‘Ah, my daughter of daughters, you think the cock only crows because of you, young woman. I listened to you as though I didn’t know of it. But to tell you the truth I knew it long ago. ’
‘Truly, excommunication?’ asks Narsamma. ‘Truly?’ and a tear big as a thumb ran down her pouchy cheeks. ‘No, not my son. No. Never will my son bring dishonour to his family. He has promised me. No dishonour to his family. Never. Never.’ And as she began to unroll her bundle, something came up from her stomach to her throat, and she burst out sobbing. She sat herself down and she began to sob. Meanwhile Rangamma and her mother came along to the river. And they tried to console her. But no. Narsamma went on shivering and sobbing. ‘Oh, Moorthy, you must never do that! Never!’ And Rangamma and young Chinnamma said Moorthy was a fine fellow and he did nothing wrong, and if the Swami wanted to excommunicate him they would go to the city themselves and have the excommunication taken away. But Narsamma would not listen. ‘Oh, Moorthy, if your departed father were alive what would he think of you, my son, my son, my son?. ’ And she hastily entered the river and took a hurried bath, and just wetting her washing, she said she was going home. But Rangamma said, ‘Wait, Aunt, I’m coming with you,’ and they walked by the river-path and over the field-bunds and by the mango grove, and at every step Narsamma cried out that this was a sin and that was a sin, and she began to weep and to beat her breasts; but Rangamma said nothing was the matter and that, when Moorthy came from town, everything would be settled; but Narsamma would have nothing of it. ‘Oh, they’ll excommunicate us — they’ll excommunicate us, the Swami will excommunicate us,’ she said, and she rolled on the floor of her house while Rangamma stood by the door, helpless as a calf.
4
The day dawned over the Ghats, the day rose over the Blue Mountain, and churning through the grey, rapt valleys, swirled up and swam across the whole air. The day rose into the air and with it rose the dust of the morning, and the carts began to creak round the bulging rocks and the coppery peaks, and the sun fell into the river and pierced it to the pebbles, while the carts rolled on and on, fair carts of the Kanthapura fair — fair carts that came from Maddur and Tippur and Santur and Kuppur, with chillies and coconut, rice and ragi, cloth, tamarind, butter and oil, bangles and kumkum, little pictures of Rama and Krishna and Sankara and the Mahatma, little dolls for the youngest, little kites for the elder, and little chess pieces for the old — carts rolled by the Sampur knoll and down into the valley of the Tippur stream, then rose again and groaned round the Kenchamma hill, and going straight into the temple grove, one by one, with lolling bells and muffled bells, with horn-protectors in copper and back-protectors in lace, they all stood there in one moment of fitful peace; ‘Salutations to thee, Kenchamma, goddess supreme,’—and then the yokes began to shake and the bulls began to shiver and move, and when the yokes touched the earth, men came out one by one, travellers that had paid a four-anna bit or an eight-anna bit to sleep upon pungent tamarind and suffocating chillies, travellers who would take the Pappur carts to go to the Pappur mountains, the Sampur carts to go to the Sampur mountains, and some too that would tramp down the passes into the villages by the sea, or hurry on to Kanthapura as our Moorthy did this summer morning, Moorthy with a bundle of khadi on his back and a bundle of books in his arms.
He skirted the temple flower garden and, hurrying round Boranna’s toddy booth and crossing the highway, he rushed up the village road to the panchayat mound, turned to the left, followed Bhatta’s Devil’s field, where Pariah Tippa was weeding, jumped across Seethamma’s stile and went straight through the backyard. Maybe Ratna would be at the well, he thought. But Ratna was not there and the rope hung over the pulley, solemn and covered with flies; so he ran over the temple promontory and straight across the Brahmin street corner to Rangamma’s house, but, seeing that Rangamma had not yet returned from the river, he threw the bundles into the Congress room and walked back to see his mother, who sat by the threshold, her bundle of dirty clothes beside her, herself unwashed and morose.
‘O Mother, you are here to give warm coffee to your son,’ cried Moorthy, as he went over the steps and moved forward to fall at her feet. But she pushed him away and told him he should never show himself again, not until he had sought prayaschitta from the Swami himself.
‘Oh! to have a son excommunicated! Oh! to have gone to Benares and Rameshwaram and to Gaya and to Gokurna, and to have a son excommunicated! I wish I had closed my eyes with your father instead of living to see you polluted. Polluted! Go away, you Pariah!’
‘But what is all this about, Mother?’
‘What? Don’t talk like an innocent. Go and stand on the steps like a Pariah. Let not your shadow fall on me — enough of it.’
‘But why, Mother?’
‘Why? Go and ask the squirrel on the fence! I don’t know. Go away, and don’t you ever show your face to me again till you have been purified by the Swami.’ And she rose up and rushed down the steps, running through the Brahmin street and the Potters’ street, and when she was by the Aloe lane she grew so violent with Pariah Bedayya, because he would not stand aside to let her pass by, that she spat on him and shouted at him and said it was all her son’s fault, that he had brought shame on her family and on the community and on the village, and she decided there and then that she would go to Benares and die there a holy death lest the evil follow her. But when she came to the river, they were all so occupied with their washing that she too began to bang her clothes on the stones, and in banging she grew calmer. And when she had taken her bath and came back home telling her beads, she felt the sands and the grass and the shadows so familiar that she went straight to the kitchen and began to cook as usual. But where was Moorthy? He would come. He was only at Rangamma’s house. Oh, he was no wicked child to leave the village without telling her. Oh, the fool that she was to have been so angry with him! Age brings anger. It is just a passing rage. And she sat herself down to meditate, but the gayathri muttered itself out soft and fast, and now and again when she opened her eyes and looked towards the main entrance through the kitchen door, her eyes fell on the royal sacred flame and the breathful flowers and the gods, and the walls looked angry and empty. Yes, Moorthy would come! And when the prayer was said and the rice water was on the hearth, she walked up to the veranda to see if he was on Rangamma’s veranda, but he was not. And as Seenu was passing by the door, she asked him, if he went by Rangamma’s house, to tell Moorthy that the coffee was ready—’Poor boy, he must be so hungry after a night in the cart!’—and she went in crying, ‘Rama-Rama,’ and a tear ran down her cheeks.
Then there were footsteps at the door and they were heavy and odd and they were not Moorthy’s but Bhatta’s, and Bhatta told her that Moorthy had been very angry with him for having said the Swami was going to excommunicate him, that it was not true, that the Swami had only said he would excommunicate Moorthy if he continued with this Pariah business. ‘And Moorthy says, “Let the Swami do what he likes. I will go and do more and more Pariah work. I will go and eat with them if necessary. Why not? Are they not men like us? And the Swami, who is he? A self-chosen fool. He may be learned in the Vedas and all that. But he has no heart. He has no thinking power.” And what shall I say to that, Narsamma?’
‘He says that, learned Bhattarè?’
‘Yes, that is what he just told me. I was passing by Rangamma’s house after a peep into the temple, and Rangamma says, “Moorthy is here, and he wants to see you, Bhattarè,” and I go and I see Moorthy angry and disrespectful. O these unholy days, Narsamma! I pity you. ’