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The Singer by the River
(an historical novel aboutSouth Indias greatest composer)
by William J. Jackson
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Tuning up at the Beginning
Massive dark clouds crowded the night sky and went rumbling over the
Kaveri delta like immense elephants, trumpeting their thunder and stirring thesleeping countrysides restless energies. Lightning and thunder commanded
everyones attention. The earth shook as the clouds churned above the Tiruvarur
temple. Every leaf trembled on its stem and every heart skipped a beat and hurried
faster in the sudden silence. Lightning kept flashing on all the frightened faces that
night, and the air was filling up with raindrops now.
Lightning flashes shot down again and again, and darkness kept returning.
The wind was whipping around, flinging big tufts of hay from hay stacks in to the
air, and soon pieces of palm mat huts were sailing over head, flying as high the
palm trees, which swayed and bent like delirious dancers. The loose debris swirled
and smacked against the trees loudly. One stiff old tree groaned and then cracked
in the relentless wind. It teetered precariously, but then stood atilt instead of
crashing down. All the villagers were safely under cover, in their huts and homes.
A British explorer traveling with ten servants carrying his wardrobe,
luggage, and other supplies, including three cases of Madeira wine, had taken
shelter in a wealthy landowners home, and watched from the veranda. He was
glad to have escaped the storm, and to be able to watch and listen from such a cozy
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place.
Muslim soldiers were running around, shouting back and forth, trying to
secure their tents which were pitched among the mangrove trees outside the
village. It seemed like a tent catching an especially fierce gust of wind would lift
off and fly into the sky.
All the while, newborn baby Tyagaraja slept, while his parents,
Ramabrahmam, and Sitamma huddled together in the Praharam of the great
Tyagaraja Shiva temple in Tiruvarur. The hand-carved stone walls and pillars werethick and secure, but the noises outside were harsh and ominous. The parents
wanted to keep their baby safe. Their one-year old, Jalpesh, was noisily snoring. A
young priest slammed shut the temple doors, which appeared to be immense to to
the startled eyes of little Tyagaraja. Jalpesh stopped snoring when the door
slammed, but then yawned and began snoring again. The young priest propped a
pair of ox-cart shoulder bars (nugathadi)up against the doors to buttress them
against the stubborn wind. Baby Tyagaraja did not cry, but watched with curiosity,
and listened intently to the whistling wind and the percussion of debris slapping
and scraping against the slick surfaces.
Warm in his mothers arms, the baby hummed and gurgled along with the
sounds of the storm, accompanied by the rhythms provided by Jalpeshs snoring.
Ramabrahmam was surprised and laughed a little, and then he turned to the babys
mother. Good, he said to the child. Good! Sing! Slap the flanks of your
imagination-horse! Let your it gallop and fly away, fancy free! Make music out of
a noisy bone-chilling storm! I hope you do! Yes, keep on singing, my child! We
want you to! Sing on, and we will listen to you!
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The beady eyes of little Jalpesh peeped out from his blanket. He burped and
drooled and groaned, not bothering to wake up.
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CHAPTER ONE
Ears Cocked At the Threshold of Music
1.
In the rainy night the fertile Kaveri delta earth was drenched and refreshed,
and the sleepers were entertained by dreams till dawn. As always, waking to
sunshine felt like coming to life, being born in a new day, to people of all ages.
Except for Jalpesh as usual, he woke up grumbling, feeling nasty, zigging when
everyone else was zagging. But for nearly everyone else on the face of the deltaearth, all was sparkling and full of playful light, free and new.
Tiyagas consciousness glittered with the drops of shining water on the lush
green leaves and it sang out in echo to the birds which had been nudging the sun up
with cries of "Sing Sa Sa! Sa." It was fine to awake from swirling dreams into the
whirling day. It was time.
The birds were singing, and already the women and girls were preparing
their homes' thresholds, wetting the earth with water, smoothing it out with
auspicious cow-dung paste, drawing precise labyrinth designs. Letting the fine rice
powder slip through their fingers, they decorated their doorsteps with silent prayer.
