Left from the Nameless Shop

by Adithi Rao

  It is possible, though, that Raghuvir Dixit, priest of the Prasanna Parvati Temple in Rudrapura, did not feel the cold. When in prayer or performing his duties, he was rarely aware of anything else.

  When the ritual was over and Raghu prepared to mount his bicycle, he found a small dabba tucked into the metal holder at the back. It was warm to the touch and he opened it a crack. There was freshly-prepared lemon rice inside.

  ‘Amma,’ he murmured, shaking his head. But as he rode away, a faint smile played on his lips.

  The sun had come up over the horizon by the time Raghuvir finished the worship at the Anjaneya Temple and pedalled his way back to Rudrapura. The pink-and-purple hues of the eastern sky told him that it was already past six. His Parvati would be waiting. He pedalled faster.

  ‘Sir, Sharavana Lodge yelli barutte?’ two men with suitcases called out to him from across the road. He stopped pedalling and lowered his feet to the ground.

  ‘Take the 303 bus and get off at Vishnu Talkies,’ he instructed. ‘Walk straight for about a furlong, cross the mechanic’s garage and take a left from the Nameless Shop.’

  ‘Thank you, sir!’ they called, and he raised his hand in parting as he cycled away.

  Raghuvir arrived at the Prasanna Parvati Temple at 6.08 that morning, a full thirty-eight minutes later than usual. When translated, the name quite literally meant ‘Happy Parvati’, the revered consort of Lord Shiva. But the essence of that word – prasanna – which would inevitably be lost in translation, did not elude Raghu. For it was he who basked daily in the sheer outpouring of grace and benevolence from this joyful goddess, as opposed to aspects of her that could be righteous, wrathful, or just plain destructive.

  Carved from stone, the temple was an ancient structure that seemed to have retained in its pores generations of meticulous devotion. Raghuvir Dixit was the latest in a lineage of priests who had tended to it since its installation a few hundred years ago. His father, his grandfather and his grandfather’s grandfather had bathed, dressed and adorned the black stone deity day after day, century after century. Now it was his turn.

  When Raghu dismounted and parked his bicycle inside the temple courtyard, Rathnavva was already there stringing jasmine garlands for the puja. Beside her were a small pail of milk and a pitcher of water.

  ‘You’re late today, Swami. Yella sari ide allva?’

  ‘Everything is fine, Avva. Chinna has already fetched the milk and drawn water from the well, I see.’

  Raghu’s tone was affectionate. The old lady came to the temple unfailingly each morning to help him, out of love for the deity. She never asked for money for her work, even though she was poor as a church mouse and had no one to take care of her. When he realized after the first week that she intended to make this part of her daily routine, he had offered to pay her whatever his own meagre earnings would permit. But she had been so shocked at the suggestion that he never brought it up again. Since then, however, he had made it a point to mention her name when he performed the puja each morning, invoking the goddess’ blessings on this simple woman.

  Raghu untied the knot from his waist to which was attached a large brass key. Turning the key in the lock, he pushed the doors open. The morning sun lit up the dark interior and his eyes fell on the life-size statue of Parvati. For a moment, everything inside him – thought, movement, breath, heart – went still.

  This is how it was for him every morning at the first sight of her, for she was so graceful, so beautiful, so utterly … complete. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the quiet satisfaction of her presence before moving forward and tapping the brass key lightly against the metal railing, as was the custom to awaken a sleeping deity. He hung the key on the nail by the main door and entered the inner sanctum.

  Raghuvir withdrew the uppermost sari from the pile on the shelf without looking at it, and kept it aside. Then he began the morning abhisheka – the ritual bathing of the deity. Through it all, he chanted and sang to her.

  The milk ran slowly down the dark face of the deity, with its half-closed, inward-gazing eyes and mysterious smile; past the fine, sharp nose and over the rounded, bejewelled breasts, throwing the contours of her feminine form into high relief. The stream split into little tributaries down her body to converge again at her feet, where the milk fell into a receptacle placed there for just this purpose.

  Next came the curd, followed by ghee, honey, and, finally, tender-coconut water. He finished by washing her clean with well water from the pitcher.

  Draped in her red-and-mustard sari, bedecked in flowers, Parvati glowed. The mysterious smile on her lips brought an answering one to Raghuvir’s. He went outside to prepare the plate for the arati.

