•
Putta of the Maleras stuck to Praneshacharya like a sin of the past. That was his way: if you stop, he’ll stop too; sit, he’ll sit. Walk faster, he’ll walk faster; if slower, slower. Won’t leave your side. Praneshacharya was getting quite upset. He’d like to be alone, sit with his eyes shut, and think for himself—but this fellow Putta is rattling away ceaselessly. The Acharya gives him no quarter, yet he clings. Be cause he doesn’t know this is Praneshacharya, Crest-Jewel of Vedanta, etc., he is behaving as he would with a common mendicant brahmin on his beggarly rounds. He advised the Acharya it wasn’t a good idea to walk barefoot so far. He said, “You can get a hand-sewn pair of sandals in Tirthahalli for three rupees.” He asked didactically, “What’s more important, money or comfort? Look at my sandals, over a year old, haven’t worn down a bit.” He pulled them off his feet and displayed them. “I like talking,” he said. “Come, answer me a riddle, if you can,” he challenged. Praneshacharya held his tongue, controlling his rising anger. “A river, a boat, a man. With him, the man has a bundle of grass, a tiger, a cow. He’s to cross the river with one at a time in the boat. He must see to it that the cow doesn’t eat the grass, and the tiger doesn’t eat the cow. He must transfer all three from this bank of the river to that. How does he do it? Let’s see how sharp you are,” he said, setting out the riddle, and merrily lit his bidi. Though angry, Praneshacharya’s brain was teased by the riddle. Putta walked beside him, taunting the Acharya: “Did you get it, did you get the answer?” Praneshacharya got the answer, but he was too embarrassed to tell it. If he really solved the riddle, he’d be holding out a hand of friendship to Putta. If he didn’t, Putta will think him dull-witted. It was a dilemma. Should he become a dull-witted thing in this fellow’s eyes? “Got it?” Putta asked, sucking at his bidi. Praneshacharya shook his head. Putta guffawed “Ho ho ho!” and instantly solved the riddle. He felt immense affection for this good, not-too-clever brahmin. “Here, another riddle,” he said. “No, no,” said Praneshacharya. “All right then, you better tell me one. You defeat me. Tit for Tat.” “I don’t know any,” said Praneshacharya. “Poor fellow,” thought Putta. Casting about for conversation, Putta’s tongue itched. He started a new topic, “Acharya-re, do you know? Shyama, the actor in the Kundapura troupe—poor fellow, he died.” “Che, poor man, I didn’t know,” said the Acharya. “Then you probably left town a long time ago,” said Putta. Praneshacharya was delighted to see the path branching in front of him. He stopped and asked Putta, “Which way are you going?” “This way,” he said, pointing to one path. The Acharya pointed to the other footpath and said, “This is mine.” “Both go to Melige. One is a little roundabout, that’s all. I’m in no hurry. I’ll come with you,” said Putta. He took out a chunk of brown sugar and some coconut pieces, saying “Come, have some.” He gave some to Praneshacharya, and ate some himself. Praneshacharya was hungry, and quite grateful to Putta. Wherever he went, whatever happened, human company seemed to cling to his back like one’s lot earned in a past life.
Putta moved on to more familiar terms, while he chewed coconut and hard sugar. “You must be married, right? Who isn’t? I’m asking like a fool. How many children? None at all? I’m sorry. I have two kids. I did tell you, didn’t I, my wife is from Kundapura. One thing, you know. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, thinking about it. She just loves her parents. She throws tantrums every month, or every other, insisting on a visit to her mother’s place. In these times, who can spend two rupees for the bus so often? You tell me. She just doesn’t listen. A mother of two children, she’s still childish. But then, she’s really very young. My mother-in-law is a fusspot, but my father-in-law, he’s large-hearted, I tell you. After all, he knows the world. My mother-in-law says at times, ‘What right has my son-in-law to beat my daughter?’ But my father-in-law hasn’t mentioned it, not once. But then my wife hasn’t learned the lesson, despite the beating. She threatens to jump into the well if I don’t send her home to her mother. What can I do? She’s so neat, so good in everything else—but for this one trouble. Whether she cooks a dish, or washes a pot, she’s neat. Just this one trouble. What do you say to this?”
Praneshacharya laughed, not knowing what to say. Putta too laughed. “Understanding the way of a woman is just like tracing the track of a fish darting in the water—that’s what the elders say. They know,” he said.
“That’s true, quite true,” added Praneshacharya.
