Aavarana- The Veil

by S L Bhyrappa

  Lakshmi spoke again. ‘Sir, even I’d like you to come here. This could be your last chance to re-establish your relationship with your family. Recall that proverb about mother and motherland being greater than heaven. Your native place is as sacred as your mother.’

  The professor decided to go. It’ll be an experience. Spending three days entirely in a temple! After that I can stay at Lakshmi’s house. The temple was part of his childhood. He had played robber-police, catch-me-if-you-can, and hide and seek in its spacious compound. He had slept on its portico in the afternoons. Wasn’t it where the shepherds rested in the afternoons?

  ‘All right. Because you’re all insisting so much, I don’t have a heart to refuse. I’ll be there day after tomorrow.’ He put the phone down and lit another cigarette and stared out of the window. He felt soothed. How well the boy talks! I didn’t know Madras TV channels showed me! And he called me uncle. Blood is thicker than water. I’m his mother’s elder brother after all. He felt a sudden rush of affection for Jayaram. He made a mental note to drop into Jayaram’s house the next time he was in Madras. He dwelt on the speciality and distinction of the Kannada language for a bit. He was his son-in-law. Son-in-law—sodara aliya in Kannada—was a term applied to serve dual purposes: sister’s son and daughter’s husband. He thought about it. In the past when it was common to conduct marriages among maternal relations, the necessity to use a separate word each to denote a sister’s son and daughter’s husband didn’t probably arise. Jayaram occupied his mind as he ate his dinner alone. He must be thirty-two or thirty-three. About five years older to Aruna. What a smart boy! He’d have made a perfect match for Aruna. For the next several minutes, his mind was fixated on this missed opportunity.

  Sleep eluded him for a long time. Something suddenly clicked. Agarwal from Gandhi Foundation has been pestering me for months to write something for his quarterly journal. Now is the time! The words began to flow in his mind. The perfect title: Cow and Gandhian Economics. ‘Research has proved that the old-fashioned but natural method of cultivation is the best instead of tractors and chemical fertilizers: the kind of natural farming that involves the use of oxen and cows. The benefits are immense. Cows help the farmer in not just tilling. They provide manure and the crop harvested this way is healthier. This means a ban on cow slaughter is both necessary and urgent.’ Perfect! Two birds with one stone and all that. This piece is my public atonement and anyway no Progressive reads that Delhi-based journal. But if someone does, and I know them…oh well, let them. All that is part of Gandhian economics. A one-liner is enough to silence them: ‘My essay is entirely in line with Gandhian economics and these are not my personal views on the matter.’ He decided to write it tomorrow and mail it immediately and then leave for Narasapura the day after. The professor then slept soundly.

  He awoke early and took a short, brisk walk and felt fresh. He finished his coffee, lit a cigarette and began his Gandhian economics piece. The phone rang when he was on the second para.

  ‘Sir, it’s us.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t know who this is.’

  ‘We came with you to your village yesterday.’

  ‘You! Okay okay, now make it quick. I’m writing something.’

  ‘I’m sorry. But I had to tell you something. Some folks out here suspect that you’re going to your village to do the atonement rites and your mother’s death ceremonies. They’ve sent spies to watch your every move. I called to warn you that they’re working on some secret project to tarnish you. They plan to bring out some book or something, sir.’

  ‘But I said I’m not doing all that. You were there when I said that. Didn’t you tell them?’

  ‘We did, sir, but they said you’re a double-dealer. They said that’s just a mask that you’re wearing and that you really will go do those rites and that’s why they’ve sent their CIDs. They asked us to keep this secret.’

  ‘This is really unfortunate. This is such a private matter. It wasn’t decent of you to reveal my mother’s death and everything that happened in my village.’

  ‘We’re sorry but last night in the party, the conversation drifted to this and that and we began to talk about how Hinduism has decayed today. We had to narrate what we saw earlier yesterday in your house as an illustration of that decay. But we took your side, sir. We said you’re an unfortunate victim who has guts and perseverance to battle such evils.’

  ‘Who were there at the party?’