They made simple and elaborate lotus flowers, mandalamicrocosms, which two-
headed peacocks guarded, to greet all who would go in and out that day.
In the distance, thunder grumbled a final remark from the gloomy night-blue
clouds which not long before had showered the village, causing the thatched roof
above the Tiyagas bed to drip. "Sa!" The rhythms of the drip from the early
monsoon rains had started out slowly. Evenly the tempo had increased, as the
patter on the thatch continued. How cozy to awake and hear the wind and rain. The
drips happily called. "Ram!" they said. "Ram! Ram!" Good king Ram and his
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brave brother Lakshmana were strong. They had bows and arrows, to win back the
beautiful princess Sita. Then they would return home to their kingdom, where
everyone loved them. They were perfect, pleasing to think of and sing to,
especially with drumming rain. "Ram!"
The pouring blue cloud had passed... Now the Brahmin boy stood at the
doorway, as his tall father began to chant his solemn Sanskrit prayers in the
background, and his mother bent over the vegetables she was preparing. The boy
watched the graceful rhythms of the white bulls pulling at the cart. Their heads
were bobbing and their legs were moving in a rolling gait. Their eyes were
peaceful, and there were little tinkling bells on the tips of their horns. The boycould hear a distant music calling... silky flowing slinky chains of notes, their links
ringing each to the next, a delicate jewelry of sound...
The rhythm of the bulls' gaits was the drumbeat, the turning of the wheels
over hill and down valley, rolling past flowers and pottery shards and shadows of
busy peasants -- that whole flow of change -- was the melody, the ragawith its
distinctive shape and flavor.
The old man who sat in the bullock cart had ash-streaks across his forehead.
He was like Shiva, the great dancing God, in the boy's imagination. The old man's
turban had folds which flowed like the Ganges river. A shadow in the folds looked
like a crescent moon. The old man's forked-stick goad was like the trident Shiva
carried. The boy smiled as the old man coughed and spat. The stained towel around
his wrinkled neck was like serpents; the dirty dhoti-cloth wrapped around his waist
and thighs was grey like an elephant skin. All these were the emblems of Shiva in
disguise. The boy he ard the faint music still...
Smack! Surprise clapped his ears from either side -- older brother Jalpesh
had crept up behind him and slapped his head from both sides. How it hurt! Their
father went on chanting his sonorous Sanskrit prayers in the background. The
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passing cows looked up with shiny dark eyes, and the little boy's shock and anger
subsided and his heart stopped racing. He thought how the heartbeats are like
drumbeats, and ideas passing through the mind are like ragas. The wind rose and
rustled leaves and flowed to cool his face, and he sighed, while at the nearby well a
girl bent over and spilled joyously splashing waters from an earthen jug. It sounded
happy, like friends calling in the future. Splashes and tinklings sounded good, like
laughs and birdsong...
Then cranking and cranking the water up again, the girl giggled as she filled
the vessel. "Ayooo!" Again small-chinned Jalpesh slapped Tiyaga's head. "Hey!"
And as little Tiyaga went out, away from Jalpesh and toward the finer song, outthere, he wondered who was thrumming and strumming on the distant strings, and
who was behind the way everything churned with singing, if you listened closely
enough. But like the chanting of his father in the background, the music from
beyond grew fainter. At the well the last drops dripped: "Ram... Ram... Ram..."
Run, run all the way to the river. Go!
How Tiyaga loved the smooth and steady Kaveri River. She was a Goddess
who gave green life to the world around, making the province of Thanjavur the rice
bowl, the grain bag, the rich granary of the South. The Kaveri delta was lush,
waving with an ocean of green leaves watered abundantly with auspicious rivers of
fertility. Pools of sky-mirroring water with red lotuses in their midst were shining
near the river, and marshes of purple flowers, with colorful parrots and trees full of
mangoes and date-fruits. His father once told him " The origin of the name Kaveri
is the Tamil for tumeric, muddy ochre color. Kavimeans reddish ochre, eru
means river, er-Imeans a sheet of water. So Kaveri, the 'Yellow-river' is also
known as 'The Golden Lady.' Goddess Flowing Brightly." The Goddess Kaveri
was pure energy coursing over the earth.