At last Putta’s stream of words stopped. The Acharya felt, Putta must be searching for an answer to his woman’s ways in some world beyond language. “Now here’s my riddle. I didn’t look at it squarely earlier. My life’s decisive moment—the moment that would describe every relation of mine, with Naranappa, with Mahabala, with my wife, with the other brahmins, with the entire dharma I leaned on—it was born without my stir. I suddenly turned in the dark of the forest. But, my dilemma, my decision, my problem wasn’t just mine, it included the entire agrahara. This is the root of the difficulty, the anxiety, the double-bind of dharma. When the question of Naranappa’s death-rites came up, I didn’t try to solve it for myself. I depended on God, on the old Law Books. Isn’t this precisely why we have created the Books? Because there’s this deep relation between our decisions and the whole community. In every act we involve our forefathers, our gurus, our gods, our fellow humans. Hence this conflict. Did I feel such conflict when I lay with Chandri? Did I decide it after pouring and measuring and weighing? Now it’s become dusky, unclear. That decision, that act gouged me out of my past world, the world of the brahmins, from my wife’s existence, my very faith. The consequence, I’m shaking in the wind like a piece of string.
“Is there any release from it?”
Putta said, “Acharya-re!”
“What’s it?”
“Would you like some coconut and jaggery?” “Give me some.”
Putta gave him some more coconut and jaggery and said, “It’s hard to pass the time on the road, right? If you’re getting bored, I’ll tell you another riddle. Solve it. One plays, one runs, one stands and stares. What is it? Tell me.” Then he lit another bidi.
“Therefore the root of all my anxiety is because I slept with Chandri as in a dream. Hence the present ambiguity, this Trishanku-state. I’ll be free from it only through a free deliberate wide-awake fully-willed act. Otherwise, a piece of string in the wind, a cloud taking on shapes according to the wind. I’ve become a mere thing. By an act of will I’ll become human again. I’ll become responsible for myself. That is . . . that is . . . I’ll give up this decision to go where the legs take me, I’ll catch a bus to Kundapura and live with Chandri. I’ll then end all my troubles. I’ll remake myself in full wakefulness. . . .”
“Did you get it?” asked Putta, laughing.
“The fish plays, the water runs, the stone stands and stares,” said Praneshacharya.
“Great! You win. Do you know what they call me at home? Riddleman Putta is what they call me. I’ll give you a new riddle for every mile,” he said, and threw away the bidi stub.
•
By the time Garuda, Lakshmana and the others reached Durvasapura walking all the way in the sun, the sun was going down. They entered the agrahara hesitantly, but they were relieved to see no vultures sitting on the rooftops. Lakshmanacharya said softly, “I’ll go look at what’s happened to my cattle, you go on.” Garudacharya got angry and scowled, “The death-rite had better be your first concern. After that, your household affairs!” Lakshmanacharya didn’t dare to talk back. Everyone came to Praneshacharya’s house. Everyone felt, “Poor man, we must offer him sympathies.” But when they called, there was only the smell of dead rats. After that, no one had the courage to enter even his own house. When they came to the main street, a stupor came over them. It had a dead, haunted look. They huddled together and thought of what they should do next. “The death-rite,” said one. But no one had the courage to enter Naranappa’s house and take a look at a rotted body, probably grotesque and
fearful. Garudacharya thought of something: “Praneshacharya must have gone to the river, or some where. Let’s wait for him.” Lakshmanacharya said, “No time to lose, let’s at least begin preparations for the cremation.” “Firewood,” one said. “Must cut down a mango tree,” said another. “How will a rotting body burn in wet green firewood,” said still another. Lakshmanacharya said, “Well, we can burn him in wood from his own house.” Garuda taunted: “No one asked you anyway for firewood from your house.” But when they went round to Naranappa’s backyard, there was not enough firewood there. They called out, “Chandri! Chandri!” There was no answer. “Probably ran away to Kundapura, after ruining the entire village, the Mari!” muttered the brahmins. “What else can we do? Everyone should bring a bundle of firewood from his house to the cremation ground. Everyone,” ordered Garudacharya. Everyone agreed and carried on his head a bundle to the cremation ground two miles away. When they returned to the agrahara, there was still no sign of Praneshacharya. “The body,” said one. “Let Praneshacharya come,” said Garuda. “All right,” said Lakshmanacharya. Everyone was afraid to go look inside. Garuda said, “Let’s not be rash. It isn’t right to do anything without asking Praneshacharya.” The other brahmins meanwhile said, “Let’s get things ready and wait.” They kindled a fire in a clay pitcher outside Naranappa’s house, brought bamboos, started making a stretcher for the body, and waited—for Praneshacharya.