  ‘How does it matter, sir?’

  ‘Kalenahalli Prakash Gowda, Ramaraju, Anandappa Badigerahalli, Jayendra Hunsur would’ve definitely been there.’

  ‘You know everything, sir. I’m sure you have your own CIDs.’

  ‘Psha! I don’t need any CIDs. These bloody criminals came to fame using me as their ladder and now they want to turn back and spit on me! I’ll crush the rogues. I’ll make sure nothing they write will ever be published anywhere. Go tell them I’m going to destroy them!’ He banged the phone down and stood there hissing with rage. He stood like that for a long time, staring at the phone and began to mull over his uncharacteristic display of rage. I shouldn’t have yelled. What the hell! Let the bastards know even I can get angry. I don’t need to worry about these local cheapskates. I’m nationally famous…no! I have international recognition. None of these insects have standing invitations to give talks in universities abroad. That instilled self-confidence. Now he felt hungry. He called out to Catherine Kutty and asked her to make him some omelette and toast. He rounded that breakfast off with a couple of bananas and washed it down with strong coffee, went to his study and lit a cigarette. Kalenahalli Prakash. Whoreson. This is how he repays my affection. I went to the bastard’s daughter’s marriage before going to see my parents. And he pays me back by ganging up with the others who want to screw me. I told him not to contest. But bastard was in a hurry to become an MLA. And he lost like I knew he would. And he blamed me for his defeat. ‘You didn’t canvas wholeheartedly.’ I will wreck him and that whole gang of sons of bitches. I’m not Professor Sastri if I don’t do this! He took a silent vow.

  He returned to his computer but his mood was completely ruined. Fifteen minutes later, he was sprawled on the bed. He’d lose nothing by not writing the piece. He closed his eyes. Women have a special fondness for the son-in-law rather than their own sons…Subbanna has anyway tonsured his head and he’s cremated her. Mother was fond of him…let him do the rest. That son of a bitch Prakash Gowda lives in the neighbouring village…I’m sure he’ll send his spies if I go there. His dogs will report to the master—Sastri slept in the temple. Sastri shaved his head. Sastri gifted a cow to some Brahmin. Sastri fell at the feet of Brahmins. Sastri…bloody bastard Prakash Gowda will use this information against me…he’ll write a vile gossip piece…I am Professor Sastri. I don’t care. I’ll write another one. I’ll call him an uncouth wretch who doesn’t realize the sanctity of motherhood. When Adi Shankara could breach a renunciate’s prohibition and carry out his mother’s last rites, it only means how even such great men recognized the holiness of motherhood. He sat up on the bed and lit a cigarette.

  He changed his mind by evening. Let Subbanna do the rites here. I’ll go to Gaya and do the Gaya rites directly. All that matters is faith. If my faith is strong, Mother will reach the feet of Lord Vishnu directly. Go to Gaya and offer the pinda—the sacred rice ball to the departed soul once and you won’t ever have to do the annual death rites. I’ll go alone like I’ve fought all my battles alone…these bastards will stalk me here and in Narasapura till the Vaikuntha day—the Thirteenth and last day. I won’t move out of Bangalore. I will remain in Bangalore, pick up every phone call and then after the Thirteenth Day rites are done, I’ll travel to Gaya. Professor Sinha, my long-time admirer and fellow ideologue, has given me a standing invitation to talk on ‘Materialism and Progress’ in Patna University. I’ll call him. He’ll get me travel reimbursement. Bangalore–Patna–Bangalore. Two lectures. Ten thousand. I could use some of that to do the Gaya rites.r />
  He opened his address book, looked under S and called Sinha who was pleased to hear from Sastri.

  ‘Consider it fixed. Tell me what flight you’re taking. I’ll pick you up from the airport.’

  The professor thought for a moment. He knew Sinha was a committed Progressive. He knew he couldn’t escape from the man’s clutches once he agreed to his airport-pickup offer. And then the professor knew he wouldn’t be able to hide his Gaya visit from Sinha.

