Bhava Read online

  A compelling tale of mystery, passion and spiritual exploration.

  Seventy-year-old Shastri, a reciter of harikatha, encounters an Ayyappa pilgrim on a train. Around the pilgrim's neck is a Sri Chakra amulet which looks like one that belonged to Saroja, Shastri's first wife. But Shastri thought he had killed Saroja years before, believing she was pregnant by another man. If the amulet is Saroja's, then she might have survived, and the pilgrim (Dinakar, a television star) could be Shastri's son. A similar story is revealed when Dinakar visits his old friend Narayan: either could be the father of Prasad, a young man destined for spiritual attainment. The interwoven lives of three generations play out variations on the same themes.

  Whose son am I? Whose father am I? Where are my roots? These mysteries of the past and present are explored, but there are no clear answers. And while significant in daily ‘being’, such questions lose urgency in the flux of ‘becoming’ (‘bhava’ means both being and becoming). So we are led to consider that samsara—the world of illusion and embodiment—may not be very different from sunya, the emptiness from which everything arises.

  At times a drama of cruelty and lust, at times a lyrical meditation on love and transformation, Bhava is an exceptional novel by one of India's most celebrated writers.

  Translated from the Kannada

  by Judith Kroll with the author

  Cover design by Pixxels

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  BHAVA

  U.R. Anantha Murthy, one of the most influential representatives of the ‘navya’ (modernist) movement in Kannada literature, was born in Melige village, Karnataka, in 1932. He was trained in a traditional Sanskrit school, and earned his BA and MA in English at Mysore University.

  In 1963, he went to England on a Commonwealth Fellowship. While pursuing Ph.D. studies at the University of Birmingham, he wrote his controversial first novel, Samskara. Published in 1965, it was a sensation in the world of Kannada letters. Samskara has been translated into many languages, and made into an award-winning film. Anantha Murthy's other publications include two novels, Bharathipura and Avasthe, and volumes of short stories, poems, and essays. Two of his stories, ‘Bara’ and ‘Ghatashraddha,’ have appeared in film versions.

  Anantha Murthy has been Professor of English at Mysore University, and he has taught and lectured widely outside India. He has served as Vice-Chancellor of Mahatma Gandhi University, Kerala; Chairman of the National Book Trust of India, and President of the Sahitya Akademi. His many honours and awards include the Masti Award in Literature, the Jnanpith Award, and Padma Bhushan.

  ∗

  Judith Kroll, American poet, essayist, and translator, lived in India for many years. Author of two collections of poetry, a book of literary criticism, and numerous contributions to magazines and journals, she teaches poetry writing at the University of Texas at Austin, where she is also affiliated with the Center for Asian Studies.

  U.R. Anantha Murthy

  BHAVA

  Translated from the Kannada by

  Judith Kroll with the author

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

  Author's Note

  Translator's Note

  BOOK ONE

  BOOK TWO

  BOOK THREE

  Afterword by Judith Kroll

  Notes

  Copyright

  Author's Note

  Bhava, like many of my other narratives, is a tale, although in its overall intention it is unlike any previous work of mine. Translating a tale in which an author aspires to the organic coherence and denseness of a poem in the language of its genesis makes one nervous and uncertain, for it doesn't possess the easily shared exterior of conventional realistic fiction. I feel fortunate that a poet translated the work with me, for I found her sensitive to the intended nuances in the original text.

  We went about our work in this fashion. I would do a literal translation of the original into English, often word for word, keeping intact even the sentence structures peculiar to my Kannada. Then I would talk about the form and meaning and subtleties of the passage. Judith Kroll would record my free renderings and then prepare from her notes and tapes an English version for my perusal.

  As a teacher of English, for many years I used English for discursive purposes. But my creative efforts were always in Kannada. This switching between two languages constantly had been a stressful experience. It was only when I collaborated on this translation that to some extent I ventured to use English for creative purposes. In the process, I learnt a great deal about what it is for the author of an original work in one language to collaborate with another writer and to see that work reborn in another language.

  The process of translating Bhava was also a chastening experience. I had taken for granted that my Kannada had adequately mediated what I wanted to convey. When I worked to convey the same experience in another language I became aware of the imprecisions, adjectival excesses, and so on, in the original. Therefore, while trying to put my original work into English, I have made some changes in it.

  The writing of Bhava was a new experience, for I found myself probing into regions hitherto unexplored by me. I had to do this tentatively, giving up a privileged point of view.

  I hope what I did in the Kannada will be conveyed to my English readers as well, through the efforts of a writer in English who showed remarkable patience and attention to detail in this undertaking.

