“Wait a bit, Acharya-re. Look there,” said Putta. At a distance on a hill was a group of lowcaste folk standing in some kind of trance. “Come, let’s go there. I’m sure it’s a cock-fight.” Praneshacharya’s heart missed a beat. Yet he walked with Putta, troubled by a sense of fate. Standing at a little distance away from the group, he looked on. The smell of cheap toddy made him gag a little. The people sat on their heels watching two roosters snapping at each other with knives tied to their legs, leaping at each other, flapping their wings. People squatted on their toes all around the fighting roosters, mouths gaping. Praneshacharya had never seen such concentration, such sharp cruel looks. All their five vital breaths seemed to converge in the eyes of those squatting people. And then, the two roosters: a swirl of wings, four wings, four knives. Kokk, kokk, kokk, kokk. All around them, forty, fifty eyes. Red-combed roosters, flashing knives. The sun, flash, flash. Flicker. Glint. Spark as from flintstone. Ah, what skill. One of them struck, struck, and struck. Swooped and sat on top of the other. Praneshacharya was in a panic. He had abruptly dropped into a demoniac world. He sat down, in utter fear: if in that nether-world where he decided to live with Chandri, if in that depth of darkness, in that cave, if the cruel engagement glinting in the eyes of these entranced creatures is just a part of that world, a brahmin like him will wilt. The two masters were making throaty sounds to egg their roosters on, and the sounds didn’t seem to issue from human throats. It became clear that he didn’t have the skills to live in this world of sharp and cruel feelings. One part of lust is tenderness, the other part a demoniac will. Cowardice returned, the cowardice he had felt the day Naranappa had defied him, when his whole person seemed to shrink before that arrogance. The men forcibly pulled the fighting cocks apart, put stitches on the bloody wounds and set them up again for the fight. Meanwhile, Putta, who was looking on with enthusiasm, had wagered with a stranger. “That rooster is mine,” he said, “if he wins, two annas.” The stranger said, “If mine wins, four annas.” Putta said, “Eight annas.” The other man said, “Ten annas.” Putta said, “Twelve annas.” “All right, let’s see,” said the other. Praneshacharya waited anxiously. What shall we do if this callow youth should lose all his money? To his amazement, it was Putta who won. Then Putta got up to leave. The man who had lost said, “Another bet.” Putta said, “No.” The other man, who was drunk, got up to beat him. Praneshacharya held out his hand. Seeing a brahmin in front of him, the man gulped down his anger. The others started lowering on them, saying, “What’s going on? What it is?” Before anything could happen, Praneshacharya dragged Putta out of the crowd and led him away.
Putta didn’t seem to be bothered; he had won twelve annas. He was beaming. Praneshacharya was filled suddenly with a fatherly affection for Putta. If I’d a son I could have brought him up lovingly, he thought.
“Now, Putta, let me go my way,” said Praneshacharya, trying to close off his feelings of friendship.
Putta’s face fell. He asked, “Which way do you go?” The Acharya searched suspiciously for some reason why this fellow might want to hang on.
“Somewhere. I’m not sure yet,” he said.
“Then I’ll walk with you some distance. You can at least eat a meal at the temple,” insisted Putta.
Praneshacharya thought all this was getting to be a nuisance.
“I’ve got to see a goldsmith,” he said. “Why?” asked Putta, not giving up. “I’ve to sell a piece of gold.”
“Why do you have to do that? If you don’t have enough money on you, I’ll loan you twelve annas. You can return it to me sometime.”
Praneshacharya racked his brains for a way to release himself from this man. This man’s sympathies were like creepers that tangle up your feet.
“No, Putta. The money I need isn’t a small amount. I’ve to catch the Kundapura bus. And there are other expenses,” said Praneshacharya, unable to release himself from Putta’s hold.
“O, is that so? Come then, I know a goldsmith here. What do you want to sell?”
“The ring on my sacred thread,” said Praneshacharya, unable to evade him.
“Let me see it,” said Putta, stretching out his hand. Praneshacharya untied the ring on his sacred thread and handed it to him. Putta held it in his hand, examined it, and said, “Don’t you accept anything less than fifteen rupees.” Then they entered a keri and went to a goldsmith’s house. The goldsmith was sitting before a wooden box, filing away at a ring. He straightened his silver-rimmed glasses and asked, “What do you want?” Then he recognized Putta, and spoke words of courtesy: “What’s happening here, our Puttayya’s feet have brought him all the way here?” The ring was handed over. The goldsmith weighed it in his balance with little red seeds for weights, rubbed it on a touchstone, and said, “Ten rupees.” Putta said, “If it’s less than fifteen rupees, let’s not even talk about it.” The Acharya was disturbed by such business talk. The goldsmith said, “The price of gold has come down.” “I don’t know about all that. Can you give us fifteen rupees or not?” asked Putta. Then he looked at the Acharya and shot up his eyebrows as if to say, “See how I do business, and admire it.” But the Acharya, trying to put an end to the argument, said, “If it’s ten rupees, then ten it is. That’ll do for expenses.” Putta felt let down. The goldsmith’s face beamed. He counted out ten rupees and folded his hands in farewell. “That was a help,” said Praneshacharya, and came out.
