‘That was as you know the last quarrel they had at home. It was hardly a fortnight later that Seetharamu’s body was discovered in the Hemavathy. As to how it happened, everybody has his own opinion about it. My own is slightly different from that of others, because being their neighbour, and third cousin, I have more reasons to know these things than most people. Besides, I am an old woman, and I have seen so many domestic calamities that I can quite surmise how this could have happened too. Listen.
‘Now, you will perhaps call me wicked, maybe I am wicked. But tell me, how else can one explain the sudden death of Seetharamu if not by realizing that his two brothers hated him and, wanting the gold, drowned him in the river? Of course, people will tell you they were both lying sick at home, and nobody knows how Seetharamu, who went to Kanthapura to look after the peasants that were going to sow rice, should suddenly have disappeared. There is the boatman, Sidda. You know how at least two murders — of Dasappa of the oil-shop, and Sundrappa of the stream-fed-field — in both of them he was implicated. You know too how he beats his wife, and no child will ever approach him. Now, Sidda was to ply Seetharamu across the river, for the field lay on the Kanthapura side, and he says he never saw Seetharamu. If he had not seen Seetharamu, who else could have seen him, tell me? I myself saw Seetharamu passing by our door. And when I asked him where he was going, he told me clearly that he was going to Kanthapura to look after the sowing, as the two brothers were sick. Sick! I know what that sickness was! They looked hale and strong as exhibition bulls. They must simply have starved themselves to bear a pale face two days later. The evening before they were quite well, and if Big-House Subbayya is to be believed, they were talking to Sidda, a long, long time. The case is plain. Sidda pushed Seetharamu into the river. Any honest person in the village will believe it. But they are afraid of the Vision-House people. Besides, they want to have nothing to do with the police. And who does not know the Police Inspector has been duly bribed by them? I have myself seen the Police Inspector, a fat, vicious, green-looking brute, staying day after day in the Vision-House. . But nobody will accept this version. Maybe I am wicked. May God forgive me for my tongue! But, if I had no children, I will tell you what I would do, my son: I would poison these two brothers, and, drinking half a seer of warm milk with undisturbed contentment, I would go and drown myself in the river, happy. . very happy.
‘Poor Seetharamu!
‘After that the story is simple. One day when Sata kept feeding Kanakapala in the kitchen, the two brothers closed the sanctum door and began to dig. Kanakapala swung out and hurled his head against the door, hissing and rasping. But there was no answer. Furious he ran to the roof, and slipped into the eaves, but every chink and hole had been closed with cloth and coconut rind. He rushed back to the kitchen again but there was no one. He ran to the byre, spitting venom at every breath. . and there was no one. Then, frantic, helpless, repentant, he rushed out of the door and scampered up the hill. Entering the temple, he went round and round the god and goddess, once, twice, thrice, and curling himself at the foot of the Divine Couple, swallowed his tail, and died. For is it not said, a snake loves death better than an undutiful life?
‘The Vision-House people never found the gold. But with what libations have they now to wash away their sins. Child after child, new-born child, new-lisping child, new-walking child, young child, old child, school-going child, have met with mysterious, untimely deaths. And no woman in their family can ever bear a child for nine months and bring it forth, for the malediction of Naga is upon them. Never, never till seven times are they dead, and seven times are they reborn, can they wear out their sacrilegious act. . Oh, sinners, sinners!
‘And to this day there is not a woman, child or man in Kashipura that has not heard the money clinking in the earth, for holy gold moves from place to place, lest the wicked find it. And that same night Kanakapala appears in the dream of woman, child or man, frantic, helpless, repentant, and scampering up the hill, goes round the god and goddess, once, twice, thrice, and curling himself at the foot of the Divine Couple, swallows his tail — and dies.’
I too have dreamt of it, believe me — else I wouldn’t have written this story.
IN KHANDESH
‘Tom-Tom — Tom-tom — Tira-tira — Tira-tira — Tira-tira — Tom-tom— Tom-tom. . Listen, villagers, listen! Assemble ye all after midday meal — at the Patel’s. At the Patel’s — after midday meal — Tom-tom — Tom-tom — Tira-tira — Tiratira — Everyone — All— Important business — Important — Tom-tom — Tira-tira — Tom-tom— Tom-tom. . ’
Dattopant wallowed in his bed, dreamily. A terrible pain in the stomach had kept him awake late into the night. And then, what with the heavy monsters that rolled over his belly, the horse that galloped without neck or tail, the noise of the grandchild near him, the breathless flight in the air, funeral processions, death-drums, temples and rupees, and mimicking monkeys — he could not sleep. Every other wink he woke up, moaned, and turning away his head, threw his legs aside, and forced himself to sleep — but sleep would never come. Deep in the night he heard an owl hoot somewhere — somewhere very near. Was it from the coconut-tree? The neem-tree?. . No, it was from the roof. Death, said the elders, an owl on the tiles means certain death. . death before the wane of the evil moon. He would have liked to stand up and shout ‘Ram, Ram’ to frighten away the owl. But he felt tired and restless. After all, to wake up the whole house, make a noise, cry, moan. And move to another house. Where? And for six months too. He, his old wife, his two quarrelling sons, his haughty daughter-in-law, and the puling, whining, slobbering brats. No. This could never be of me. Perhaps the owl was only on the palm-tree. No, it was not on the roof. For sure, no! However, let’s say ‘Ram, Ram’, ‘Ram, Ram’. Sleep will soon come and then everything will be forgotten.
Sleep indeed came but the owl changed into a sheep, the sheep grew long, twisted horns and became a buffalo. A black rider sat on it, a looped serpent in one hand. The buffalo put its muzzle on Dattopant, licked his flesh, sniffed — then with a dart flung into the depths of the raging clouds, and was lost. Dattopant too was lost. A noose was round his neck. The black rider was dragging him against the amassed clouds. . Where? Oh, that eye-shutting abysm! Earth below and space nowhere. . ‘Ram, Ram’, ‘Ram, Ram’, he yelled in his sleep. ‘Ram, Ram, Ram, Ram.’
‘Can’t you shut your mouth?’ howled his wife. ‘The children are asleep.’
‘Hè?’
‘Oh! Be quiet.’
No, there was no owl. Forcing every joint in his body to loosen he put his head against the wall, and went to sleep again. There were no more nightmares. He had not slept long, when it was already dawn, and he heard noises of birds and of cattle waking up, and of people coughing and spitting, and walking about the house. But the half-awakened calm was so comforting that he lay on his bed undisturbed. How stream-like was that rest!