”

  “I don’t really mind eating in your house. But if those rascals in our agrahara hear about it, no one will invite me to a ceremony again. What can I do, Manjayya?”

  Responding to the pathetic words of Dasacharya, Manjayya came close to him, secretly delighted that another of the agrahara brahmins had come to eat with him, and said softly:

  “Why should I tell anyone, Acharya-re, that you ate with us? Just get up, wash your hands and feet. Look here, hey, get us some uppittu here. . . .”

  As soon as the word uppittu was uttered, the bowels in Dasacharya’s belly turned and made loud gurgling noises. Still, he was afraid to eat cooked stuff in a Smarta house; so he suggested:

  “No, no, uppittu doesn’t really agree with me. Just a little plain flat-rice, and some milk and jaggery will do.”

  Manjayya understood, was amused. He gave Dasacharya some water to wash his feet with, brought him as if in secret to the kitchen, sat him down. And himself sitting down next to him, he made him take milk, jaggery, flat-rice, plantains and honey. Dasacharya got a little intoxicated as he ate; finally Manjayya persuaded him to eat even a spoonful of uppittu, saying, “Where’s the harm in one spoonful?” Manjayya’s wife gleefully served another four spoonfuls of it; Dasacharya rubbed his belly to the rhythm of the name of the Supreme Spirit, and didn’t say No. Just for courtesy’s sake, he pretended to cover his leaf with his hands, saying, “Enough. Enough. Must leave some for you.”

  IX

  Chinni, instead of Belli, came that day to pick up the cowdung. She said, “Belli’s father and mother are both sick in bed.” The brahmin women of the agrahara, too full of their own problems, didn’t listen to her. But Chinni, who was picking up the manure, told her story anyway, not caring whether anyone heard it or not. “Chowda died, his woman too died. We set fire to his hut and finished that too. Who knows if the Demon is angry with us, who knows?” Sitadevi, Garuda’s wife, stood with her hand on her waist, and worried ceaselessly about her son: what could they do if something happened to him in the army? Chinni begged, standing at a distance: “Please, avva, throw a morsel for my mouth, avva!” Sitadevi went in, brought out some betel leaf, betelnut and a quid of tobacco, threw them at her and stood there thinking her own precious thoughts. Chinni, tucking away the tobacco and betel in her lap, said:

  “Avva, what a lot of rats are coming out now! Like a wedding procession. Who knows what they’re up to?” Then lifted her cowdung basket to her head and walked away.

  When she went back, she thought she could break some tobacco and share it with Belli. As she walked to Belli’s hut, she heard Belli’s father and mother crying out aloud.

  “Look how the fellow cries in fever. Don’t know if the Demon is treading on him too,” she thought and came out calling Belli. She saw Belli sitting next to her parents, her head in her hands. Chinni was about to say, “Look, even in the agrahara the rats are taking out a procession.”
Instead she broke off a piece of tobacco and said, “Take a bite, Sitavva gave me some.” Belli rubbed the tobacco on her palms and put it in her mouth.

  “If Pilla gets the Demon on him today, we must ask about this. I’m quite scared, Chinni. What’s all this, rats coming like an army to our poor pariah huts! Chowda and his wife popping off, snap! Like that! And now papa and mama trodden all over by the Demon. We must ask Him.”

  “Ayy, you idiot—just be quiet,” said Chinni, trying to hearten Belli.

  •

  By two in the afternoon, the sun rose over the head, and burned like the angry third eye of Lord Shiva, stupefying the brahmins already half-dead with hunger. Mirages, horses of the sun, danced before their eyes as they stared at the shimmering heat of the street; they were waiting for Praneshacharya. Fear and hunger, both acute, worked in their bellies like succubi. Dissolved into formless anxiety, these brahmins’ spirits hung around Praneshacharya who had gone to Lord Maruti for counsel—hung around him like bats. A dim hope: maybe they would not really have to wait another night with Naranappa’s dead body. Sitadevi found a rat lying dead in the rice vessel in her store-room; she picked it up by the tail, held her nose with her sari-end, and brought it out to fling it, when a vulture swooped towards her, and glided away to perch on their roof. She screamed, “Ayyayyo, look, look!” A vulture on the roof was an omen of death. Nothing like it had ever happened before. Garudacharya came running, took one look at the vulture and sank down. Sitadevi started weeping, “Ayyo, what could have happened to my son!” Garuda thought at once he was being punished for refusing in his heart Dasacharya’s suggestion that the gold should go to Lord Maruti. In fear, he held on to his wife’s hand, came in, placed an offering before his household god, prostrated himself, and prayed: “I’ve done wrong. May your gold be yours, may it be for you. Forgive me.” Then came out saying, “Ussh! Ussh!” to the vulture, trying to chase it off his roof. The vulture had by now picked up the rat that Sitadevi had flung out and was pecking at it on the roof. The bird sat there, un-afraid, defiant, like a shameless kinsman. Garudacharya lifted his head and looked into the dazzling heat above. He saw vultures, vultures, vultures in the blue blue sky reeling, gliding, spiralling circle below circle, descending. “Look, look there!” he called out to his wife. Sitadevi came running. She shielded her eyes with her palms and looked, and she let out a long sigh: “Usshsh”. . . . As they looked on, the vulture on their roof curved his neck around like a danseuse, looked around and whirred right down to their feet to peck at and pick up another rat which had run out from the store-room to the backyard, and flew back to his perch on the roof. Both husband and wife, their life-breaths shaken up together as never before, sank down to a sitting position. Another vulture, flying far in the sky, came down to sit on Naranappa’s house. He lifted his head, flapped his demon wings loudly, came to a standstill and inspected the whole agrahara with his eagle eyes. After that, more flying vultures came down to sit, two by two, two on each house, as if they had agreed upon it earlier. Some would whirr to the ground unpredictably, pick up rats in their beak and perch back on the roof to pick at their prey at leisure. The birds of prey had left their burial grounds to descend on the agrahara, as if at the Last Deluge, and everyone in the agrahara came out and gathered in the street, with their hands on their mouths. Sitadevi saw that every house had its bird of ill-omen and felt consoled; the omens weren’t directed in particular at her son. The brahmins, their women and children, had stood there in unspeakable dread only for two seconds, when Durgabhatta shrieked, “Hoo Hoo Hoo!” at the birds, trying to scare them away. In vain. All the brahmins shouted in unison—but even that didn’t work.