  The temple was filling fast with devotees now. Some were on their knees in obeisance, mumbling shlokas under their breath; some slapped their cheeks or walked briskly around the sanctum. They were almost frantic in their worship.

  In the middle of all this, Raghuvir saw a young woman sitting alone in the crowd, her eyes fixed on the goddess. The only movement in her body was the devotion shimmering in her eyes; such piety was unexpected in someone her age. Raghu had never seen her before. Rudrapura being the kind of place where people knew each other by sight if nothing else, this was most unusual.

  It was time for the mangala arati. As his voice rose in a beautiful rendition of the hymns, one could only imagine how pleased the goddess must be to have a voice like his raised in praise of her every day. He circled the plate of fire, allowing the liquid flames to dance over her.

  When he emerged from the inner sanctum, the devotees pushed forward, stretching eager hands to the flame. Only the girl remained seated where she was, her eyes closed. The dowager Sakamma reached to tap her shoulder, and Raghuvir shook his head. Sakamma withdrew, eyeing the girl curiously.

  By the time Raghu returned with the panchamrutha to distribute among the devotees, the girl was gone.

  By 11 a.m., the temple was empty. Raghu gathered up the dried flowers from the previous day and wandered out onto the wide platform upon which the temple was built.

  As he sat eating the lemon rice his mother had prepared, Ganga, his cow, came wandering up. She loved chitranna and had got the scent of it. He gave her half the contents of his tiffin box and the two of them ate in companionable silence. Karia the black mongrel joined them presently. Raghu looked up and saw his mother approaching from a distance. He got up to wash his hands quickly, because he could make out that she was agitated.

  ‘Raghu! I need to talk to you,’ she panted as she came within calling distance. Karia slinked away, her presence being unfamiliar to him. The mother arrived, flustered and nervous and excited all at once, and opened her mouth a couple of times to say something but closed it before she could get the words out.

  ‘Eeyn aythu, Amma?’ asked Raghu.

  ‘That Vishwamohan Pandit sent his brother in … You know Vishwamohan Pandit?’ she asked.

  ‘The lawyer from Vasantapura? I’ve heard of him, yes.’

  ‘Yes, yes, him only, Vishwamohan Pandit from Vasantapura. Only, he doesn’t live in Vasantapura anymore. He moved with his family to Rudrapura a few weeks ago. They have just arrived. Just … er …’ she trailed off, at a loss for words.

  ‘Amma, what’s the matter?’ enquired Raghu gently. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Er, yes, the brother-in-law came to meet. Vishwamohan Pandit has a … a … Raghu!’ she suddenly cried, ‘don’t say no to a meeting. At least just think about it, please!’

  Raghu looked perplexed. Seeing his incomprehension, she mumbled, ‘Vishwamohan Pandit has a daughter.’

  The lemon rice had left a stain on the stone floor where Karia had lunched, and Raghu poured water over it and swept it clean.

  ‘I’m not interested in marriage, Amma,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve told you that before.’

  ‘I understand.’ She went silent for a moment, then burst out again, ‘But really, I don’t! I don’t understand, Raghu! How can a man go th
rough his whole life without a wife? I am an old woman now. Who will take care of you when I am gone?’ Her voice and eyes pleaded with him.

  ‘I’m thirty-four years old. Not a child to be taken care of!’ laughed Raghuvir.

  ‘You’ll always be a child to me, putta,’ said his mother, and Raghu softened at the endearment and the sadness with which she uttered it. He straightened up, the broom held absently in his hand.

  ‘I’ll manage, Amma,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m not worried about the cooking and the cleaning. I can do all that. The only thing that will sadden me is your absence. I have no other friend…’

  His mother’s eyes filled with tears. ‘That’s what a wife will be to you. A friend. A companion, Raghu.’

  ‘I don’t seek companionship. I’ve lived with my own set ways for so long, I wouldn’t know what to do with another person in my life.’ Suddenly Raghu smiled his rare and lovely smile. ‘One woman,’ he chuckled, indicating the closed temple doors, ‘is more than a man can worship at a time.’

  His mother smiled despite herself. He was such a handsome man, this son of hers, and he had a glow that could only have come from the calm and peaceful thoughts that occupied him.