At the river Tiyaga stepped down the stone stairs for his morning bath.
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Standing already in the water was weird old Narayanarupee. The curious old man
was amusing himself, catching in his cupped hands the small fish which nipped at
his legs as he stood in the water. He kept setting them to wriggle and flipflop on
the stone stairs, giggling all the while, to see then squirm and worm their way back
down into the water, so they could softly nibble at his calves again.
Tiyaga's brother Jalpesh would sometimes run errands for this man.
Narayanaru pee was quite fond of Jalpesh. Jalpesh had earned more than one odd
coin minted by the British and Dutch East India Companies, as well as occasional
sweets and foreign novelties. Tiyaga could not say he liked the 70 year old man,
who was deaf and grotesque of chin and belly. He always seemed weatherbeatenlycynical and interested in trade alone. Villagers joked that centuries ago, during the
glorious Chola dynasty, when there was a tax on begging, this man's ancestors had
been beggar's tax collectors. His grotesque chin and nose somehow made the story
seem possible. Narayanarupee was a Niyogi Brahmin. Niyogis were often village
accountants, and were not averse to working as administrators for Muslims and
Europeans. He spoke Telugu, as Tyagaraja's family did. But Tyagaraja's family
belonged to the Vaidiki branch of Brahmins, who chanted the ancient scriptures
and avoided the powerful foreigners. Both Telugu Niyogis and Telugu Smartas had
come South generations before, w hen Telugu Viceroys of the Vijayanagara
Empire governed Thanjavur.
Narayanarupee's toothless mouth said, "Have you noticed? There've been no
stars at night for four nights." His eyes were squinting. He had a small growth on
his forehead and a crooked grin.
Tiyaga thought he had seen stars at least two of the four nights, but he said
nothing. He thought of how Narayanarupee muttered the numbers of money he was
counting like a mantra(a holy spell) with profound joy, with strict regularity and
the utmost sincerity. Narayanarupee was a purveyor of British merchandise, which,
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according to certain people of Thanjavur, including Tiyaga's father, did not suit
Hindu people's needs-- shiny shoes which were hot and stiff, brandy, guns,
cosmetics and the latest fashions from far off England... The deaf businessman's
worship of the elephant-headed deity Ganesha, and Lakshmi the Goddess of
Prosperity, always seemed to Tiyaga to be all external religion, a part of his
business, public relations transactions for the gods. A bribe for Ganesha the god of
auspicious beginnings and alms for Goddess Lakshmi, giver of material goods.
"His prayer is to nurse on Lakshmi's purse!" villagers joked. It all seemed
concerned with seeking good luck and riches, with no regard for inner feelings.
Jalpesh with his small chin and bitten figernails eagerly followed this old man andhis ways, and the old man fondly showered favors upon him, calling him softly,
"Jall-peh-esh," and calling him "Little Squirt!" too. Jalpesh also learned to chant
the numbers of money, like a Vedic verse of larger and larger figures.
One day Narayanarupee gave Jalpesh a lump of lead, as a curiosity. Jalpesh
gnawed on it for several days, before his mother took it away from him and threw
it into the Kaveri.
Another time, the old man ridiculed Tiyaga when some new coins had
dropped at the boy's feet. Tiyaga stood listening to the ring they made when they
hit the stones and rolled in all directions. The ring of the small change had inspired
him to hum a few notes, rather than stoop to collect the coins. Jalpesh dived and
gathered them all before Tiyaga came to his senses. The old man said: "A fool will
not recognize opportunity when it stands before him." And he said with loud
confidence that Jalpesh would always do well, because he was so smart and quick.
