Shastri brought out a steel box from the deerskin-covered bundle in which he kept his ritually pure things. He began sweating and trembling so badly that he could not open the cover of the box. His eyes kept staring at the amulet, trying to comprehend the sign that teased him like a riddle.
Was the wearer of the amulet middle-aged, or younger than that? There were one or two white hairs in his black beard. He looked fit for the role of Rama or Krishna in a play, such were the qualities of his face. Drained, yet full of lustre. His well-shaped nostrils, the colour of his large eyes, the attractiveness of his indifferent gaze — these were so like Saroja's that Shastri, recognizing this, was thunderstruck. A deep tenderness welled up in him, and even many days later he would call this moment to mind as a way of warding off evil omens.
As the Ayyappa pilgrim sat chewing sprouted lentils, he looked to Shastri like a tender calf passively receiving sunshine and rain on its body. And now his cup must be empty … his eyes looked down expectantly. Shastri could not bear it. He was surprised at the compassion which rose up in him. So, opening his own round steel box, he braced himself on his left arm, shifted on the seat, brought the box closer to the younger man, and held it out. Not comfortable addressing him with the intimacy of the singular, he said, using the plural, ‘Please take some’
From the questioning way that the man looked at Shastri, it was clear that he did not know Kannada. Shastri felt relieved: the man must be someone other than whom he imagined. All at once, it occurred to Shastri that he could use his Hindustani learned in Bombay some forty or forty-five years ago in his days of wayward living. But he hesitated to speak in such a rough language to an Ayyappa devotee.
Then came another surprise. The devotee began to move his fingers in his beard and seemed suddenly unsettled. As if slowly recognizing what was held out to him he said, in a wavering voice, Kut-ta-va-lak-ki.
Shastri felt his hair stand on end when he heard this word, which came to him, as if from an ancient cave. In the manner of someone beginning a conversation with an assumed familiarity, Shastri said, ‘Then you know what this is. If you know this as kut-ta-va-Iak-ki then you must be from South Kanara, or at some time must have got mixed up with somebody like me. When I do harikatha, I sometimes say: “Kuchela must be from South Kanara, because although he was a poor classmate of Krishna's, he brought Krishna not just avalakki but kuttavalakki.”’ Although Shastri felt confident using the language to which he was accustomed, he also felt uneasy because his words did not connect to what he was feeling inside. But the young man folded his hands respectfully, like one who did not understand anything, and his self-absorbed eyes communicated to Shastri, ‘Leave me alone.’ But just as those distant eyes began once again to discomfort Shastri, the young man said ‘Achcha’ and held out his hand for the kuttavalakki Shastri poured it affectionately into the palm of his hand, and the young man put it in his mouth. As he chewed the kuttavalakki with closed eyes, he seemed to be trying to recover some distant memory … and this created in Shastri both hope and fear.
∗
By this time, the man in jeans had finished his meal and said in English, ‘May I know your name?’ to the Ayyappa devotee. But the devotee did not respond. Only for Shastri did he open his eyes and Shastri, seeing tears in them, asked anxiously in Kannada, ‘Was it too hot?’ Then he repeated the question in Hindustani. For the first time the young man smiled and shook his head.
The meat-eater went out of the cabin, and came back drying his hands on a handkerchief which he took from the pocket of his jeans. Then he repeated his question more politely, ‘May I please know your name?’
But the Ayyappa devotee wiped his eyes, pointed at his black clothes, and said ‘Swami,’ adding flatly, ‘I have lost any other name’
But the man didn't give up. ‘Do you think I cannot recognize you in that dress? You are Dinakar, you are famous because of your TV shows — for my brother you are a big hero. Everyone has seen your interviews of Asian leaders. I was staring at you all along in disbelief because you didn't seem to be the sort to go after gods. But then, it seems that even Amitabh Bachchan has had darshan of Ayyappa. As soon as you got on the train in Madras, I began to wonder because you looked familiar. You must have been visiting the temples around Madras. You must be from Delhi. It is at least a whole month since I saw you on TV. I kept quiet so long because I thought it was impolite to stare at you. I am from Bombay. I deal in designer clothes. I had come to Madras to buy stock.’ With this, the man wearing jeans held out his hand and, pleased with himself for having recognized Dinakar, lost none of his enthusiasm when the Ayyappa devotee failed to reciprocate. He simply continued his chat with the smooth-shaven, smiling hero who wore lovely shirts on TV.
‘My daughter is doing MBBS. I must get your autograph for her. You are getting down in Bangalore, aren't you? I will take your autograph later on.’
Confident that he would eventually get the autograph, the jeans-clad man opened an English magazine and sat in the seat opposite.
Shastri kept looking at the Ayyappa devotee without blinking his eyelids, holding out the steel box as if waiting for some further signs. Now he understood that this devotee who preferred to be called only ‘Swami’ was a famous man from TV. He was pleased that the man was looking with interest at his kuttavalakki. Shastri opened up another container, one full of curds, and said, ‘Wash your feet and hands and eat this.’ Although Swami didn't understand Shastri's language, he understood the intention. He went out of the cabin. Shastri then took out his rudraksha beads and began to do japa, feeling solace that what had entered him was not an evil spirit.
∗
The other man sitting in the compartment, having finished his meal and now applying lime to his paan, began to seek conversation with Shastri. ‘I know that you are the famous kirtanakar Vishwanatha Shastri. I am also from your area. My grandfather, in his time, lost his areca-nut garden and left home. You might have heard the story of the Emden Boat. Because of this we had to give up agriculture and take to business. My business in Malnad is buying and selling areca. If you are a Shivalli Smrta, I am a Shivalli Madhva. I have heard your harikatha. The way you sing and describe Sri Krishna Paramatma, we can just see him. It is my punya that I saw you’ So saying, he offered the bag with the paan utensils to Shastri. Opening his eyes, still holding his rudraksha beads, Shastri said, ‘I have not yet finished my night meal.’
‘But you are giving away your food to him — what will remain for you? Shall I bring some idlis for you when we reach the next station?’
‘I don't take food from hotels. When I travel I carry some curds and avalakki. Even after sharing with him, I will have some left over. Anyhow, I'm grateful to you for your offer. May I know your good name?’ Shastri said, happy to return to his own language.
2
Later, in moments of need, Shastri would get strength from remembering how — in pain he couldn't fully understand — he had watched Swami eating, with great appetite, the plateful of curd and beaten rice. Some door which had been closed was suddenly open. He began to feel afraid. While Shastri was searching for bananas in his deerskin bundle, the Ayyappa devotee, who was looking more and more like a true swami to him, searched in his own bag for bananas and apples and grapes. He took them out with his left hand, placed them on the seat, and with his right hand gestured to say, ‘Take these.’ ‘Must be from a good traditional family,’ Shastri thought. Shastri couldn't be certain whether his reply to Swami in the rude Bombay Hindi of his previous life was appropriate for the feelings that Swami's Hindi expressed. ‘Are you full, Swami?’ he asked.