By Rentala Nageshwara Rao

Eager to protect his grandson, Brahmashree Vedamurthy Subrahmanya Shastri garu - now known as Tiladaanam Subbiah - appealed to numerous priests… in vain. He decided that he alone could save the boy.

BHAGYANAGARAM slept. The waters of the Moosi river shimmered in the dark of the night, like the tears of a mother whose sons have killed each other for money or in communal violence.

It was past midnight. A figure walked stealthily, clinging to the shadows cast by the railings of Chaderghat Bridge. His clothes merged into the shadows created by dim neon lights that seemed to have been commissioned only to line the pockets of politicians. A man in his thirties, tired and hungry-looking. An unkempt beard. A hunted look in his eye. A much-used cloth bag hanging limply from his left shoulder. A loaded revolver under his shirt. A prize of fifty thousand rupees on his head. He was heading towards Islamia Bazaar. A misleading name, that. Paradoxically, the street housed not Muslims, but the Brahmins and priests of the twin cities of Hyderabad and Secunderabad.

The stranger reached a small tiled house and rapped on the door. ‘Who is it?’ said a feeble voice from within, between bouts of coughing.

‘It’s me. Raghuram.’

After what seemed like an interminable wait, he heard the sound of dragging feet, and the door creaked open. Raghuram entered the room quickly and shut the door softly behind him. The old man peered at him, putting his right hand to his eyebrow.

Even in the dim light that filtered into the room, Raghuram couldn’t help noting the tejas on his father’s face. The aquiline nose, the high forehead marked with vibhuti, the sharp, wide-set eyes, a rudhrakshamala round his neck. Raghuram could see the grey stubble on the sunken face. But neither poverty nor age could dim his presence and stature.

‘It’s me, Raghuram. How are you, Nanna garu?’

‘Is that you? Why have you come?’ His voice was harsh. ‘Won’t you let me at least die in peace?’

The old man looked haggard and tired. He once was Brahmashree Vedamurthy Subrahmanya Shastri garu, one of the greatest scholars in his district. Today he was reduced to being Tiladaanam Subbiah. Tears welled in Raghuram’s eyes.

‘Nanna garu, has Padma delivered?’ asked Raghuram anxiously.

‘Yes. A boy. Born under the inauspicious Moola nakshatra. Shanti has to be performed.’

Tiladaanam Subbiah lay down on his bed, with a sigh.

Raghuram drew the sheet that partitioned the single room into two and peeped in. Padmavathi was sleeping, the baby at her breast.Raghuram knelt down and shook her gently.

‘Padma!’

Padmavathi woke with a start and clasped the baby to her bosom.

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s me, Padma. Here, let me see the child.’

He took the baby into his arms, joy and love washed over him. He smothered the child with kisses, fondling its tiny hands and feet, marvelling at the child’s beauty and the wonder of it. Padma began to cry softly, unable to control herself.

‘Where have you been all these days? We have been so worried. The police have been searching all over for you.’

Raghuram pulled her close to him. Her tears wet the front of his shirt.

‘How long will you hide like this? What have you achieved by staying away from us? Your father says a Shanti has to be performed - the child was born at an inauspicious time. Look at him, he is running a temperature.

There’s not a paisa at home; if anything happens to you what is to become of us?’

‘You don’t understand, Padma. I’m not fighting for myself, it is for the people…’

‘You can’t take care of your own family and you want to fight for society?’ sneered Subrahmanya Shastri from across the room. ‘You can’t provide milk for your son and you want to feed the world.’

Raghuram looked sharply at his father.

‘You held your Vedic learning and knowledge sacred all your life Nanna garu. They neither helped you nor society. People blamed you and your caste for keeping the Vedas out of their reach. How many of them are learning these now? How many are opting to become priests, purohits, to earn their livelihood? The temples at Thirupathi and Manthralaya are offering to teach the Vedas, irrespective of caste, but how many are prepared to learn them? At least I’m trying to bring about a change.’

‘Oh stop deluding yourself!’ Tiladaanam Subbiah turned away in disgust. ‘What do you achieve by burning buses, kidnapping petty politicians and government officials? Living in the eternal dread of getting caught. Do you ever think of the affected families? How does reducing the price of liquor help the common man? Or getting wasteland distributed to the poor change society? If you must do something, go strike at the roots of government!’

‘You don’t understand Nanna garu,’ Raghuram said, handing over the baby to Padma who looked on helplessly. ‘This is only the beginning. We have to awaken the people, educate them and popularise our ideology, then we can achieve a classless society where hunger and poverty will be wiped out.’

‘As if you people really understand Marxist philosophy,’ snapped Subbiah. ‘Socialism of the Russian and Chinese kind are not for our country. Our people are easy to satisfy. Build choultries, give them cheap grain, distribute cheap cloth - they are happy. What ails this country is its leaders - all self-serving opportunists. You are mistaken if you think you can revolutionise society by resorting to violence.’