Now, standing in the river near the bank, Tiyaga felt the nibbling of the
fishes mouths at his calves. They tickled and he brushed them away, but they kept
coming back. Although Narayanarupee was a Telugu Brahmin, Ramabrahmam did
not feel very comfortable with Jalpesh's apprenticeship to the old man.
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Narayanarupee's eyes seemed lacklustre, and Ramabrahmam distrusted his ways.
But at least he gave Jalpesh something to do. Now Tiyaga poured the holy Kaveri
water over himself and prayed the Sanskrit prayer he had heard from his father.
As Tiyaga left the riverside he heard peasant children singing a song listing
varieties of Thanjavur paddy-- ten, fifteen, twenty names of rice, from poor
quality-- kar-- all the way to the best--samba. Some he recognized, some he did
not. He passed by the graves of the wanderingsannyasins, the renunciate holy men
who many years ago had been buried near the bank of the river. Ordinary
householders were cremated on the banks, but holy men were buried, in sitting
posture, as they had done while alive, in meditationsamadhi, the trance state ofpeace beyond understanding. Wind brushing distant branches, was that cause of the
far off song he heard? The wandering holy men had lived absorbed in thoughts of
the divine King Rama, they had identified themselves with the formless Shiva,
beyond all this flux, his father had said. The holy men had repeated the holy name
and thought of the Supreme all-joyful infinite consciousness-- until, like a river
running into an ocean, they were lost in it; their names remained, immortal, though
their forms had now perished.
As he did every day, Tiyaga collected flowers in the dew-besprent
feathergrass for family worship, at which he sang and recited. On his way home he
saw little Parvati, Ginger Venkataramana's daughter. Ginger was a respected
Thanjavur Court musician and music teacher. "There will be music today," the girl
told Tiyaga. "And special worship." Tiyaga loved to listen to her father play the
vina;his hands caressed its strings like wild birds flying through clouds. Parvati
liked Tiyaga's shy face and his politeness. Though his brother Jalpesh had that
same fine wheat-colored complexion he was a great troublemaker. But Tiyaga was
gentle and respectful, she thought. He had sensitive hands and a pleasant voice. He
seemed to be kind.
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Tiyaga entered softly with the flower offering, and worshipped at his father's
altar, singing a song to Rama. Having had the breakfast idlis, those small fine
steamed rice cakes his mother had set before him, he began to think of Ginger's
home across the street. There would be fresh garlands strung on strands of fiber
from plaintain tree bark, circling around the necks of the decorated deities. There
would be music. There would be a smiling row of deep green mango leaves
decorating the lintel of the doorway...
2.
Suddenly he was there on the threshold and he stood listening to the song
phrases being taught by the master, the tones of strings weaving intricate tunes,made all the stronger by the lively thudding pulse of the drums. Feeling on the
threshold of the world that mattered most to him-- the world of song-- he closed his
eyes, immersed in the elevating intangible power of euphonious sounds.
The painting of Ganesha, the elephant-headed deity, was heaped with
flowers. There was a festive mood in the air, and special holiday foods with
tantalizing spicy aromas were being cooked around the corner.
This was the annual day of Saraswatipuja-- it was Vijayadasami day, the
climax of the "Nine Nights" festival celebrating the victory of light over darkness,
wisdom over ignorance. This was the day when the instruments would be honored.
Before the household shrine, on clean mats the students of music arranged their
stringed instruments -- tamburas and vinas -- and their percussion instruments --
mridangams and tamborines and cymbals, and all the other instruments of musical
performance in neat rows, to be worshipped representatively, as though they were
the very body of Saraswati, Goddess of learning. They had been daubed with
sandalwood paste, decorated with red, yellow, orange and green leaves. The
palmleaf music manuscripts were stacked carefully and red flowers were placed on
them, and they were daubed like the door with three horizontal stripes of
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sandalwood, and honored with a brightly colored kumkumdot in the middle line's
center. All the instruments were offered flowers and incense, fruits and cloth, red
kumkumpowder and vermillion, broken coconut and waving camphor flame;
lighted oil lamps burned steadily before the Saraswati image. All the musical
instruments were garlanded lovingly.
