Chandri stood in the street without speaking. What was she to do? Only one thought became clear to her: there, it is rotting. Decaying. Festering. That is not the Narayanappa she loved. Not a Brahmin. Not a Shudra. A corpse, a decaying, festering corpse.

She walked straight to the quarter where the Muslims lived. She said she would pay money. She remembered Ahmad Bary, the cattle trader—once, when she had no money in hand, he had lent her a loan to buy oxen—he and his men, secretly, without a word, would tie up the cart, load the corpse and the firewood together, take it to the cremation ground so that no one would know, set a blazing fire in the darkness, reduce it to ashes, and be gone—turning the ox’s tail with a “hai hai.”

Chandri shed two handfuls of tears, returned home, tied up a bundle with a few of her own silk saris, the cash she had in the box, and the gold the Acharya had returned to her, and stepped out. She suppressed her desire to wake Praneshacharya and fall at his feet, and instead, at dawn, set out by the forest path toward the motor road, intending to catch the motor to Kundapura.

Chapter Two

Meanwhile, in Parijatapura, in the spacious upper hall of the merchant Manjayya, Shripati, Ganesh, Ganganna, Manjunath, and four or five young men from the agrahara were engaged in preparations for the play “Gulebakavali.” The harmonium among them had been given by Narayanappa for the use of their drama company. For every play, he had to be present. Without his encouragement, the Parijat drama...

The troupe did not exist from the beginning. He was the one who inspired it; moreover, he added his own money to what the youths had collected and brought scenery from Shimoga. He was the one who gave suggestions about the play’s vigor and other such matters. If there was a gramophone anywhere nearby, it was with him. All the records of Hirannayya’s company’s play songs were with him. He would lend them to these youths, who would wind them up and listen. He had picked up bits and pieces about the Congress from here and there and introduced the youths to the fashion of khadi jubba, pyjama, and white cap. Now, because of his death, all the youths were deeply grieved. But out of fear of the elders, everyone remained silent. All the doors were shut tight, and, lighting passing-show cigarettes, they gathered and half-heartedly practiced.

Shripati, who had a passion for Yakshagana, had no role in this play, but he was keenly interested in all the activities of putting on makeup and moving about. As the ‘practice’ went on, a brass vessel full of avalakki and a pan full of steaming coffee were being served. Until midnight, they continued the practice, remembering Narayanappa now and then, eating avalakki, sipping coffee. When it ended, Nagaraja winked at Ganesha. Ganesha nudged Manjunath, who played the female role and was sitting beside him. Manjunath passed the signal to Ganganna of the Malera family. Ganganna tugged at Shripati’s dhoti. After this secret sign, the remaining youths dispersed, saying, “Tonight’s practice is enough.”

After everyone had left, Nagaraja closed the door, opened the trunk with a sly smile, and took out two bottles of liquor. In memory of our master Narayanappa, he hummed a song of his favorite actor, Hirannayya. After that, the bottles were secretly put into a bag. The avalakki was tied up in a plantain leaf. The glasses were filled softly, without a sound. “Ready.”

“Samskara,” said Nagaraja. “Ready,” echoed the others. As each of them descended the steps, Manjunatha slipped a sliced lime into his pocket, muttering “Hold on.”

The young men quietly unlatched the door, slipped out of the agrahara, and, growing bolder in their secret enterprise, made their way toward the riverbank, where Sripati’s battery torch cut a path through the darkness. “Hey Maraya, your guru could down a whole bottle and still keep perfect rhythm on the tabla, couldn’t he?” Nagaraja remembered Narayanappa as they walked.

They reached a wide mound of sand, sat in a circle, and set the bottle, glasses, and snacks in the center. For a moment, it felt as if they five alone existed in the world. Beneath the witness of the stars, they prepared to shed their agrahara-bound smallness with the help of liquor, readying themselves to become Trivikrama, the cosmic giant. The river flowed on with a soft, ceaseless murmur, filling the silence between their words and giving the youths courage in their solitude.

As the liquor began to warm their heads, Sripati’s voice trembled with emotion: “One of our closest friends is dead, you know.”

“Yes,” said Nagaraja, reaching for the snacks, “it’s as if a pillar of our company has broken. Who else around here can keep rhythm on the tabla like he did?”

No matter how much lime Manjunatha squeezed into his drink, the alcohol had already gone to his head. He tried to say something, “Chandri, Chandri…”

Sripati grew animated. “Let people say what they will, let any Brahmin bark as he likes—I swear on oath—what do you say?—is there a woman as lovely, as strong, as good as Chandri within a hundred miles? Count and see. If there is, I’ll renounce my caste. So what if she’s a courtesan? Tell me, did she care for Narayanappa more than his own wife ever did, or not? When he drank himself sick, she cleaned up after him. And didn’t she clean up after us, too! If he came to her in the middle of the night, woke her—without a word—she’d cook for him, naked as she was, and serve him.

Samskara 75

Which Brahmin woman would do so much, eh? All these are just empty boasts. “Thath!” he scoffed.

Manjunatha, using one of the three English words he knew, kept saying, “Yes, yes.”

“When Manjunatha’s drunk, he suddenly knows English—” Nagaraja laughed.

The conversation turned