‘Some people have to be sacrificed to achieve our ends, Nanna - at least the coming generation will be happier than us.’

He took out a wad of notes from his pocket. ‘This money’s for you, Nanna.’

Tiladaanam Subbiah turned his face away in disgust. ‘I do not want your bloodstained money. I, who have studied the Vedas and puranas, who can conduct the most complex rituals, I do not mind begging and accepting tiladaanam. I don’t mind carrying corpses. I would rather be called Tiladaanam Subbiah than accept your …’ Suddenly both of them heard a police whistle from a distance, Raghuram acted swiftly. In a second he had vanished as suddenly as he had appeared, melting into the shadows from which he had come. Subbiah sank to the floor helplessly, shedding bitter tears. He did not have the courage to face his daughter-in-law. Padma stood holding her baby tightly as it sucked at her dry breast.

*****

KUCHIPUDI, in the Krishna district of Andhra Pradesh, is famous not only for dance but also for its Vedic scholars. Subrahmanya Shastri was born into a family of scholars and learned men. His people were well-to-do. The agraharas and land granted them by the rulers of yore allowed them enough leisure and comfort to pursue scholastic interests. Subrahmanya Shastri studied the Vedas, the Puranas and other Vedic literature as well as English at his father’s feet. He became well known as a great scholar in the entire district. Raghuram Shastri was his only son.

But with time Vedic learning lost its relevance. Patronage of society melted away and the agraharas died with them. Some scholars took to priesthood. But Subrahmanya Shastri was too proud to resort to anything as commercial as that. Selling his learning and knowledge and performing rituals for payment was abhorrent to him.

As for his son, Raghuram Shastri had never been inclined to follow the family tradition. He took to modern education, which brought him in touch with the teachings of Mao and Karl Marx. After his graduation he married Padmavathi. But jobs were hard to come by and soon he drifted to the twin cities in search of a job. Hejoined the railways as casual labour. While colleagues forged ahead, he was left behind. Disappointments in his job led to bitterness and frustration. He developed an interest in revolutionary literature, forming protest groups and organising strikes. After his wife’s death Subrahmanya Shastri joined his son in the city. He was an unhappy and broken man by now. Society and its values had changed. What he held as sacred and precious all his life had become irrelevant. Not even his son shared his sentiments.

Raghuram was barely making a living. Finally he broke away from his responsibilities to his family and joined the movement. The government called him a Naxalite - he was hounded from place to place - he went underground, paying fleeting visits to his wife and father.

Subrahmanya Shastri was forced to support the family. His scholarship and learning were of no use in Hyderabad, nor did he care to tell people who he was or what his background was. He could not find a place among the mercenary priests who performed religious ceremonies for payment. Every ritual seemed to have a rate, depending on the capacity of the patron to pay. Subrahmanya Shastri was a misfit in that world - all he was allowed to do was accept tiladaanam and carry corpses; two jobs nobody is eager to perform. In his wisdom, he knew no job done honourably was worthy of contempt. Such inequalities were the making of the man and the society he lived in.

*****

IT was eight in the morning. Brahmins of different ages and statures had lined up on the verandas of the houses in Islamia Bazaar. All ready for work, freshly bathed, foreheads smeared with vibhuti and duly equipped with the sacred dharba and the almanac. Sporting dark glasses and chewing paan they came walking, or on cycles; some even on mopeds and scooters. They were all sishyas of Avadhani who ran an agency for priests and purohits in the twin cities.

Tiladaanam Subbiah also came after having recited his usual early morning chanting of the Gayatri japam and his Sandhya Vandanam.

He diffidently went and stood next to Kotiah Shastry, who shifted his ample body to make place for him. ‘Come come Subbiah, any tiladaanam today?’ he sneered.

He thought Subbiah was a real joke. He himself had a prosperous business going though he quite frankly admitted to not knowing his Gayatri japam properly. As for the Sandhya Vandanam, a useless pursuit. Even without it, wasn’t he capable of performing all kinds of rituals from weddings to funerals, with great ease and aplomb? He was not to be blamed if the fools, his clients, did not know the difference between the mantrams for a shubhakaryam and an abhakaryam. All you had to do was change the pronunciation and style of chanting. They trusted you and sought you — so popular and busy was he that he was able to build a house and acquire a great deal of property in town.

‘I hate these shanidaanam brahmins, Krishnamurthy!’ he said presently to his neighbour. That one should stoop so low as to take on the curse of that malevolent Saturn for a pittance … chee, chee!’

‘I know friend, they carry Shani with them - that is the reason they look so wretched, the poor devils.’