"It is a cosmic instrument. The staff or dandaof the vinarepresents Shiva,
the strings represent Parvati, the dragon oryarlihead, Vishnu; the bridge is for
Lakshmi, the balancing gourd, Brahma, the connecting metal cone Sarasvati-- the
vinais the abode of all divinity, source of joy... The mridangamwhich keeps the
time of a song is the "queen of percussion instruments, very ancient. In SaundaryaLahariParvati the divine mother is the first mridangamplayer pounding out the
rhythm of the cosmic dance of creation. The sound of this drum gave power and
support to bring forth creation. After Parvati Nandi, the bull was the court
percussionist of Shiva -- drumming away with his hooves. The front face of the
drum is the sun, the back the moon, the ropes tied are Vasuki the cosmic serpent,
the wooden part is cosmic Mount Meru, Nadam or vibration is the nectar of
immortality, amritam. The drum can depict the nine rasas, the essential flavors of
emotional moods, and the tenth: bhakti's sweet peaceful heartbeat." The teacher
was explaining as he arranged each instrument.
Full of wonder, the boy folded his hands and offered reverence to those
celestial instruments. He gazed upon the magnificent carved wooden peacock
which formed the tambura's stem.
On their neatly arranged mats the students sat and performed for their
master, singing the great South Indian saints' songs. Tiyaga knew some of them
from his mother's singing: songs of Purandaradasa, the roaming minstrel of
Kannada country, who had composed thousands of songs. They were lively pieces
mocking hypocrites' religion used "for the belly's sake," and praising complete
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dedication to the Lord who had taken birth as Rama and Krishna. There were also
lively songs of Ramadasa, the saint who had lived two centuries before, famous for
spending the money of his employer, a Muslim ruler, on glorifying Rama. Rama
rescued Ramadasa from prison. Ramadasa composed songs in Tiyaga's own
language, Telugu.
A singer sat directly in front of the tamburastrummer and from the angle of
Tiyaga's view the arm strumming the tamburaseemed a third arm of the singer. He
smiled. Tiyaga closed his eyes and floated with the eternal cricket drone as if
immersed in the mooncloud night beyond...
Worshipping the instruments, honoring them; worshipping music,worshipping the supreme, worshipping silence. How to worship the instrument of
your own voice? Apply cool sandalwood to your throat and sing of the delight of
Rama in your heart. The endless ocean waves of the tamburadroned, echoing
eternity; the rising and falling ragaof voices singing together was everywhere.
Tiyaga felt in his own element in this atmosphere, which seemed to him the holy
headwaters of music...
3.
Saraswati puja satisfied him because it was a recognition of the power and
grace in learning and playing and mastering mus ic. This ritual expressed wonder
at the marvel of musical instruments and the whole magical process of sweet song.
Vijayadasami, the "day of victory" when Saraswatipujatakes place, is the most
auspicious day to begin learning-- the young are inducted into the mysteries of
music with the singing of the seven notes. The ragathe students were practicing
evoked a mood of excited cheer. How Tiyaga yearned to begin. In his mind he
practiced and sang with them. Auspicious leaves strung across the threshold
fluttered above.
After the instruments were worshipped and played, a green gourd the size of
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a human head was cut open and red powder was put inside it. The eldest student
carried it out and smashed it in the street. Tiyaga mentally threw himself at the
mercy of Rama, when the gourd broke and the red was dashed, thinking, "Let me
become an instrument, singing songs to Rama."
Again the rains poured, as he stood on the porch alone listening to Ginger,
the master musician, play and play.
How could he ever learn such art? In the imagination's dream-town of music
he wandered, wanting orientation, drifting up this street and that, enjoying the flow
and rhythm, music within him and without, dizzily bewildered... All the students,
dressed in their fresh new clothes, were given sweets and treats. The wind throughthe doorway was refreshing.
Ginger turned toward Tiyaga during the celebration, and walked over to him.