  ‘I haven’t booked my flight. I don’t know what flight I’ll get. Please don’t take the trouble. I’m sure to land there a day in advance. Please reserve a room for me in the guest house. I’ll reach there directly.’

  Professor Sastri stayed in town till the thirteenth day. He attended four public functions. He separately issued weighty opinions on a few matters of public concern and made sure they got proper media coverage. His pictures were splashed prominently in the newspapers.

  No phone call came from Narasapura. His sisters, brothers-in-law…nobody called. He decided to inform them later, after he had done the Gaya rites as a substitute for those rites, which would only serve to humiliate him with their atonement nonsense.

  ~

  Professor Sastri was well-travelled in north India but his travels were pretty much limited to the major cities. His travel pattern was almost a photocopy: get greeted by a bunch of volunteers holding placards that showed his name at the airport, then taxied to a guest house or a star hotel and spend a day or a week at most, addressing vast audiences. This made it almost impossible for him to learn Hindi. He understood the language when others spoke it but this understanding was an approximation. It was impossible for him to form a complete sentence when he spoke. He used English grammatical rules when he spoke Hindi and when a Hindi word escaped him, he simply replaced it with what he thought was its English equivalent. When that didn’t work, he used the Kannada equivalent. Gaya presented no such linguistic problem for the professor. The pandas—priests who conducted the ceremonies—were fluent in almost every Indian language. Gaya was one of the holy destinations that received thousands of people from all over the country. The panda whom he met spoke excellent Kannada and English.

  ‘Five thousand, all-inclusive. The priest’s offering and barber’s fees are all included in this.’

  The professor agreed. Five thousand was half of his lecture tour’s earnings.

  ‘But I have a condition. I don’t want to shave my head completely. Just take off a few strands as a token.’

  The panda agreed and sprinkled a few drops of water on his head and began to chant some mantras. He called the barber and whispered something in his ears in Hindi and left the place. The barber asked the professor to follow him and made him sit on a smooth rock by the river. The barber asked him to wait for sometime.

  I should have gone to Narasapura…shouldn’t have been scared of those whoresons. Subbanna is a good man. He’ll do the ceremony with complete faith but I am her son. I should’ve done it. I’ve upset everybody—Subbanna, my sisters, Lakshmi and Father, above all. At this age. Who knows when he’ll die? And I know what he’ll…oh, he’d have already decided that I wouldn’t do his last rites…there was no way a son who didn’t perform his mother’s death ceremonies would perform the father’s…did Shankaracharya visit Gaya? Must ask the panda…hey! Hey! Oy! What’s he done? Bloody barber! The professor seethed with rage and touched his head with quivering fingers. He quickly moved his fingers around and down over his right cheek. The bastard barber had completely razed the right side from head to beard. The professor repeatedly touched his head and cheek and yelled at the barber,

  ‘Mirror, mirror! Give me a mirror!’ he gestured, his hands mimicking the contempt and rage that issued from his voice.

  The barber looked at him blankly.

  ‘Mirror!’

  The barber raised his right hand, which held the razor and gestured and said something that the professor didn’t understand.

  ‘Mirror! Mirr…Panda! Panda! Call the panda!’ he yelled again.

  The barber left to look for the panda. He quickly scanned the shoreline to see if he was there. No. The obvious other place was the bus stand where throngs of pandas typically waited for pilgrims and the faithful. He found the panda amid a group of some fifty of his peers waiting for the next bus that would bring them potential customers.

  ‘Look what he’s done!’ the professor shouted when the panda met him again.

  ‘What happened, sahib?’ the panda asked in a soothing tone.

  ‘I had specifically instructed you… clearly told you to shave a few strands. Look what he’s done!’

  ‘Oh oh oh! Yes, yes. I remember. I told this fellow…’ he turned to the barber and spoke rapidly in Hindi.

  The barber looked directly into the professor’s eyes and said, ‘This is not a salon to get those fashion cuts. And I shave hundreds of people daily. I forgot the panda’s instructions but you listen, sahib—nobody does the rice-offering ritual without shaving their head completely. I know the scriptures and rules.’