  ‘I must go now,’ said Raghuvir. ‘I’ve been asked to perform an ayush homa for Vasudeva Rao’s father. You go home before the sun gets too hot. Shall I drop you on my cycle?’

  ‘No, putta, I’ll walk.’

  She stood watching him ride away, and her smile was slowly replaced by a troubled look once more.

  Raghuvir Dixit had become a priest at the age of seventeen. It was his calling. Had he not been a priest, he might have become something else that could never have made him as happy and content as he was now. It was more than just a mother’s indulgent eyes that found him handsome. He was, indeed, beautiful. His features were fine and sharp, his body lean and firm. He had about him an air of assurance and dignity that was completely devoid of vanity. He never looked into a mirror. It never struck him to do so.

  The only glimpses Raghuvir ever caught of himself were those inadvertent ones in the waters of the river on whose banks he often sat picking the strings of his tanpura and singing bhajans. When the puja was over and the temple doors bolted, Raghu sang, tended to his cow, completed his household chores and worked alongside Chinna, his helper, in the little field that had been allotted to him by the temple trust. There, the two grew maize and sold it when it was harvested.

  Chinna lived in a small hut at the end of the field and supplemented his tiny income by working as a cleaner at Vishnu Talkies. Raghu felt bad about not being able to afford a salary that would spare Chinna the necessity of taking up a second job … until he discovered that the fellow positively loved working there! The chief attractions were the free movies he got to watch and the half-eaten bags of popcorn left under the seats to be cleared away after each show. Chinna always carried a large plastic bag with him and emptied the remnants of these friendly cartons into it. At the end of each day, he invariably had a neat snack for himself and his buddies for when they met at night under the ashwatha tree to gossip and smoke beedis.

  ‘Enjilu!’ exclaimed Raghuvir in disapproval when he found out about this. Brahmin culture forbade the consumption of food eaten by another, believing that people’s fates got intermingled by doing so. But Chinna, who had long ago ceased to fear Raghu as an employer and rather looked upon him as a benign elder brother, grinned unrepentantly.

  ‘Who cares, Raaganna!’ he sighed dramatically. ‘It tastes so good!’

  ‘I care, Chinna,’ replied Raghu. ‘I will give you two extra rupees every day to buy yourself a fresh bag of popcorn. But you must stop collecting the leftovers from other people’s cartons.’

  ‘I can’t lie to you, Raaganna. God-promise, mother-promise, if you give me the two rupees, I’ll eat fresh popcorn and then collect the leftovers and eat those as well! There’s no limit to how much popcorn a fellow can consume. Besides, there are my friends who also like it. Really,’ and Chinna pinched his Adam’s apple to prove his earnestness, ‘you are my elder brother, so I can’t lie to you.’

  Raghu gave up. He supposed he should be grateful that they were not arguing over something more objectionable like alcohol. Popcorn – enjilu or otherwise – was far preferable.

  After Raghu finished the ayush homa at Vasudeva Rao’s, he headed back home. The roof needed repair; there were some loose tiles in it, and some others had cracked. Once the monsoons came, water would leak into the house if things were left in their present state. His mother came out to keep him company as he worked, and he was grateful that she made no more mention of Vishwamohan’s daughter. Instead, they chatted about the field and the new fertilizer Raghu was planning to use this year.

  ‘Sakamma says that her husband tried it last year and there was a definite increase in their yield,’ said Raghu, perched on the roof, working. ‘Pass me three more tiles, Amma.’

  ‘Sakamma tends to exaggerate,’ said his mother, sending the tiles sailing up into the air one by one to Raghu. He caught them deftly. ‘Ask old man Basavaraj. He’ll be able to tell you which fertilizer to use.’

  Raghu glanced at his mother’s upturned face in amusement as he slipped the first of the tiles into place. She had great faith in Basavaraj, who was her best friend Shanta’s husband. Raghu’s mother and Shanta had grown up together. Shanta adored her husband and spoke so highly of him that Raghu’s mother too had come to look upon Basavaraj as something of a demigod. Many of her sentences began with ‘Shanta says that Basavanna says …’ Basavanna saying something was, apparently, enough to make it the gospel truth. Raghu, who loved Basavaraj like a father, nevertheless did not allow affection to blind him.