  New Delhi

  1997

  Translator's Note

  ‘Bhava,’ derived from the Sanskrit root bhu, ‘to be,’ means both ‘being’ and ‘becoming,’ each containing the seed of the other. These two interwoven meanings frame Anantha Murthy's tale. Additional meanings—‘turning into,’ ‘life,’ ‘worldly existence,’ ‘the worl,’ ‘continuity of becoming (with Buddhists)’ (i.e., rebirth)—also inform the story.

  The Afterword could as well be read as an Introduction, particularly by those who do not mind, or may enjoy, a substantial preview of the plot (in this case, it involves what appears to be a murder). I have made a number of comparisons with Anantha Murthy's best-known work, Samskara, because of intriguing thematic overlapping, and because it offers an excellent example of the social consciousness and iconoclasm which has marked his earlier novels, from which Bhava is a departure. The Afterword may also be of interest in suggesting resonances of the new direction taken by Bhava.

  A note about notes. My intention was to make Bhava accessible without weighting it like a textbook. So the ‘Selected Glossary’ is fairly selective. I have not given definitions for a number of words (‘guru,’ ‘mantra,’ ‘darshan’) that may be familiar to many non-Indian readers, or whose general sense can readily be inferred; or for some words (such as those designating foods, holidays, festivals, deities) whose category is clear, and which in their particulars have only an incidental bearing on the story. A gloss is provided when knowing more about a word (‘kuttavalakki,’ ‘Shri Chakra’) amplifies an area of meaning in the story; or when omitting a gloss (as for ‘Emden Boat’) might leave a puzzling gap. In saying all this, I reveal a preference for leaving certain words in the Indian languages, at least some of the time, rather than translating every occurrence into English—particularly when a limited translation might impart a noticeable cultural charge or connotation (‘rosary’ for mala; ‘renunciation’ for vairagya).

  Several remarks Anantha Murthy made in the course of translating this work have been interpolated into the Afterword. (‘Anantha Murthy has commented …,’ for example, indicates such usage.)

  My own knowledge of Kannada is slight, though three years of formal Sanskrit study have been a considerable help, since many of the significant words in Bhava are Sanskrit. But this translation could not, obviously, have been done by me alone. That my collab
orator was the author is my punya.

  In part, I took courage and encouragement from the collaboration between Edward C. Dimock, Jr. and the poet Denise Levertov (In Praise of Krishna: Songs from the Bengali), and that between Shri Purohit Swami and W.B. Yeats (Ten Principal Upanishads).

  I am grateful to several of my friends in Shimla: I had useful discussions with Prof. T.N. Dhar, who also read a draft of the Afterword and made small suggestions that yielded big results; my neighbours Shyama Sharma and Anita Chauhan gave me food and affectionate friendship.

  M.S. Satinyu, who has encouraged me in all my Kannada-English translation projects, read an early draft of Bhava and made helpful remarks.

  The India International Centre in New Delhi provided a hospitable atmosphere in which some of this work was done.

  Grateful thanks are due to the Center for Asian Studies at The University of Texas at Austin for funds that enabled Anantha Murthy to come to Austin and work for a time on this project; additional funding was provided by the university's Texas Center for Writers.

  Shimla

  July 1997

  BOOK ONE

  1

  * * *

  Bhava: … becoming, turning into … being, state of being … worldly existence …

  —A Sanskrit-English Dictionary,

  Sir M. Monier-Williams

  When Vishwanatha Shastri's eyes fell on the amulet around the neck of the man sitting opposite, he felt as if a demon had entered him. Had a sign suddenly been revealed to him? The man wearing the amulet was sitting, legs folded, in an easy posture, delicately picking sprouts from a steel box. One by one, he would place the sprouts between his slightly open lips and move his chin as if he were eating ambrosia. Shastri also observed two other men sitting on the torn cushions of the first-class compartment. But the man wearing the amulet sat as if unaware of anyone else, his eyes looking out on thorny bushes, crows crying thirstily, and buffaloes dozing in the scant shade of their own making.

  Clearly the man opposite Shastri had taken the vow of Ayyappa—he was wearing a black kurta, a black dhoti, a small black towel over his shoulder; and against these black clothes the amulet around his neck compelled attention.

  Shastri occupied the window seat. He had a scraggly white beard, since he shaved only once a month, and he wore a green-bordered white cloth shawl wrapped around his upper body, as well as a dhoti with a matching border. He looked to be about seventy. The other two men wore pants and shirts. Only Shastri and the Ayyappa pilgrim, because of their traditional dress, appeared remarkable in the first-class compartment.

  It was afternoon. The two men dressed in pants and shirts had got their food from the station. One man in jeans, a meat-eater, did not want to discomfort either the Ayyappa devotee in his black clothes, or Shastri (who wore tulsi leaves in his top-knot), so he had climbed to the upper berth and, bent double, stealthily sucked at the bones. The other man who wore pants—but had kumkum on his forehead—was mixing rice with sambar, kneading it into a ball, popping it into his mouth, and chewing noisily.

  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.’