As soon as they came out Putta started nagging—almost like a lawfully wedded wife: “What’s the matter with you? Here I try to be useful to you and you make me lose face. He’ll never value my word any more now. Of course I could say ‘Okay, it’s you who lost five rupees down the drain!’ But look, in this iron age of kali, you can’t be that dumb and survive. Haven’t you heard, goldsmiths will cheat even on their sisters’ gold?”
“I needed money desperately. I was rash. Forgive me,” said Praneshacharya meekly, not wishing to hurt Putta. Putta softened and said,
“I knew, the minute I looked at you. You’ve a very simple soul. You shouldn’t be sent out alone anywhere. I’ll put you on the bus personally and then go back. Now you’d better do as I tell you. I’ve to go see someone. You come with me. After that you can go eat at the temple, there’s plenty of time, they serve food till evening to line after line of guests. You can sleep somewhere here tonight. In the morning we can walk to Tirthahalli, it’s only five miles. There’s a bus from there to Agumbe. If you go straight down the mountain in a taxi, you can catch the bus to Kundapura.”
“All right,” said the Acharya, tucking into his waist the money, the fare for Kundapura which he had got by selling the ring. Putta warned, “Careful, that’s money.”
The Acharya thought, “It shouldn’t be hard to give this fellow the slip when they get to the temple feast. Here is Putta, willing to involve himself in another’s life for no reason at all. Who knows, what debts from what past life are being cleared this way? There seems to be no escaping this man’s company. A creeper winding around one’s feet. Who dare say one’s life is one’s own?”
“Come this way,” said Putta, and led him through the crowded temple road to a narrow alley. They walked till they came to a deserted place. There was a small stream; across it was a bamboo bridge-piece. Crossing a fence, they came to a wet crop field. As he walked on the edges of it, Praneshacharya remembered the cock-fight. How one rooster trod on another, what excitement of wing and feather! How one mastered the other, tearing it, getting into it, deeper, deeper. The knives glinting sharply in the sunshine. Then those eyes. The smell of country liquor. Even when pulled apart, laid on their backs, their wounds stitched, the roosters were pressing forward, crying kokk, kokk, throbbing. A demon world of pressing need, revenge, greed. I was there like a futile ghost. Panic-stricken. I tried wilfully to change and move into that world. And there was that acrobat gypsy girl. Swinging in her exercises in the sky, at the end of a bamboo pole, wearing body-tight clothes, showing off. She glided down suddenly. She dan
ced. The sodawater bottles, with marbles in their necks squeaking when squeezed; the coloured liquids, the abrupt belches, desire, experience, satisfaction. Those purposive eyes. Eyes engaged in things: in the midst of multi-coloured ribbons, balloons, around the pinnacle of the temple chariot, eyes everywhere, behind my back, in front, on either side. Eyes all around —the wings—the knives—the beaks—the talons. Immersed. The oneness, the monism, of desire and fulfilment. That art Thou.
“I dread it. It’s the dread of being transformed from ghost to demon.”
Putta lit up a bidi and asked laughingly, in mischief, “Do you know where we are going?” Praneshacharya shook his head.
“My good sir, I like your ways. You really will go anywhere, you ask no questions. I’m also a little like that. I once went with a friend of mine just like this, all the way to Shivamogge. My father-in-law complains, ‘Wherever Putta goes, there he stays put. O Putta? Our Putta: if you let him go, you’ll lose him; but find him, he’ll never leave you,’ he says.”
“You said you’ve to see someone, didn’t you?”
“Acharya-re, please address me in the singular. It’s not good for my longevity to be addressed in the plural by an elder like you.”
“All right.”