"Very good, I'm very happy; like the silent chameleon you listen well, and wait
patiently, this is the way to catch." His hand went out and closed in the air.
Knowing Tiyaga's sensitivity, Ginger laughed, "No, I'm not calling you a lizard.
You are a Brahmin-born and -- what is more -- a Brahmin-become. You listen with
full attention, and you are a sincere young man. You are most welcome here. I do
not think your family has come to Tiruvaiyaru by mere chance. No. It is by God's
will. Come, take some sweets. You too are welcome. Here." He offered laddus,
sweets rolled in a ball made of lentil flour, sugar and ginger. "Let me hear you sing
that note, 'Saa!'" And Tiyaga sang the "Saa" clearly and sweetly and sincerely.
"Tsalabagundi! Manchadandi," Ginger smiled, "That's very good, very good.
Tiyaga's voice is tiyyaga-- sweet!" he punned.
No wonder Tiyaga felt attracted to this home. He sensed he fine vibrations,
the happy affection. And Ginger's daughter Parvati understood him, she could
sense he was able to hear things in the silence which the noisy types like Jalpesh
did not. The celebration was fun, and soon the rain stopped. Parvati knelt, helping
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her father give out consecrated fruits from the puja. "Have someprasad," Ginger
smiled, handing Tiyaga a mango offered to the deity during the worship.
4.
Navaratri celebrations meant nine days and nights fasting, eating only milk
and fruit dishes. They meant nine steps set up in the puja room, with images of
Goddesses, and Siva and Visnu, and other forms of God. There was Rama and
Sita, with Hanuman kneeling nearby. Saraswati, and Durga. There was a story
about Goddess Chamundeshwari in a battle against the Buffalo demon. After the
victory, the tenth day was dedicated to Lakshmi, Goddess of prosperity, a day to
start new ventures. It was the custom to write out the Goddess name Shri.Tyagaraja wrote it in flowing Telugu script, and it felt good, like being blessed,
strengthened, nurtured. He learned a new prayer and music, honored the teacher.
He got an idea, the impulse to sing a little melody of words, a little lyric of notes,
and it kept dancing through his mind, teasing him to give voice to it, to try it out...
After a dinner of rice and vegetable curry with snake-gourd, which was
Tiyaga's favorite food, the boy went with his mother and father to the riverside
bhajan hall, and with great absorption they sang soulful tunes glorifying Rama's
names and deeds.Bhajans, enthusiastic songs of love celebrating divine names,
were well-attended in Thanjavur; sometimes they were sung in homes, sometimes
in halls like this one, sometimes in temples where the celebrations of Rama and
Sita's marriage and reign were enjoyed by people of all ages. The leader would
sing a line, and the people sitting cross-legged on the floor, men on one side,
women on the other, would respond. Wonder at the magnificence caused everyone
who partook to become children in a magical kingdom. Waving bright flames
before the images, bathing them, giving them fresh clothes, offering food, music,
flowers; swinging them on swings, and other ritual acts and offerings made with
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accompanying songs. With the men on one side and the ladies on the other, full-
bodied singing filled the hall, chiplas, fish-shaped clappers jingling, drumbeats
pulsing keeping time, to keep the joy aloft.
Tiyaga's long neck with good vocal cords vibrating, his strong lungs and
tough little yogi-like body, and his subtly conscious ears able to detect pitch
perfectly, made him an excellent singer. His mother was a wonderful singer, her
electrifying voice could grow delicate and flutter like a leaf in the wind and it
could do curlicues of song like a leaf falling fancifully from a high branch to the
earth. She was a true singer, she knew the trills and felt the essence of the music.
She had taught Tiyaga many Purandaradasa songs. She could bring the past to lifein stories, and she had a great sense of humor. She taught Tiyaga about wit's power
to burst pretense and pomp like bubbles. The humorous muscles around her mouth
were often active and her big jaw was strong. To be with her was fun. She had
unflagging energy.
After bhajans, in the peaceful quiet, his father stayed to speak with a friend,
and Tiyaga and his mother began to walk home in the moonlight, enjoying the
simple deeps of the cool night.