‘It’s not like that, friends,’ Subbiah tried to explain to them. You chant the Shani japam and the Sahasra Gayatri japam every day and Saturn won’t dare affect you …’

‘Who has the time to waste on such, nonsensical things Tiladaanam Subbiah? Who has the time?’

Subbiah looked puzzled. How could the Gayatri be a waste of time? How could they perform pujas for others when they didn’t believe in the most basic japam themselves! But it didn’t help to argue. He needed Kotiah’s help. He moved closer to Kotiah and asked humbly, ‘Babu Kotiah, I hope you have not forgotten my request?’

‘What request?’

‘I told you, I’m blessed with a grandson - but he was born on Moola nakshatram. As you know, this augurs ill for his father and grandfather. Shanti has to be performed to remove the dosha and it has to be done before the day after tomorrow. You know my circumstances - I’m a poor brahmin, I want all of you to help me. Please come and accept what little I can give as Shanidaanam.’

Kotiah burst out laughing. ‘Aha Subbiah, you who make a living by accepting Shanidaanam and begging, you want to perform to Shani and the other planetary gods? If you want to perform a Navagraha Pooja, you have got to feed brahmins. You are not capable of feeding a single brahmin. What can you give as dakshina? The going rate is eighty rupees for shradham, two hundred and sixteen for a Satyanarayana vratam and two thousand and sixteen for a wedding - and even more for a Shanti. Navagraha Pooja is so laborious, how can you afford to perform it?’

‘Please babu, it is very important to do the Shanti, otherwise it is very dangerous … please help me.’ Tiladaanam Subbiah was on the verge of tears.

‘Nonsense, these are all superstitions, old-fashioned ideas. There’s nothing like Moola nakshtram or Shanti.

I can’t come for your Shanti, I’m busy and anyway, you can’t pay me. So forget it.

‘I don’t understand,’ Subbiah said, baffled. ‘Don’t you really believe in any japam-thapam, Kotiah? How can you then perform pujas for others?’

‘How does that matter?’ retorted Kotiah. ‘It is the man who has the capacity to pay that should believe in them. Anyway, go and ask Avadhani if he can help you. I can’t,’ Kotiah turned his back to Subbiah and got busy with his snuff-box.

Avadhani was in his office. He was seated in a revolving chair behind an impressive table. There were two telephones on the side.

A ceiling fan was on. He was dressed in saffron robes, had a rudhrakshamala around his neck and vibhuthi and kumkuma on his forehead. He was the leader of the purohits. He supplied priests to meet the needs of all kinds of clients. If there was business in the houses of politicians, IAS officers, industrialists or film stars, he attended to them himself; anything less important was assigned to his underlings. He had a share in everyone’s dakshina.

Avadhani lifted his head from the newspaper. ‘Yes Subbiah, what do you want?’ he said indifferently.
Subbiah explained his predicament.

‘How can you perform Shanti unless you are prepared to spend money, Subbiah? You are the only brahmin willing to accept Shanidaanam for a paltry dakshina in the entire twin cities of Hyderabad and Secunderabad. Others will demand at least two hundred rupees. Can you afford to pay? Go and find some money then come back.’

‘Where can I find the money?’ mumbled Subbiah, ‘You know my circumstances.’

‘I agree that the evil star Moola is dangerous for the father or the grandfather. I heard your son has joined the Naxalites. Hasn’t he sent you any money? Anyway he is sure to be killed in an encounter. Why waste your money?’

‘That’s exactly what I am trying to prevent. Babu Avadhani, please help me. Shanti has to be performed before the star changes position. That is before the day after tomorrow. Please …’

‘No, no, Subbiah you have to find the money first. In any case, you have three days time - the star does not change position for three more days, here, look at this panchangam if you want.’ Avadhani opened the almanac, and pointed to the astrological calculation.

‘That calculation is wrong, nayana,’ said Subbiah gently.

‘What? The calculations are wrong? This book is written by my guru, Brahmashree Sachidananda Sidharthi garu. How dare you say the calculations are wrong! All right, we will consult another panchangam. Here, look this also says there are three more days.’

‘I’m afraid that too is wrong.’

Avadhani raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes? So only you know the right calculation. Who do you think you are? A jyotish? A great scholar? You miserable brahmin, you are the poor wretch who accepts shanidaanam. Don’t you know your own limitations?’

Subbiah smiled nervously. ‘My calculation is accurate, Avadhani garu. Check any astronomical manual you want. The planet Guru has a loop this month, so time gets shortened. Namaskaram.’ Subbiah walked out of Avadhani’s office.

Avadhani snorted with anger and sank back into his revolving chair. But he couldn’t return to his newspaper. He frowned at Subbiah’s retreating back, for a moment. Then picked up the telephone receiver on an impulse. He dialled a number. It was that of an astronomy lecturer in Osmania University whom he happened to know. He explained the problem to him in great detail.

