Samskara

Once again, the question of the gold arose. If the people of Parijatapura agreed to perform the samskara, would it be right or wrong for them to receive the gold? Lakshmanacharya’s wife, Anasuya, could not bear the thought that the ornament, which should have adorned her younger sister’s body, would now fall into the hands of those outcast Brahmins. Unable to restrain herself, she burst out:

“Whose property does she think this gold is, that she’s giving it away as if it were her own? If everything had gone as it should, it would have been around my sister’s neck now,” she sobbed bitterly.

Though her words seemed just to Lakshmanacharya, he, not wishing to compromise his dignity as a husband, rebuked her:

“What business do you women have in men’s affairs? Be quiet.”

Garudacharya, angered, thundered, “Well said! According to the law of Dharmasthala, this gold should rightfully come to me.”

Praneshacharya, weary of the bickering, said, “Let us conduct ourselves with patience. What lies before us is a corpse that must undergo samskara. Leave the matter of the gold to me. First, let us send word to the people of Parijatapura. If they wish to come and perform the samskara themselves, let them do so…” he tried to pacify them, then added, “Now, all of you leave. I will search through the Manusmriti and other shastras—perhaps there is an answer to this dilemma,” and he rose to his feet. Chandri, her head covered with her sari, looked at Praneshacharya with desperate hope.

Chapter Two

In the buttermilk pot, an ant; in the granary, a rat; in the central hall, on the wooden platform, a folded sari, a pile of clothes; in the courtyard, left out to dry…

On the chapati pan, there were papads, sandige, and green chilies from the backyard—these were common to every house in the agrahara.

But refinement meant the various flowering trees cultivated in the backyard; in Bhimacharya’s yard grew the parijata, in Padmanabhacharya’s, jasmine; in Lakshmanacharya’s, the flaming red champak; in Garudacharya’s, ranja; in Dasacharya’s, mandara; in Durgabhatta’s, shankhapushpa and bilva leaves. For the daily worship of the gods, each man would go to his own garden to pluck flowers, exchanging greetings with others as he went. Only in Narayanappa’s house were the flowers left to the mercy of Chandri’s broom, or to wilt in the sleeping room. And as if that were not enough, right in front of his house grew the night queen—raat rani—whose flowers, beloved of serpents and unfit for the deity’s crown, were considered tamasic. Clusters upon clusters of its blossoms would burst open in the darkness, spreading their nocturnal fragrance like a heady intoxication; the entire agrahara would be unsettled, as if caught in a serpent’s spell. Those with sensitive noses would cover their faces with the end of their upper cloth as they passed, complaining of headaches.

The wise would say that Narayanappa had planted the night queen as a serpent-guard, so that thieves would not