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 dare approach his hidden gold. While the other married women, with their thick, oiled plaits, would pin mandara or jasmine in their hair, Chandri, with her dark, snake-like tresses, would tuck in the fallen champak or kedage blossoms, swept from the floor.

When night fell, the kingdom of the night queen reigned over the agrahara; by day, the Brahmins carried on their bodies the gentle, auspicious fragrances of sandalwood, parijata, and other soft flowers. In every backyard, there was a jackfruit or mango tree of its own flavor. According to the proverb, “Share the fruit to eat, give the flower to adorn,” the distribution of fruit and flowers was a daily ritual. Only Lakshmanacharya would secretly divide the fruit from his tree and sell it to the Konkani shopkeepers, keeping the profits to himself. He was a miserly soul; when his wife’s relatives visited, he would watch her hands with the eyes of a hawk.

He waits, always watching—wondering where she might stealthily give something to Taure.

In the months of Chaitra and Vaishakha, every house offers charity in the form of kosumbari and panaka; in Kartika, they invite each other for the festival of lights. Narayanappa alone is exempt from all this. On both sides of the agrahara street, there are ten houses in all. The largest of them belongs to Narayanappa—at one end of the street. On one side, the backyard of a neighbor rises up to the Tunga river, and to reach the water, the pious ancestors had built stone steps.

In Shravan, when the Tunga swells, she rages for three or four days as if she will flood the agrahara, becoming a festival of sound and spectacle for the children’s eyes and ears. Then she recedes, and in the heart of summer, she becomes a shimmering stream, split into three channels. At that time, the Brahmins cultivate colored cucumbers and watermelons in the sandy banks, enough vegetables to last through the rainy season. For twelve months of the year, these colored cucumbers hang from the creepers in the plantain grove. In the monsoon, every dish is made of them—palya, huli, gojju, and even a soup from their seeds. Like the Basuris, the Brahmins long for the tangy mango gojju with their rice.

All through the twelve months, there are vows, Brahmin feasts, weddings, thread ceremonies, and calls to perform shraddha. For the great festivals—aradhana, the anniversary of Tikaacharya, and so on—they travel thirty miles to the matha for the communal meal. Thus, the life of the Brahmins flows on in harmony.

This agrahara is called Durvasapura. There is an ancient legend behind the name. In the middle of the flowing Tunga river, at the foot of a small island, stands a hill thickly entwined with trees. It is believed that Durvasa once performed penance there. In the Dvapara Yuga, a special event took place. Ten miles from here, in Kaimara, the five Pandavas spent some time in exile. One day, Draupadi longed to swim in the