Tiyaga asked his mother "Tell me about the place we lived before we came
to this village."
And his mother said, "Thiruvarur too is a very holy place. There is a story
telling why. One time, Indra the rain-god needed Lord Vishnu's help in fending off
the demons. So Vishnu gave Indra a magical talisman-- an image of God which
was very powerful. The name of this form of God was Tyaga Raja -- the King of
relinquishment, the ruler of renouncing-- Shiva as the ascetic dancer. (You are
named for him, you are our'Prince of letting go', Tyaga Brahmam.) Anyway,
Vishnu gave this image of God to Indra, and said, 'Never let go of it-- don't let it
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out of your sight.' Indra agreed. As time went on, Indra, still battling demons,
asked help from the King of Thanjavur, whose kingdom included the village
named Tiruvarur (where you were born). And to the Thanjavur King, Indra gave
the sacred image of Tyagaraja, which he had promised not to let out of his sight,
and naturally the King was victorious over the demons. The king had artisans build
a temple in Tiruvarur village and had Brahmins consecrate and install the image he
had gotten from Indra. The holy temple and image still stand there at the center."
"But what happened, since Indra broke his word?" Tiyaga asked.
"Oh yes. Too bad, too bad. Poor Indra, having forgotten his word, fell from
his position in the sky and was born as an outcast, an untouchable pariah, to payfor his negligence. Ever since, a pariah goes ahead of the processions at Tiruvarur,
to lead the annual festival, holding a royal umbrella of pure white, symbol of Indra,
his pariah ancestor," she explained.
Tiyaga said, "Father told me about the cosmic person; from his eyes came
the sun and moon, from his blood the rivers. Brahmins are from his head, warriors
are from his arms, and the serving class from the feet -- all are part of the cosmic
person at the beginning. It is in the Vedas. But if Indra can become a pariah,
pariahs might someday become Indra. So why should Brahmins keep away from
other castes?"
"Your father will explain. I am telling you about the village, remember?
There is a Tamil saying: 'Good souls born in Tiruvarur attain deliverance, good
souls dying in Kasi attain deliverance from the rounds of reincarnation.' Tiruvarur,
where you were born has been famous for centuries as a spiritual center, Nayanmar
saints worshipped there, and it is the spiritual capital of the present Maratha rulers
of Thanjavur. It is well known for the music and dance flourishing in its precincts.
Tyaga Raja the dancing Lord and cosmic yogi inspires musicians there. Learn from
that -- we already have one family-member going to the pariahs."
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"How is it our family, Telugu-speaking people, came here to Tamil land?"
the boy asked.
"Your grandfather Giri Raja Brahma migrated from Andhra when other
Brahmin scholars and artists took up the Telugu Nayak rulers (before the coming
of the Marathas) on their offer of patronage, and moved south. Your other
grandfather, Subramanya Swami was also from the region north of here. But wait,
I haven't told you the most important part. Our connection to the dancing Siva is
very deep. Before you were born, I dreamed Lord Tyagaraja came to me, saying,
'A son will be born to you, embodiment of Narada the world famous musician-
sage. He will be a reincarnation of the epic poet Valmiki, singing Rama's story.Call him by my name. The Prince of Letting Go of Attachments: Tiyaga Raja.
Tyagaraja."
Tiyaga silently stared at the darkness, thinking of his mother's memories,
and of le tting go, flowing like a river, going beyond.
"You remember when you were five years old, you came down with a
serious ailment; we were very afraid for your very life. Your younger brother
Panchanadayya did not recover... But the saintly wanderer Ramakrishna Ananda
came and assured us you were born not to die young but to live long, and sing
God's many glories. He said all would hear your voice, as we hear Jayadeva's and
Purandaradasa's. And you recovered then," his mother said.
Beyond the lush layers of waving dark green a manmade mountain-- a holy
temple -- loomed high in the velvety blue, a living landmark orienting lives.