  ‘Basavaraj is a car mechanic. I doubt he would know any more about fertilizers than I would,’ he said, laughter in his voice.

  ‘Oh he’ll know alright. He spends so much time at the Nameless Shop, talking to all kinds of people there. Shanta says that even Sheshadri Saab came to meet Basavanna to ask for his advice on—’ Here the mother broke off with a gasp and clapped a hand to her mouth in dismay.

  ‘Eeyn aythu?’ asked Raghu from the roof.

  ‘I clean forgot to tell you! Sheshadri Saab came here looking for you this afternoon. It was important, he said.’

  ‘I’ll go meet him once I’m done with this work.’

  But an hour later, when Raghuvir rang the doorbell of the Sheshadri mansion, Sheshadri’s sister Lakshmi opened the door and informed him that her brother had left town suddenly on business.

  ‘He said he’d come to see you as soon as he returned from Bangalore in two days, Raghu.’

  Raghuvir folded his hands in parting and walked back home. She is such a good woman, this Lakshmi Akka, he thought. How difficult it must have been to adjust to her brother’s household after … Well, life is like that, unexpected and incomprehensible, he reflected, stopping to remove a thorn from his right heel. Then his mind strayed to the Marathi bhajan he had learnt from Deshmukh the previous day, and he began to hum it under his breath. His Parvati would like it. This evening, after the devotees had left, he would sing it to her.

  The next morning, the girl returned to the temple. She brought with her five red hibiscus flowers as offering. Once again, Raghu noticed her poise, the single-mindedness with which she prayed. She never spoke to anyone, whereas the other devotees treated the temple as a pleasant meeting place; this girl had eyes for the goddess alone. Yet she was young – too young – to possess such dignity, such steadiness, thought Raghu. Today she had left halfway through the arati, unaware that it had even been going on.

  Raghu took his mother to Doctor Bhaskara that afternoon. After a thorough check-up, the old doctor sent the mother in to talk to his wife Janaki, while he spoke to Raghu.

  ‘She’s okay, nothing to indicate that there’s anything amiss,’ said the doctor. ‘Make her chew on freshly plucked curry leaves every morning. It will keep her sugar down.’

  ‘And her asthma
, Doctor Ayya?’

  Doctor Bhaskara looked at Raghu with a twinkle in his eye. Immediately, Raghu felt his anxiety recede and a sense of calm settle over him. The old doctor shook his head. ‘That will not be a problem anymore.’

  This sort of unqualified reassurance made no logical sense, yet Raghu accepted it without question. He thanked him and went inside the house, greeted the doctor’s wife, collected his mother and took her home.

  Back in their one-room house, Raghu’s mother decided to reintroduce the topic of Vishwamohan’s daughter. Clearly, she imagined that she was being subtle about it.

  ‘Narayanamma was telling us today that Vishwamohan Pandit is not very well off.’ She spoke as if poverty was a point in his favour. ‘Apparently, he buys from her store on credit like the rest of us do. Narayani swears that he is a good man, a fine, upstanding man who could have made money out of his law practice if he had wanted to. But he’s too honest. Most of his clients are poor, with the exception of a few like Shankarnarayana Saab, Narayani says, and he never charges those who can’t afford payment, so he himself is in a bad way now. Often, men turn corrupt because of family pressure – their wives and children are not satisfied with what they earn. They complain until the man is forced to make money in underhand ways. But apparently, Vishwamohan’s wife and daughter … they have only one daughter, you know, a lovely young girl, Narayani told Basavanna … So the wife and daughter … I think the girl is around twenty, very pretty, Narayani says. Lovely long hair, fair, slim…’

  ‘It’s time for Ganga’s bath. I’m taking her down to the river,’ said Raghu and went outside. His manner gave no offence and his mother took none. Only, his departure forced her to abandon her topic mid-sentence.

  That day, Raghu had become conscious of a feeling of restlessness. It took him a while to recognize it, for he was not moody by nature. He was surprised by it, even disturbed, because he didn’t know the cause. Only when he was standing knee-deep in the river beside his cow, the water lapping around them in a friendly way, did he feel better. He scrubbed Ganga’s flanks, then washed her back and neck as she stood patiently. By the time he reached her face, he had forgotten all about his agitation. Ganga closed her eyes lazily, enjoying his ministrations, at complete ease with the attention being showered upon her.