“There’s a grove near here. There, that one. A woman we know stays there, running it as a tenant. She’s all alone, quite a courageous woman. Really a beautiful woman; you’ve to wash your hands clean to touch her, so neat. Distant relative of mine. She’s very respectful to orthodox brahmins like you. Let’s say hello to her for a minute and then we’ll leave. If I don’t look her up, she’ll say, ‘I heard you were in town, Putta, you didn’t even show your face. Didn’t inquire if I were dead or alive, did you? You’ve become that busy, ha?’ You know, I don’t really like to hurt anyone. Man’s life is here this second, gone the next. Tell me, why should we hurt anyone? That’s why I say Yes to everything. Still, you know, Acharya-re: my wife is a nuisance. Every month she wants to visit her mother. I said Yes to her at first. Later I said No. I even beat her. But then I feel pity for her. You must have heard the village song:
He beats his wife
But cries in his heart,
so falls at her feet
and at her feet he pleads
Who’s sweeter, tell me,
Me or your Mother’s place?
I’m like that. . . . We’re here now.”
•
They had reached the tile-covered house beyond the grove. “Is she in or not? She might’ve gone to the festival,” said Putta, and called out, “Padmavati.” Praneshacharya, who sat down on the pyol mat, heard a sweet female voice answer, “Coming!” Warm attractive voice. Fear: who’s she? Why did Putta bring me all the way here? The same voice said courteously: “O you, you’ve come.” Praneshacharya started, turned around. She had crossed the threshold and stood there holding the pillar with one raised hand. As his eyes fell on her, she pulled her sari over her breast. Putta said, “Look, who do you think I’ve brought here? An Acharya.” “O you came this far,” she said again shyly. “Shall I get some Ganges water?” she asked. “You must take some milk and fruit at least,” she insisted, and went in. Praneshacharya was sweating all over. There was no doubt—she was a half-caste Malera woman. Living alone. Why did Putta bring me here? Not a word from Putta. All his chatter had been stilled. The Acharya had suddenly the scary feeling that two eyes were getting at him from behind. For those onlooking eyes I’m a wide-open thing. Afraid to turn around, yet wanting to do so. Who knows what those eyes will say? As soon as eye meets eye, who knows what shape the unformed will take? Elongated dark eyes. A black snake braid coming down her shoulder, over her breast. The girl swaying at the end of the bamboo pole. Knives—wings—beaks—feathers. In the forest dark, the offering of full breasts. Belli’s earth-coloured breasts. An unblinking eye that’ll see everything as if it is wide-open. Behind him. The bird is paralysed by the stare of the black serpent. Dread. He turned around. It was true. The eyes were looking at him stealthily, her hands were holding a platter; the eyes peeping from the door suddenly retreated into the dark indoors. Bangles jingled. Again she came into the light. It was peaceful now. An expectation turned in his body, cutting a path inside. She bent forward to put down the platter, the top of her sari sliding, breasts thrust forward, eyes heavy with a look of pleading. A stirring of fire in his chest. His eyes looked on, fiery. The sense vanished of having become a wide-open object for staring eyes. Now he was those eyes. That art Thou. She asked, “Where is the gentleman from?” Looking at the Acharya, his glowing person. Putta said, “He’s from Kundapura,” and added a lie, “He knows Shinappa.” “Looks after temple affairs,” adding another lie. When he said, “He’s come to this province to collect dues,” Putta gave him an entirely new personality. In the eyes of strangers, one gets a new form, a new makeup. “Even to the point of doubting who I really am, I have become many persons in one single day. All right, let things happen as they will.” He sat waiting. “Bird ravaging, bird ravaged, the knives. Wife Bhagirathi screamed as if the very quick of her life had been touched, before she fell back utterly motionless, dead. Then she burned in the cremation fire, Bhagirathi, the altar of my sacrifice. I lost her and entered limbo, a lost soul. Seen by these eyes. I have moved to the next stage of soul, leaving the ghostly stage behind. Perhaps.”
Padmavati, evading any possible direct gaze, went and sat at the foot of the door. Praneshacharya was disturbed again that she was staring at him from that vantage point. Plucking up courage he turned his head. His heart was pounding. Padmavati got up, and brought a platter of betelnut and betel leaf. Putta smeared lime on the betel leaves, folded and tucked several between his fingers, threw a piece of betelnut into his mouth and started speaking. Padmavati went back to sit at the foot of the door. Putta said:
“I met the Acharya on the road. We came chatting all the way. He’d started out for Kundapura. I said: why not stay here tonight and go to Tirthahalli tomorrow and catch a bus? Don’t you agree that’s a good idea?”
Padmavati too insisted, a little embarrassed:
“Right. Why not sleep here tonight and go tomorrow?”
