Returning home, Durgabhatta, thinking he had been corrupted by the company of these Madhva shaven-heads, locked up his house, gathered his wife and children, and left for his mother-in-law’s village. Lakshmanacharya tied up bundles of plantain leaves, Dasacharya gathered aralu for the road, the women roused the children for the journey, and Lakshmidevamma was sent off to Lakshmana’s mother-in-law’s house. By the time all the Brahmins assembled at Praneshacharya’s verandah, the Acharya’s wife had taken to her bed.

“I cannot leave a woman who is bedridden. You all may go,” said the Acharya.

“So be it,” replied the Brahmins, and, not bothering to count the kites perched atop the houses, hurried along the path through the kaimara grove.

By the time they reached Kaimara, the heat of noon had faded and evening had set in. They bathed, changed their sacred threads, smeared themselves with gopichandana, and sat upon Subbannacharya’s verandah. “Let us eat first,” said the scholars. At this signal, the waiting Brahmins poured hot rice and sambar into their bowls, offering it inwardly to the Supreme Self, and, contented with the meal, gathered around Subbannacharya.

Since Subbannacharya was an astrologer, it was thought that if he could determine whether Narayanappa’s death had occurred at an auspicious or inauspicious hour—amrita or visha—it might clarify whether the samskara could be performed or not. He put on his spectacles, consulted the almanac, counted cowries, and finally declared, “Visha.” Shaking his head, he said, “How can I say what even Praneshacharya does not know?”

This pronouncement brought Dasacharya a certain satisfaction; after all, those who had set out could now go to the matha, receive the prasada of the worship, and return.

“It’s already dark. Stay here tonight and set out at dawn,” offered the people of Kaimara, and the Brahmins did not refuse the hospitality. But at dawn, Dasacharya was struck by fever.