Samskara

“I myself will arrange for the donations and other rituals,” he said, pricking the miserly Madhva with these words.

# Chapter Three

After all the Brahmins had set off to Parijatapura, Praneshacharya, moved by compassion, told Chandri, “Sit down,” and went to the dining house where his wife lay resting. “She—Chandri—has such a pure heart, you know,” he thought, recalling how she had given the gold, and the new problem that had arisen from it. He spread out the palm-leaf manuscripts and books, searching for what the Dharma Shastra prescribed in such a situation. Narayanappa had always been a problem for him. In the agrahara, would it be his own asceticism, holding fast to Sanatana Dharma, that would ultimately prevail, or Narayanappa’s demonic nature? That was his stubborn question. He grieved, wondering what evil fate had made Narayanappa turn out this way, and, praying for God’s mercy to redeem him, he fasted two nights a week, leaving aside his meal. Besides, the reason his heart was so full of remorse and anxiety for Narayanappa was the promise he had made to Narayanappa’s mother: “I will look after your son’s welfare, I will bring him to the right path”—thus he had comforted the dying old woman. But Narayanappa had not come to the right path; he had not heeded any words of wisdom. The son of Garuda, Shyama, whom he had taught the Vedas and made recite mantras by heart, and Lakshmana’s son-in-law, Shripati—he had drawn both away from his own influence. He had encouraged Shyama to leave home and join the military. After hearing endless complaints brought by Garuda and Lakshmana, Praneshacharya had finally gone to see Narayanappa one day. Narayanappa, lying on a thin mattress, showed just enough respect to rise and sit up when he saw Praneshacharya. But when he tried to offer advice—

He spoke whatever came to his mind. He derided Brahminical dharma: “Your shastras have no place anymore. The Congress is coming. Panchamas must be allowed into the temple,” he rambled incoherently. I wondered, should I care? Should I not have separated that Shripati from his wife? He laughed aloud. “Who would marry a girl who brings no happiness, Acharya, except these foolish Brahmins?” he mocked. “Why should I tie a mad girl to myself and ruin her life? You Brahmins—let your dharma be yours. Life is but a span. I am of the Charvaka lineage—‘R̥ṇam kṛtvā ghṛtam pibet’—incur debt, but drink ghee,” he declared. He taught: “This physical body is not eternal.” He pleaded: “Do what you will, but at least do not ruin the lives of girls.” He gestured helplessly. Even at that, he laughed. “Is a Brahmin, according to you, one who grabs the property of the shaven-headed, who performs sorcery, who drives away evil with spells?” he ridiculed. “In the end, who will win, you or I? Let us see, Acharya. How long do you think this Brahminhood will last? If I wish, I can throw all the honor of Brahminhood into the dust for the pleasure of a woman. Now go. I do not wish to speak further and hurt you,” he said.

Why did I stand in the way of excommunicating such a man? Was it fear? Was it remorse? Or a stubbornness that I would win in the end? In any case, as he was in life, so he is now in death—testing the very essence of my Brahminhood.

The last time I saw Naranappa was three months ago, on the evening of a Chaturdashi. That morning, he had taken some Muslims with him, caught the sacred fish from the Ganapati temple’s river, and, holding the deity’s honor in his hands, paraded it before all in the agrahara, so Gurudacharya complained. He came upstairs, ate rice with his hands, and played in the river with those great fish that swam there.

Samskara

Praneshacharya was alarmed that Narayanappa had disregarded the belief that those who touch the untouchables would die a bloody death: now that he had set such an example, would not everyone, one by one, stray from the path of justice and dharma, becoming shudras and worse? Even in this age of Kali, it was only the fear of the divine that preserved some sense of righteousness among the common people. If even that were to be destroyed—where else would the power remain to uphold this earth? Now, to remain silent was utterly improper, he felt, and so, heart pounding, he strode straight to Narayanappa’s face and stood in the latter’s quarters.

He seemed to have been drinking: his eyes were bloodshot, his hair disheveled...

And—had he not, on seeing Praneshacharya, suddenly risen and covered his mouth with his garment?

At times, the Acharya, lamenting that Narayanappa’s nature was like a chakravyuha—an impenetrable maze—felt there was perhaps no way for him to enter it. Yet now, seeing a crack in that arrogant Ravana-like pride, seeing that Narayanappa was at least startled by his presence, a hope blossomed within him, as if a gentle, sattvic power had begun to flow from within.

He knew now that words would be useless. Unless the sacred Ganga waters of his own inner purity could silently flow into Narayanappa’s heart, he would never be transformed. A desire arose in him, fierce as longing, to swoop down like Garuda, shatter Narayanappa’s shell, and draw forth the nectar within.

He gazed at him sternly. He looked at him as one would look at an ordinary sinner, expecting him to tremble, to shrink, to be humbled—just so. If only two drops of repentance would fall from his eyes, that would suffice. Narayanappa, five years younger than himself, he wished to embrace and forgive with brotherly affection—if only he would relent.

Narayanappa lowered his head. Like Garuda swooping down in a rush—

Samskara 23

Like someone who has found a beginning, like a momentary thrill, like peeking through a half-opened door and being struck with wonder—he saw...

No. He pulled the cloth from his mouth,