26. Samskara

“If you have not experienced the Supreme Being, then my name is not Narayanappa,” he said, winking, and gulped down the liquor in his cup with a noisy swig, then let out a loud “Hey!” as he finished.

Acharya, deeply disturbed at the thought that this man could torment his own ailing wife in such a manner, spat out, “You wretch!” and hurried back home. That night, when he sat for his prayers, he found it impossible to restrain the whirl of thoughts. He grew anxious, repeating “Paramatma, Paramatma…” to himself. Instead of reading the usual evening tales full of flavor and delight, he began to narrate stories of moral conduct and religious vows. The result—his own enthusiasm for reciting the puranas faded away. The boys, whose bright, eager eyes and attentive listening had always brought joy to his heart, stopped coming. Only the widows and elders, those who sought to accumulate merit, who would belch and murmur the Lord’s name in the middle of the story, continued to attend.

Sitting in the hall, reading palm-leaf manuscripts and lost in thought, Praneshacharya noticed his wife groaning in pain. Realizing he had not yet given her the afternoon medicine, he brought the medicine on a plate, lifted her gently, cradled her to his chest, and poured the medicine into her mouth. “Lie down and sleep,” he said softly. Returning to the inner room, he stubbornly resumed reading: “If the Dharmashastra gives no answer to this, what does it mean?”

Chapter Four

Meanwhile, from Parijatapura, under the scorching sun and with hunger gnawing at him, someone trudged along, murmuring “Hari, Hari,” hoping to find some rest in his own home. But among the Brahmins, the council of their wives had already begun—chiefly with Garudacharya and Lakshmanacharya at the center.

Garudacharya’s only son, Shyama, had run away from home and joined the military, for reasons that were the subject of much speculation.

Samskara 27.

In the agrahara, they say: unable to bear his father’s punishment, he left. If it is Garudacharya, they say, “If it is Narayanappa, everyone who saw him was inspired by him to join the military.” Moreover, even after learning lessons from Praneshacharya, if he was to act with such wickedness and run away—Lakshmanacharya’s opinion is that the spell Garuda had cast on Narayanappa’s father has now turned back upon Garuda himself. Like Bhasmasura, who tried to burn his own creator, these spells and mantras have now recoiled. Had Garuda not performed the spell, “Why should Narayanappa, born in a noble family, become a chandala like this?”—so lamented Anasuya, Lakshmanacharya’s wife, grieving that a stain had come upon her mother’s lineage.

Because of the chandala Narayanappa’s influence, the son they had raised with such care was ruined and ran away—thus, Garudacharya’s wife, Sitadevi, gave up food and water, pined away, waited day and night at the threshold. After three months, a letter came from Shyama—saying he was in Pune, had joined the military, and that after joining, unless he paid six hundred rupees, he would not be allowed to return. Sitadevi, placing her hand on her waist, stopped Narayanappa on the street and wept, wrote a letter to her son: “Do not eat meat, do not give up your daily bath and sandhyavandana.” On Friday night, she fasted, hoping good sense would return to her son. Garudacharya, seized by Durvasa’s wrath, declared, “He is as good as dead to me. If he sets foot in this house, I will tear him apart,” and raged like one stung by red ants. Sitadevi, praying to Tulasi, pleaded, “Grant my husband some peace, let him keep his love for his son,” and began a vow on Saturday as well.

As if pouring ghee into a burning fire, the Madhva-hater Durgabhatta said, “In the military, there is neither bath nor sandhyavandana—”

Samskara could not be performed; they claimed they were being forced to eat meat, and this had made Garudacharya bow his head in shame.

When Seethadevi returned home, she was elated to find Chandri’s jewelry in her possession, thinking it might help her find a way to get her son released from the military. But according to the Dharmashastra, her husband could not perform the samskara for Naranappa’s corpse. What if Lakshmanacharya agreed before her husband did? Or if the Parijatapura Brahmins, who had no ties to the widow, gave their consent first? She grew restless. She made a vow to Maruti, offering fruits and coconuts—“Oh Lord, let my husband be the one to perform the samskara.”

Now, in her eyes, Naranappa’s eating of meat no longer seemed such a terrible sin. What if, tomorrow, her own son returned home, and the tongues of injustice in the agrahara began to wag against him too? What would become of him if he were excommunicated? She, who had once complained about Praneshacharya for not taking the lead in excommunicating Naranappa, now remembered him with respect: he is compassionate; surely, he would take her son’s sins upon himself and offer guidance—there was no doubt.

As soon as she returned home, she lay down on the floor and wept. Garudacharya, seeing her distress, said, “To me, he is as good as dead. Don’t even mention that wretch’s name.” Yet his wife’s words clung to him like a burr. Let everything be destroyed, let even his son perish, but he was not prepared to destroy his own Brahminhood. But if Praneshacharya were to give his assent, everything would be resolved. Only then, after his own death, could his only son perform his funeral rites and be released from the military.

He silenced his wife harshly—“That’s impossible. Keep your mouth shut”—and, like a thief, Garudacharya set out for Praneshacharya’s house. Avoiding Chandri, who sat in the courtyard, he entered directly into the inner part of the Acharya’s home.

Samskara 29

Praneshacharya sat, head bowed, reading the palm-leaf manuscripts:

“Sit down, Garuda. The people of Parijatapura say we should do as the Dharmashastra prescribes. For the record, what