  The professor didn’t understand this. The panda translated it for him and said in the same soothing tone, ‘What can we do now, sahib? I think it is best if you get it fully shaved. I mean, I can adjust the mantras according to your needs but these barbers are very stubborn in the matters of scriptures.’

  ‘No! I’ve had enough of this nonsense and I’ve had enough of this ritual. Return my money, I’m leaving.’

  ‘What money?’

  ‘The five thousand rupees. I gave it to you.’

  ‘I don’t have it with me. I gave it to the head panda in front of you. He directs everything. We just carry out his orders.’

  ‘Cheating! You’ve cheated me! Return my money now or I’ll go to the police!’ the professor screamed.

  ‘Police? What police? Remember, you’ve come to a holy place and you are going back on your word, not me. This is new. People come here with the pure faith that the rites they do here will give their parents and ancestors a place in heaven. And you’re saying words which will take you to hell,’ the panda said in a tone that matched the professor’s.

  By then, a crowd of about ten other pandas had collected around them. The professor explained his story.

  ‘The barber is right. Get the left side shaved and finish your ritual quickly,’ they said in unison.

  The professor touched his freshly-shaven cheek and looked at the group and signalled the barber. No other way. The left side had to go.

  He returned to the hotel room after finishing the rites and looked at his face in the mirror. For some reason, his face and bald head reminded him of Subbanna’s face and head. This was how rituals worked. He felt sorry for yelling at the poor barber. But this was a new problem. He slept on it that night, and in the morning he thought of buying a topi and launched into deeper thought as to the exact topi that would suit him. A Gandhi topi would be good, but a Jayaprakash Narayan topi would be even better. Actually a hat would be the best. But a topi didn’t make the problem go away. It simply covered it. He still owed an explanation to Sinha who he was sure would wonder about the reason behind the professor’s denuded head. In the end, the professor bought a black topi. Then it occurred to him—he’d say he had some skin infection on his pate and he had shaved his head on the doctor’s advice.

  ‘The dermatologist said the lotion wouldn’t really work unless it touches the skin directly. I had to shave my head completely,’ he told Sinha without being asked for any explanation.

  ‘You’re right. It’s always best to follow the doctor’s advice.’ he agreed.

  But when Sinha took the air tickets to prepare the travel allowance and dearness allowance bills, the professor realized what he had done. His ticket showed Benares as the last destination. 99 per cent of people who landed in Patna would definitely visit Gaya to do the Gaya rites. This fact wouldn’t escape Sinha’s notice. But Sinha said nothing. He signed on the bill that gave the Professor airfare from B
angalore–Benares–Bangalore and a first class train journey from Benares–Patna–Benares.

  The two lectures on ‘Materialism and Progress’ were enormously successful. It was one of the professor’s star lectures. He had spoken on this theme for over two decades almost everywhere he went. He needed no preparation; the words flowed, out of habit. The audience swayed and clapped loudly for a long time and mobbed him. Professor Sastri’s stardom was renewed.

  In the train on his way to Benares, he decided to retain the black topi throughout his stay in the workshop there. And then in America, he needed no topi. Nobody cared if you wore a hat or cap or topi or went bald. America had real freedom.

  When I return, my hair would’ve regrown.

  12

  Diganth and Babita rushed to Narasapura the moment they heard the news. The couple suggested immersing their grandmother’s ashes in Prayag. Shesha Sastri endorsed this and recommended travelling to Prayag on an auspicious day after all the rites were complete. Subbanna, who had performed every single rite starting with the cremation up until now, had to undertake the journey.

  ‘Uncle, please take a flight. We’ll buy you the tickets,’ Diganth said.

  But there was a practical problem. The ashes had to be carried in a sealed clay pot very carefully. Subbanna had never taken a flight before. And they were unsure of the airport security rules and decided to make a train journey. It also helped that Lakshmi had planned to visit Benares. The family requested her to take Subbanna and Vishalakshi till Prayag and once the immersion rites were done, to help them board a return train to Bangalore. She agreed although her plan was to stay back at Benares after helping them board the train to Bangalore.