As he listened his expression changed. Tiladaanam Subbiah was right! It was his renowned and experienced guru who had erred. Not one panchangam, but both the books had been wrong! This Tiladaanam Subbiah … He shook his head, perplexed. How could he? Was he a jyotish or …

Avadhani rushed out of his office and sent his sishyas to find Subbiah. ‘Bring him back here as fast as you can,’ he told them.

His assistants scoured Islamia Bazaar. There was no trace of Subbiah.

Subbiah was going around Chikkadapalli, Secunderabad, Hyderabad, looking for a brahmin who would accept his daanam, someone who’d cooperate with him in performing Shanti. He found no one. They feigned bhakti and devotion and played on the weakness and sentiments of their poor patrons. Where were wisdom, honesty, generosity and humility, the real attributes of a true brahmin? ‘This is why society hates Brahmins,’ he muttered to himself.

He reached home, defeated and tired. Padmavathi was waiting for him, worried. Her child continued to run high fever.

‘You must take the child to the general hospital tomorrow,’ he told her as he washed his feet and came into the house.

He couldn’t sleep that night. He had to perform Shanti the next day. But how? His mind reviewed all that he had learnt. He repeated all the shastras to himself. He had to find a solution, there must be a way. He tossed and turned.

Yes! He would perform a Krituvu, the greatest yagna of all to propitiate all the gods and goddesses, including the navagrahas and the ashtadikpalakas. He would please all the gods in one yagna.

*****

THE next morning, by the time Padmavathi swept and cleaned the front yard, Subrahmanya Shastri had seated himself on the floor in padmasana. A glow exuded his freshly-bathed body. His eyes were like burnished coal. His forehead smeared with vibhuthi looked like that of parameshwara. He had spread sand on the floor, arranged bricks, prepared the image of the destroyer of all obstacles, Vighneshwara, with turmeric paste and placed it on the mantapam.

He started the Sthala pooja. His voice rang out loud and clear like a temple bell as he started chanting the mantrams. He laid the wood, lit the sacred fire and invoked the ashtadikpalakas, the guardians of the eight directions.

By this time people had gathered in front of his house, awestruck, unable to believe what they saw and heard. But Subrahmanya Shastri was oblivious to all that was happening around him. He saw nothing but the sacred fire and the gods he invoked. Avadhani and his sishyas had come rushing to the spot. They stood now amazed, looking on with wide-eyed wonder; no one had to tell any one of them that what they were witnessing was no ordinary ritual.This was the ultimate Krituvu itself.

Those brahmins who were learned joined Subrahmanya Shastri in the chanting only to soon drop out, unable to keep pace with him as Shastri invited the navagrahas to accept his offerings and the yagna went on with unabated solemnity.

In the space partioned by the sheet, Padmavathi held her baby close.

The child’s fever raged on. And then, a boy came running out of nowhere, a letter clutched in his fist. For Padmavathi.

She ripped it open with trembling fingers.

My dear Padma,

I am confident I have chosen the right path for myself but I don’t want to cause hardship to my family or leave you helpless.

Ours is an ugly society. We recognise exploitation but we don’t oppose it. There is selfishness everywhere. Differences have surfaced in my organisation too. Can we fight for a cause when we are so divided amongst ourselves? I want to make your future secure. It would be an easy way out if I robbed a bank or unearthed black money from somewhere and passed it on to you. But that is not my way. So I am selling myself. The price on my life is fifty thousand rupees. That is the reward the government has announced. I am surrendering myself to the police through my friend Ramesh. Ramesh will collect the reward and pass it on to you. Give a bright future to our son. Please look after Nanna garu. He is old-fashioned and set in his ways. Have the child examined and treated immediately.

Yours, Raghuram.

Padmavathi could not give herself over completely to her grief for, just at that moment, the baby gasped for breath in her arms. And even as the chanting continued, not even waiting to tell her father-in-law, Padmavathi picked up her firstborn and rushed to the hospital.

The next day’s newspapers carried the news that a hardcore terrorist had been caught. It carried Raghuram’s photo. It also announced that the reward for his capture was given to Ramesh.

The same day the child’s fever subsided and Padmavathi returned with her son to find a huge crowd in front of her house.

Brahmins bustled around, paying homage to the mortal remains of Brahmashree Subramanya Shastri garu, the newly-discovered scholar. Avadhani himself stood supervising the arrangement. After all, it was not every day that a man performing a yagna dies while still in yoga. It was a privilege to attend to such a great man. And so Tiladaanam Subbiah, who couldn’t find a soul to accept Shanidaanam from him was carried out on his last journey eagerly, willingly, by the brahmins of Bhagyanagaram.

As for Padmavathi, she stands, her tearless eyes scanning the street, waiting for Ramesh.

Courtesy: Katha Prize Stories, Vol 2.