•
It was about three in the afternoon when Praneshacharya reached the Melige tank with Putta. They had walked on the big road meant for carts; their bodies were covered with red dust. When he climbed down into the tank to wash his hands and feet, Putta said, “Look, I talked so much, but never told you anything of my own affairs.” As he washed his face, the Acharya felt a twinge of fear that someone in Melige might recognize him. He was disturbed at the renewal of fear. But one consolation: all the Melige brahmins were Smartas, therefore strangers. Who will really attend to him in the bustle of the festivals? Anyway, where’s the occasion for fear once he has truly decided? Yet fear is natural. But why, if there’s no reason for it? One must look for its roots. Must pull it out from the roots and destroy it. How fearlessly, how royally Naranappa lived with Chandri in the heart of the agrahara! Even if he should join Chandri, he’ll probably cover his face, who knows? What sort of existence is this!
“You must be wondering why I’m prattling so much. You must have thought ‘What a leech!’ I’ll tell you why. Though you don’t talk much, you too need people, conversation. You’re a meek person, quite a suffering type,” said Putta, wiping the water off his face. “Am I right or wrong, you tell me. I can tell from the face, who’s what type. Why should I hide anything? I hope you didn’t get the impression I’m a low-class fellow. I told you I’m a Malera, didn’t I? My father was a high-class brahmin. He took care of my mother whom he lived with, better than his lawfully wedded wife. He even performed a sacred-thread ceremony for me. Look, if you wish,” he said, pulling out his sacred thread from under his shirt. “Therefore, all my buddies are brahmin boys. Let’s go now,” he said. As he climbed the bund of the tank into the street, he laughed and said, “I’m exactly what people call me. One of my names is Riddleman Putta, another is Prattling Putta. On the whole, I like people.”
The bustle of the festival had made Melige very colourful. The temple chariot stood in the middle of town, its pinnacle adorned with zodiac pictures of virgo, scorpio, gemini and others. All along the road, two heavy ropes hung from the chariot. The devotees had pulled the chariot halfway from its shed and left it there for offerings of coconut and fruit. A young brahmin took the devotee’s coconut and fruit offerings up and down a ladder to the priest who had already gone up and taken his seat inside the chariot. All around was a big crowd, waiting with the offerings. Praneshacharya scanned the crowd anxiously lest there should be some acquaintance who would recognize him. The crowd was so thick that, if you scattered a handful of sesame, not a seed would fall to the ground. Through such a milling crowd, Putta led Praneshacharya by the hand to a shop, and bought coconuts and bananas to offer to the god. “Let the crowd thin a bit, we’ll offer our worship later. Let’s walk around. Come, Acharya-re,” he suggested. When they came out of the crowd there was a noise of reed-pipes everywhere. Every village boy’s mouth held a pipe with a different noise. Pipes bought with small change wrested from the parents after much nagging. Also the smells of burning camphor and joss-sticks. The smell of new clothes. The song of the balloon-seller. In one corner was the Bombay Box. If you give the man a coin, he dances, and drums on a box with jingling anklets tied to it, and shows you pictures through a hole. “Look at Delhi City, look at the Eighteen Courts, look at the Bangalore bazaar, look at the Mysore rajah! Ahaa, take a look at the rajah holding court, look at the god of Tirupati! Aha, look at the Bombay concubine, aha, look at the Bombay concubine, look, look!” The sound of dancing anklets stops. He shouts: “The Bombay Box, the Box! Just one little coin, just one!” Putta couldn’t bear to walk on without looking in. “Acharya-re, I must look,” he said. “Yes, do,” said Praneshacharya. “Don’t go away and leave me behind. Just stay here,” said Putta, as he pulled the black curtain of the box over his head and sat there looking into the peepshow. The Acharya toyed with the idea of leaving him there and walking off. He thought, “Poor fellow, can’t do that to him. Yet he gives me no peace, I must be alone now.” So he walked away. After a few paces, he heard a voice call, “Acharya-re!” He turned, it was Putta. “I was really afraid you’d left me behind and walked off. But that Bombay Box man showed me the way you went. Let’s go.” Praneshacharya felt like scratching himself blue all over in sheer exasperation. Should he scold him? But how can one hurt a human being holding out his hand in friendship without one’s bidding or asking? Just bear