Samskara

The four Brahmins who had cremated Dasacharya returned, carrying the wet pancha on their heads, chanting “Narayana, Narayana.” They had brought those Brahmins along, carried his wife’s corpse, and set it alight before dawn. Among the Brahmins, someone seemed to murmur within himself, “There is yet another corpse in the agrahara that needs its samskara.” To the Brahmins who said, “Tomorrow, this matter will be settled before the Guru,” he replied, “You may leave now.” Watching the blazing flames consume the woman who had been his companion in this land of penance, he did not try to hold back his tears; he wept until all his exhaustion was washed away.

Chapter Six

Until the ritual meal was over, the Brahmins kept silent, for it was inauspicious to speak of misfortune. They received tirtha from the Swami, and then finished their meal of delicacies, rice, and payasa. As the Guru had given only a single coin as dakshina to each, Lakshmanacharya was disappointed—“How miserly these ascetics are,” he muttered, clutching his waist. No children, no family, yet they cling to money as to life itself. After the meal, the Brahmins sat on the cool cement floor of the matha’s courtyard, while the Swami, clad in saffron, with tulsi beads around his neck, and a smear of sacred ash and turmeric on his brow, sat on a chair among them, like a doll carved from blood-red sandalwood, rubbing his tiny feet together, and began to inquire after their welfare: “Why didn’t Praneshacharya come? How is he? Is he well? What, he couldn’t send word?”

Garudacharya adjusted his throat and conveyed the grave matter from its roots.

The guru listened to everything with composure and, as if there was not the slightest doubt, said:

“Even if he abandoned his Brahminhood, Brahminhood has not abandoned him. Therefore, performing the funeral rites (samskara) is the proper and rightful duty. But expiation for the transgression must also be done. For that reason, all his property—silver and gold—must go to Lord Krishna of the Srimatha.”

Garuda, gathering courage, wiped his face with his angavastra and said:

“Acharya, you know well the dispute that existed between me and his father. Of the three hundred areca trees in his garden, rightfully, I should have...”

Lakshmanacharya interrupted, saying, “Acharya, shouldn’t there be some justice in this? As you know, Narayanappa’s wife and the woman in my house are sisters...”

Suddenly, anger flashed across the round, reddish face of the Swami:

“What kind of low people are you! Since ancient times, it has been the rule that the property of the orphaned must go to the service of God. Remember, if we do not grant you permission to perform his funeral rites, you will have to leave the agrahara altogether,” he thundered.

Realizing their mistake, the two Brahmins apologized and, along with the others, bowed before the Swami. They looked around for Gundacharya, who had come with them, but he was nowhere to be seen. Upon inquiry, they learned that he, stricken with fever and without having eaten, had lain down on the attic of the matha.

Since there was urgency in performing the funeral rites, the Brahmins left Gundacharya there and set out along the village road.

After his wife’s funeral rites were completed, the Acharya did not return to the agrahara. The fifteen silk shawls with golden borders in his trunk, the two hundred rupees he had saved, the tulsi-bead rosary strung with the gold given by the matha—all these did not even enter his thoughts. He simply walked on, wherever his feet led him, clad in the same clothes, moving eastward, as if surrendering himself to the direction of fate.