Praneshacharya, sitting and waiting for the prasada, grew despondent. “Without samskara, the corpse is rotting; Maruti, how long will you test me?” he pleaded. “If your will is that it should not be done, at least grant me your left-hand prasada out of mercy,” he begged. He entreated, he implored. He sang hymns of loving devotion to please the deity. He became a child, a wife, a mother. Again, he recalled all the hymns that both accused the god and recounted his hundred and one faults. The towering Maruti stood motionless, holding aloft in his palm the mountain containing the Sanjeevini herb that would restore Lakshmana’s life. In desperation, Praneshacharya flung himself down. Evening fell. Darkness gathered. In the bluish glow of the neelanjana lamp, the flower-adorned Maruti did not sway; he gave neither the left-hand prasada nor the right.

“Even the Dharmashastra gives me no answer, nor do you—am I then unworthy?” he doubted. “With what face shall I go back and look upon those who trusted me?” he felt humiliated. “It is me you are testing, isn’t it?” he accused Maruti. As the darkness deepened, he realized it was the waning fortnight—Krishna Paksha. “Do not think of this as my test, remember the corpse that is rotting,” his reason whispered to him. Maruti, unmoved, turned his face away, toward the edge of the mountain.

Suddenly, Acharya remembered he had to give medicine to his wife. Tears threatened to well up in his eyes—he rose in despair. His legs, stiff from sitting, had grown numb. Weakened, he walked slowly, softly.

After he had walked a little distance, in the thick darkness of the forest, he heard footsteps behind him and stopped. The sound of bangles. He listened. “Who is it?” he called out. He waited.

Samskara 65

“I,” she said, shrinking into herself, Chandri, small and hesitant.

For Praneshacharya, to find himself thus, in the wild darkness, with a woman standing so close beside him, was a strange and unsettling thing. Searching for something to say, wanting to speak, but overcome by his own sorrow, he stood murmuring, “Maruti, Maruti…”

Hearing his gentle, trembling voice, Chandri was overcome with emotion. Poor man, hungry, lost, struggling for her sake—this Brahmin had become so pitiable. She felt an urge to clasp his feet firmly and offer her namaskara. In the next instant, she moved forward and fell at his feet. In the darkness, unable to see, and in her haste to bow, her chest touched his knee instead of his feet. The force of her movement scattered the beads of her necklace. For a moment, she rested her head on his thigh and clung to his legs.

A surge of devotion, the poignant thought of this Brahmin who had never known a woman’s touch, and the helplessness—“In this agrahara, who do I have but you to care for me?”—all welled up within her, and she wept. Praneshacharya was struck with remorse; the sudden, tight embrace of a young woman, now a stranger, left him stunned. He bent down, meaning to bless her, and reached out his hand. Her warm breath and tears touched his outstretched palm, and a trembling tenderness rose in him as he stroked her scattered hair.

The Sanskrit words of blessing would not leave his lips. Chandri, feeling his hand move over her head and hair, was swept by a new wave of emotion. She grasped his hands tightly, stood up, and pressed them to her chest, her heart fluttering like a dove.

The moment his hands, which had never touched anything but ritual objects, felt the fullness of her breasts, Praneshacharya was seized by a shudder. As if in a dream, he pressed her breasts. Immediately, Chandri, sensing the Acharya’s legs grow weak, gently eased him down to sit. Only then did he feel, for the first time, the pang of hunger in his belly.

Chapter Ten

Praneshacharya, sitting and waiting for the prasada, grew despondent.

“The corpse is rotting without samskara; Maruti, how long will you test me?” he pleaded. “If your will forbids it, at least grant me the left-hand prasada out of mercy,” he begged. He implored. He sang devotional songs, full of loving devotion meant to please the gods. He became like a child. He became like a wife. He became like a mother. Again, he recalled all the hymns that both praised and reproached the god, enumerating his hundred and one faults.

The Maruti, towering above, stood motionless upon his palm: holding aloft the mountain with the Sanjeevini herb that would restore Lakshmana’s life. Praneshacharya, desperate, leapt up and pleaded. Evening descended. Darkness gathered. In the blue-black twilight, the flower-adorned Maruti did not sway; he gave neither the left-hand prasada nor the right-hand prasada.

“Even the Dharma Shastra has not given me an answer, nor have you—am I then unworthy?” he doubted. “With what face shall I go and look upon those who placed their trust in me?” he felt humiliated. “You are testing me, aren’t you?” he accused Maruti. As the darkness thickened, he realized it was the waning fortnight—Krishna Paksha. “Do not think this is my trial, remember the corpse that is decaying,” his reason told him.

Maruti, unmoved by anything, stood turned away, facing the edge of the mountain. Suddenly, Acharya remembered he must give medicine to his wife. The tears that had gathered in his eyes did not fall—he rose in despair. His legs had grown numb from sitting. Weakened, he walked slowly, step by step.

After walking a short distance, in the dense darkness of the woods, he heard footsteps behind him and stopped. The sound of bangles. He listened intently.

“Who is it?” he called out. He waited.

“I—” Chandri said, her voice small with shyness.

For Praneshacharya, to find himself thus, in the wild darkness, with a woman standing so close, was a strange sensation. He searched for words, wanting to say something, but sorrow welled up as he remembered his own plight. He stood