it, he said to himself. “Aha, look there,” said Putta. An acrobat show was in progress. A shapely serpentine woman, all curves, had spread-eagled her hands and legs, swaying, balancing herself on her bare belly at the end of a bamboo pole. The acrobat gypsy beat a drum. The next minute the girl on the bamboo had slid down to the ground to dance. The crowd threw copper coins. Putta too threw a coin. As they neared the temple, writhing on the ground on either side were beggars begging, beggars with stumps for hands or legs, blind men, people with two holes in place of a nose, cripples of every kind. Putta threw a coin to the most attractive of the cripples. Further on, he bought a yard of ribbon for his wife’s hair from a mobile shop with multi-coloured ribbons hung in a maypole. “She loves these,” he said. He bought two coloured pipes for his kids, blew on them, and said, “Let’s go.” Praneshacharya felt like a hovering demon, a rootless object in the hustle and noise. As soon as Putta saw a sodawater shop he said, “Come, let’s have an orange drink.” Praneshacharya declined, “No, I don’t drink those things.” Putta stood in the thatched sodawater shop of a Konkani man, carefully examined a bottle of red liquid and said, “A bottle of this for me.” The shop was full of village women, shyly drinking soda-pop from the sweet-smelling bottles. Farmers, children. Their heads, oiled and combed sleek. Knots of flowers in their hair. New saris on the women. New shirts on the farmers. The squeak and gurgle of the sodawater as they push down the glass marbles in the soda bottles; the belch that comes up the throat after a drink of the sweet-coloured aerated waters—the whole thing was a matter of expectation, experience, contentment. Of the many pleasures of a temple festival, this too was one. Everyone thinks of it early and earmarks enough money for it. Praneshacharya stood outside this world of ordinary pleasures and looked at the gathered crowd. Putta belched with a sudden snort and his face blossomed. “Let’s go.” he said. “But you didn’t drink anything!”
In all this bustle and busyness, amid noises of balloons and pipes, the soda-pop and the sweetmeats, the peal of temple bells, the gorgeous spectacle of women’s bangle shops, Praneshacharya walked as one entranced, following Putta. Purposeful eyes everywhere, engaged in things. His eyes, the only disengaged ones,
incapable of involvement in anything. Putta was right. “Even my meeting him here must have been destined. To fulfil my resolution I should be capable of his involvement in living. Chandri’s too is the same world. But I am neither here, nor there. I am caught in this play of opposites.” A smell of coffee and spiced dose assailed his nostrils. Putta stopped. The Acharya too stopped.
“Come along. Let’s drink a cup of coffee,” said Putta.
“Not for me,” said Praneshacharya.
“This is a brahmin restaurant. They’ve brought it along all the way from Tirthahalli just for the festival. It won’t pollute you. There’s a special place inside for orthodox brahmins like you.”
“No, I don’t want any coffee.”
“That won’t do. Come. I have to buy you some coffee,” said Putta, and dragged him in by the hand. Praneshacharya squatted on a low seat unwillingly. He looked around timidly, fearing the presence of some familiar person. If someone sees the Crest-Jewel of Vedanta Philosophy drinking a cup of polluted restaurant coffee. . . . “Thuth, I must first rid myself of such fears,” he cursed himself. Putta stood a little further off, respecting the Acharya’s brahminhood. “Two special coffees,” he said to the waiter standing in front of him. He paid two annas, drank the tumbler of coffee, cursing it. “Awful coffee at these festivals.” Praneshacharya was quite thirsty; he even liked his coffee. With a new access of spirit, he came out. Putta said, “Why don’t you go and eat in the temple? They serve festival meals for brahmins till six o’clock today.” Praneshacharya hadn’t had a meal for days; he felt a craving to eat a hot meal of rice and saru. But at once he remembered, the mourning period for his wife’s death was not over yet. One couldn’t just enter a holy temple and eat there, one would pollute the temple; and as people say, the festival chariot will not move an inch. But didn’t Naranappa manage even to eat the holy fish in the Ganapati tank and get away with it? He would never have the courage to defy brahmin practice as Naranappa did. His mind mocked: “What price your resolve to join Chandri and live with her? If you must, do it fully; if you let go, let go utterly. That’s the only way to go beyond the play of opposites, that’s the way of liberation from fear. Look, how Mahabala willed and acted.”
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