Praneshacharya felt faint. His ears seemed to roar, his hands were clammy. “No, no, not today. Tomorrow. I didn’t reckon on the decisive moment being now, here. Not today, I’m in a period of mourning and pollution, I’ve just cremated my wife. Haven’t yet disposed of Naranappa’s body. I must tell them. I must speak the truth. I must get up and leave here. I must vanish.” But the body stayed there, solid, an object of Padmavati’s expectant gaze. Putta said:
“All right then. He hasn’t had his dinner yet. He’ll go to the temple feast and come back here.” Then he asked Padmavati, familiarly, “The Dharmasthala troupe has come here, hasn’t it? Are you going to see their show?”
“O no. I’ll just visit the temple in the evening, get God’s darshan and come back here. I’ll wait for you people.”
Without any move on his part, without so much as a grunt from him sitting between Putta and Padmavati, Putta said, “Let’s get up.” The Acharya stood up, looked at Padmavati. Long hair, not yet oiled after a bath; plump fleshy thighs, buttocks, breasts. Tall, long-limbed. A gleam in the eyes, an expectation. A waiting. Must have had a ritual bath in the river after her monthly period. Breasts rise and fall as she breathes in and out. They’ll harden at the tips if caressed in the dark. The scent of grass and country sarsaparilla. Floating chariots of lightning-bugs. Fire. The crematory flames licking the firewood, reaching the hands and feet, simmering in the stomach and hissing, exploding, splitting the bony skull, stretching tongues of flame to the chest of the dead. The fire. Naranappa’s dead body. Unburned yet. How he sat there once, on his front verandah pulling on his hubble-bubble. The body swung on the bamboo-stretcher, curving it with its weight. The Vedic sage Yajnavalkya said: “Love. Love for whom? Love for one’s wife is love for oneself. Love for God is love for oneself.” He’ll search out the roots. He�
�ll win. He looked on, he admired. Sage Vyasa was born in a pot, born complete with an ascetic’s waterpot. The Acharya took a step. “All right, then you go and come back. I’ll wait for you,” said Padmavati. “Lord Maruti really gave me the slip. Friend Mahabala played a trick on me. Naranappa took his revenge. The brahmins were greedy for the gold. Chandri waiting in the dark—took what she wanted—walked away. Bhagirathi shrieked and died.” Putta put his hand on his shoulder, stopped him at the edge of a wet field. Asked, “What do you say?” Then he said, “It turned out as I thought. Don’t think that the woman’s a common prostitute. No, sir. No lowcaste man has been near her. And she isn’t the kind of spirit that’ll accept any ordinary brahmin either. Not for money, not for a few coins. Didn’t you see for yourself? She has an estate. Even the ancient sages would fall for her, she’s like that. I was scared for a minute you might expose my lie. You liked her, didn’t you? This Putta will do anything for a friend. Putta, the Altruist, that’s my title,” he said, laughing, patting the Acharya’s back.
Crossing the wet field, the fences, walking over the makeshift bridge, through the lane, again into the bustle of the crowded fair. A crowd milled around the temple chariot. Another crowd around the sodawater shop. Still another, around the man with the performing monkey. Children’s toy trumpets, balloons. In the midst of these noises, a demon, an evil spirit. A town-crier. Beating his tom-tom, he announced in his loud town-crier voice: “There’s a plague in Shivamogge! The epidemic of Mari! Anyone going to Shivamogge should stop at Tirthahalli and get an inoculation! That’s the order of the Municipality!” People listened to him with interest, and drank more sodawater. Laughed in guffaws at the antics of the monkey. A bilingual expert spoke in Urdu and Kannada, selling his medicine to the gathered crowd: “Just one anna, one anna, ek ana, ek ana. For stomach-aches, ear-aches, diabetes, arthritis, children’s diseases, menstrual troubles, itches and typhoid—take this pill. Pundits from Kerala have prepared this pill with magic chants. Just one anna, ek ana, ek ana . . .” The Bombay Box man was dancing: “Look, look at the Tirupati God, Timmappa! Look, look at the courtesan of Bombay!” An acrobat slid in a flash down the slope of a rope tied between a branch above and a peg on the floor, and came to his feet with a salute. A man suddenly slapped a little boy for wanting a balloon. The boy cried loudly. A gramophone song from the coffee shop. Sweetmeats of many colours in the Muslim shop. The drawling intonation of the peasants and their women. An incessant priestly jumble of Sanskrit scripture on the temple chariot, the raucous talk of the Smarta brahmins. In between he must decide, here, now. Decide to give up a quarter-century of discipline and become a man of the world? No, no. Naranappa’s funeral comes before all else. After that come all other decisions. Garuda and Lakshmana would have returned today after consulting the Guru. What should he say if the Guru said No? The same dilemma, all over again.
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