In the end, they insisted, and served him a spoonful of uppittu, saying, “Just one spoonful.” After that, Manjayya’s wife, pleased, served him four more spoonfuls of uppittu, and as he patted his stomach and exclaimed “Paramatma,” Dasacharya did not refuse. As was customary in the south, he only pretended to wave his hand over the leaf and say, “Enough, enough, let it be for you.”

Chapter: Nine

That day, instead of Belli, Chinni came to collect the manure basket. The reason: “Belli’s father and mother have both caught some fever and are lying down,” she told the women of the agrahara. The Brahmin women, each absorbed in their own affairs, paid no heed to Chinni’s words. But Chinni, as she gathered the manure, went on with her own tale, whether anyone listened or not. “Chowda died, his wife died too, they set fire to the temple and burned them both. Who knows if the ghost got angry or what the story is.”

Garudacharya’s wife, Sitadevi, stood with her hands on her hips, worrying about her son: what would happen if something befell him, now that he had joined the military and gone to a distant land? Chinni, standing at a distance, called out, “Avva, avva, will you throw me a mouthful of betel leaves?” Sitadevi went inside, tossed out some leaves, areca nut, and tobacco, and stood there, lost in her previous thoughts. Chinni gathered the tobacco and areca leaves into her lap and said, “Avva, how many rats are born in heaven! Good for a feast, it seems. What a burden they must be!” Carrying the manure basket on her head, she walked away.

She went to the temple, thinking Belli would break off some tobacco leaves for her, and walked in that direction. From a distance, Belli...

Samskara

From the temple, the cries of her father and mother could be heard. “Ayya! When the spirit comes, he screams so much. Has a demon possessed him too?” they wondered aloud. Calling out, “Belli!” they came to look, and found Belli sitting by her parents, hands clasped atop her head. “How do rats come to the agrahara in droves like this?” she began to say, but stopped, struck dumb. She broke off a bit of hogesoppu and, sitting down, said, “Take, for your mouth. Mother gave it.” Belli rubbed the hogesoppu between her palms and put it in her mouth.

“If, today, a spirit comes upon my body, I mustn’t be afraid. But somehow, I am frightened, you know. If rats swarm the temple like this, what if a band of demons comes? What if Chowda’s wife suddenly dies? What if my father and mother are possessed by a demon like this—mustn’t be afraid,” she said.

“Hey, enough from you. Be quiet,” Chinni said to Belli, trying to comfort her.

* * *

By two in the afternoon, the sun blazed fiercely overhead, burning like the third eye of Pashupati opened in wrath. The Brahmins, half-dead from hunger, were made sluggish and dull, their bodies wilting. Waiting for the arrival of Praneshacharya, they sat, eyes fixed on the shimmering, scorching street, watching the mirages dance in the heat. The intense fear and gnawing hunger hid in their bellies like a coiled snake, transformed now into a formless anxiety—around the person of Praneshacharya, who had gone to seek Maruti’s command, the lives of the Brahmins hung like creepers, suspended in hope. Some assurance: the belief that they would not have to spend another night with Naranappa’s corpse lying among them. In the grain store’s rice bin, the rat that had died lay with its tail—

Samskara 61

Lifting her sari and covering her nose with its end, Seethadevi had gone outside to throw away some refuse. Suddenly, she saw a kite draw a line in the sky and come to perch upon the roof of their house. “Ayyo, it’s here, it’s here!” she cried out in alarm. For a kite to come and sit on the house was an omen of death. Never before had such a thing happened.

Garudacharya came running, saw the kite, and collapsed in shock. Seethadevi began to wail, “Ayyo, what has happened to my son…?” Garudacharya, remembering how the previous day he had inwardly rejected Dasacharya’s suggestion to offer gold to Maruti, was seized by fear, thinking this must be the reason for their misfortune. Grasping his wife’s hand, he rose, went inside, placed the offering before the deity, bowed in supplication, and prayed, “Forgive me, forgive me. Let your gold remain with you. Pardon me.”

He came out again and tried to chase away the kite, calling, “Ush, ush!” The kite, holding in its beak the piece of meat Seethadevi had thrown, sat there unafraid, shameless as a brazen guest, refusing to move. Garudacharya, squinting into the blinding sunlight, looked up—what did he see? Kites, kites, kites—floating, gliding, circling in the blue expanse of the sky, spiraling lower and lower.

“There, look there!” he shouted. Seethadevi came running, shielding her eyes with her hand, and let out a sigh, “Ush!” As they watched, the kite perched on their roof craned its neck like a dancer, looked about, and with a sudden “bhr” leapt down to their feet, snatched up a rat running from the granary to the backyard, and flew back to the roof. For a moment, the hearts of the husband and wife trembled together as they never had before—they sat down, overcome.

Among the kites soaring in the sky, one descended and perched upon Narayanappa’s house. Lifting its neck, it beat its monstrous wings with a thunderous sound, as if embracing the sea, shaking the very path below.

Samskara

The kites watched from the boundary wall. Then, as if by prior agreement, all the kites that had been circling above descended and settled on the houses, two by two. Some swooped down, snatched up a rat, and perched on the roof, pecking and eating—these vultures, who should have belonged to the cremation