When Acharya awoke, it was the middle of the night. His head rested on Chandri’s thighs. His cheek pressed against her bare hip. Chandri was gently stroking his head, ear, and cheek with her fingers.

Suddenly, he felt like a stranger to himself. Acharya closed his eyes and pondered: Where am I? How did I come here? What is this darkness? What is this forest? Who is this woman?

A memory flashed—like a child, he was once again curled up on his mother’s lap, letting his fatigue melt away. He looked around in confusion: the night was like the spread tail of a peacock, studded with inexhaustible stars; the constellation of the Saptarishis; Arundhati shining shyly beside Vasishta. Below, the scent of grass, fresh earth, Vishnukanta flowers, and the sweat of a woman’s body. The darkness of the sky, trees standing in tranquil silence.

Was this a dream? He rubbed his eyes. He was troubled—how did I come here, and where was I supposed to go? He had forgotten. “Chandri,” he called, fully awake now. He listened. In the forest, in the silence, the darkness whispered secrets, chirping and murmuring. The sound, “chilichili,” turned to light—“minak, minak”—as swarms of fireflies rose like a chariot from the bushes and revealed themselves. He watched and listened, his eyes and ears filled: all around, clusters of fireflies floated like celestial chariots. “Chandri,” he said, touching her belly, and sat up.

Chandri was afraid that Praneshacharya would abandon her, cast her away. Yet, she also hoped she might be with child. She felt grateful, as if she had become sanctified. But she did not speak.

Praneshacharya too remained silent for a long time. At last, he stood up and said:

Samskara

“Chandri, get up and go. Tomorrow morning, when the Brahmins gather, tell them what has happened. You yourself must tell them. I do not have the authority to make a decision and declare it to the agrahara…”

Praneshacharya faltered, not knowing what would be the right thing to say:

“I have lost it. If I do not have the courage tomorrow, you must tell them yourself. As for me, I am ready to perform the samskara. But I do not have the authority to inform the other Brahmins. That is all.”

After he had spoken these words, Praneshacharya felt as if all his weariness had fallen away.

* * *

They crossed the river together. Out of shame, Chandri let Praneshacharya walk ahead and followed behind. When she entered the agrahara, anxiety seized her: Is this how everything I have done will turn out? With good intention, I gave him the gold; so be it. Now, the Acharya who is striving to perform the samskara… But by nature, Chandri was not familiar with the language of self-reproach and remorse. As she walked through the dark street of the agrahara, that darkness—standing, bowing, giving, receiving, the secret fragrance of the flower she had hidden away—brought her only a sense of blessedness. Poor Acharya, perhaps he does not feel this way. She must not go again to his veranda and cause him more pain of mind. Besides, as the Acharya said, should she, who had come into his life by chance, now stand before the thick-headed Brahmins of the agrahara, speak out, be cast out into the street, and bring dishonor to the Acharya? No—that would not do. But then, what is my path now? It is not right to go to the Acharya; and now, she was afraid to return to the house of her dead master. What should she do?

Still, she gathered her courage, thinking, after all, was he not someone with whom she had shared her life?

She considered her options. Should she go there and see for herself, dare to sleep in the chavadi, or return once more to the acharya’s veranda? What could one do in such a calamity—she debated, then went straight to her own house. Standing beneath the thatched roof, she listened. The bark of a dog made her feel that this night, too, was just another night like all others. She climbed the steps of the chavadi. When her outstretched hand found the door open, a sudden fear struck her: “Oh Lord, what if a jackal or a dog has gotten in and…” Forgetting her fear in her anxiety, she rushed inside, and by force of habit, opened the firebox in the corner and lit the lantern.

A foul stench. A rat, dead and rotting. She grieved, thinking, “I have abandoned Narayanappa’s corpse, for whom the whole agrahara had built walls of cruelty, left it orphaned.” She climbed to the upper floor in sorrow. She thought of lighting incense to mask the smell. The corpse was decomposing. As she approached, the sight of the distorted, grotesque face made her stomach churn; she screamed shrilly and ran outside. “There is nothing up there, nothing here, no one left who cares for me or for him,” her soul cried out.

Lantern in hand, swept up in her agitation, Chandri walked swiftly, almost at a run, to the Gowda quarter. She recognized Gadi Sheshappa’s house by the white oxen tied in the yard, the same man who used to bring her eggs for her home. She entered. The oxen, startled by the unfamiliar figure, rose and snorted, tugging at their tethers. A dog barked. Sheshappa came out. Chandri, breathless, explained her urgency: “You must hitch your cart and carry the body to the cremation ground. There’s firewood in the house—you can burn it there.”

Sheshappa, who had been sleeping in the shed with his wife, was alarmed. “Chandrama, it’s not possible. If I touch a Brahmin corpse, I’ll go to hell! Even if you gave me all the wealth in the world, I wouldn’t do it… If you’re afraid, sleep in this poor man’s hut tonight and leave at dawn,” he offered.