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.

Samskara 37

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