Samskara

Even Lakshmanacharya, who did not understand what the gardener had said, felt relieved.

“Now all of you go home, Acharyas. I will turn over all the Dharma Shastras from their roots and find an answer to this—tonight itself, sitting up,” said Praneshacharya, deeply troubled.

* * *

Evening fell. But there was no sandhyavandana, no meal. Praneshacharya, with nothing to do, wandered restlessly from inside to outside, from outside to inside. He called out to Chandri, who was sitting in the courtyard, “Come up and sit here.” He lifted his wife in both arms, as if she were a child, carried her to relieve herself, then brought her back and laid her on the bedding. He gave her the evening medicine, then returned to the central room and sat turning the pages of the shastras in the light of the lantern.

Chapter Five

The previous night, Shrinalli had gone to see the Jambuvanti-Kalyana of the Keluru troupe. Shripati, who had returned, did not know that Narayanappa had come from Shimoga and was lying in bed, nor that he had died. Had he known, the secret grief of losing a close friend would have troubled him throughout the agrahara. It had been a week since he had left home. Befriending the Bhagavata of the Keluru troupe, he had wandered with the players, staying with them, eating with them, watching the play at night, sleeping during the day, and in his spare time, going to the neighboring villages to invite people, offering betel leaves to welcome the troupe.

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For a week, lost in lively and skillful conversation, he had forgotten the world. But tonight, holding a battery torch in his hand, he walks through the darkness of the forest, uttering a brave word now and then to steel his courage. The hair on his shaven crown, grown untended down to his neck, is because the Bhagavata had promised him a female role next year. After all, was it not Praneshacharya who had refined his tongue? The Bhagavata had praised him, saying, “Your speech flows pure from your throat.” Besides, from the Acharya he had heard some Sanskrit logic and Puranic tales, and so he possessed the culture necessary for the profound dialogues of Yakshagana. Once he had secured a part in the troupe, Sripati was filled with joy, thinking he could escape the Brahmin herd that lived only for fat rice, sweet payasa, and the fleshy bulbs of jackfruit. In the darkness of the forest, he felt no fear.

Moreover, the heady toddy he had drunk in Pujari Sheena’s hut had risen warmly to his head, so the deep silence of the forest did not make him tremble. Two bottles of toddy; a battery torch that, at the press of a button, spread light—a wondrous thing for the village folk—thus armed, what need had he to fear ghosts or spirits? As he neared Durvasapura, his body grew warm with the anticipation of pleasure awaiting him. What if his wife tied her thighs in a knot and slept curled up? She would be there in the morning. What if she grew dark? Didn’t Narayanappa say—what if she turned black? What if she became bald? She was neither black nor bald. Which Brahmin girl, with her hidden gums, shriveled breasts, and mouth smelling of lentil stew, could compare to her? What did he lack in Belli, who filled his hands and thighs, who slithered beside him in sand and mud like a snake? By now, she would have bathed in the hot water kept in the pot before the hut, drunk enough of her father’s sour toddy to be warm and mellow—like the mridanga after tuning. Not pitch black, nor faded white—

Samskara

Her skin bore the color of earth baked in the tender, fertile sunlight that ripens the seed. Shreepati’s footsteps halted. For his own amusement, he flicked on the battery torch, casting its beam and then letting it die. Again he switched it on, sweeping the light around the forest, swelling with pride like an actor entering in a demon’s guise. Thaithai takathai—thaithai: he danced. He tried to spin a brass plate on his knee, curious to see if it would whirl, but it struck his knee and he sprang up. The solitude of the forest, the flutter of birds startled by the torchlight, only intoxicated him further. At his call, the nine rasas assembled: wrath, disgust, fury, devotion, erotic love—his imagination slipped seamlessly from one to another. Now, in the half-light, Lakshmidevi, in the cadence of Yakshagana, sang a hymn to Shesha-shayi that would not see the dawn...

Awaken... Narayana Awaken, consort of Lakshmi Awaken, O Lord, the day has broken...

Tears welled in Shreepati’s eyes. Garuda came, circling to rouse him—“Awaken, Narayana.” Narada arrived, strumming his tambura, urging—“Awaken, consort of Lakshmi.” All the beasts and birds, vanaras, kinnaras, yakshas, gandharvas, pleaded—“Awaken, O Lord, the day has broken.” Shreepati, in a dance of lasya, gathered his dhoti like a sari, waving his arms, craning his neck, and danced. Sheena’s wife had already crossed the line—she should go to Narayanappa and cross it further, she thought. The female roles of Yakshagana came to mind. In the puranas, there is not a single rishi who has not succumbed to a woman’s allure. Menaka, who broke Vishwamitra’s penance—how must she have been? Surely more beautiful than the moon. It was a wonder that such a radiant form, coming to gather dung with a rag over her face, escaped the gaze of every eye. Among them...

Samskara 39

No wonder, you might say. What could those dull Brahmin eyes ever see? Again and again, Praneshacharya explains to the children: how ecstatic Vyasa must have been! When he rose at dawn and beheld Ushas, when the Lord made these words flow from his lips—"having bathed, her thighs are like those of Pushpavati, pure and radiant"—ah, what a bold imagination, what a beautiful simile. But to the Brahmins, it is just a mantra, a