Hearing a distant flute Tiyaga's imagination flew up to the gate tower (gopuram)
crest and gazed at the stars shining down, happy and mystified. It was said that the
gopurams stood astride mountains which mortal eyes cannot see, heights which
link them to heaven. Thegopuramstood beside underground streams flowing to
the realm of the serpents and subterranean spirits, the sages said.
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"After you got well, your father decided we should go on a pilgrimage and
so we did. Visiting sacred shrines we came to the banks of the Kaveri here. It was
festival time and your father took part in bhajans. And in a dream the Lord
Tyagaraja came again, this time looking just like a Brahmin, telling your father
'Stay in this sacred spot.' A Brahmin neighbor reported this divine dream to King
Tulasinga, and when the king heard of it he was happy. He had our house on
Tirumanjana street built and then gave it to your father as a gift. Fifteen others
were also given to Brahmins around that time, and we were welcomed by our
neighbors with gifts of silk and rice... In the beginning was the dream."
The mother and son stood and spoke beneath a neemtree, waiting forRamabrahmam, Tiyaga's father, to catch up. Tiyaga's mother broke off a branch,
and snapped it into smaller pieces, to take home for toothbrushes.
"You know, last year, when you were eight, and you were initiated," his
mother said, "your father, knowing how serious you always are at worship, showed
you the deeper ways of devotion to Rama, and gave you charge of our daily family
worship, didn't he?"
Tiyaga nodded, remembering the day the mantraof light's inspiration was
whispered in his ear. That day he had put on the Brahmin's thread, symbolizing his
caste, and having the meaning that his head was poked through now, he was
halfway into a realm of light. He was thus "twice-born," a fledgling bird out of the
egg, born again to fly in the sky.
"When we listen to you sing, we have high hopes for you," his mother said.
"The Muslims may invade, the British East India Company and Dutch and French
may come here, but you can sing our tradition, keep it alive."
Tiyaga had wondered if any had heard him sing the little songs which came
to him. Now his tall thin father came up from behind. He had a yogi's intensity in
his eyes and voice. But he seemed worried. He said, "I'm here at last. Tiyaga, will
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you run on ahead and see if you can find Jalpesh? I don't see him."
The mother said "But--" and Tiyaga was gone.
5.
In the night of cricket chirrups and baby cries he ran alone looking for his
lopsided brother. Shouldn't be hard to find him, Tiyaga thought. His brother often
drew attention to himself, clapping loudly, mocking, jeering, laughing roughly. He
would be noticeable wherever he was.
Tiyaga's father, Ramabrahmam, a thin man with a narrow face and
intelligent eyes, said to his wife Sitamma: "The pundit thinks Tiyaga would make a
good teacher, given his talent in Sanskrit, and his love of the Ramayana.""Tiyaga is going to be a teacher, alright," Sitamma smiled. Ramabrahmam
marvelled at how bright her smile was, even in the dark. She had a pleasant face,
with dark eyes and braided black hair. At the foot of the old plantain tree the new
plantain sprout grows, she said.
"We have one son who swings from the trees like a monkey making
mischief, and we plan for our other son to be a great teacher. I hope we don't have
our hearts broken."
"I'm only saying what I see so far and hope for. The dream which brought us
here was no illusion. I sense spiritual power in the boy. It was in him as a baby --
when the music would begin he would stop nursing, and listen, full of wonder at
the song. What other baby does this? What other worshipper do you know with the
concentration this nine year old boy has? Let him study music and sing so all can
hear. Let him sing the songs of old, but also the new ones in his soul. A child
knows things an adult does not know. A mother knows that."
"But he's just begun to become a scholar. Let him become a great scholar,"
his father said.
"He's a born musician, its obvious. He's sensitive, able to listen very deeply;
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my grandfather was like that. He'll be a great musician," insisted his mother.
"His voice may change. Let him have education to make a solid mind and
character, a secure life," his father said.
"But where's the soul food he longs for? Where's the adventure and joy in
that? Memorizing grammar doesn't feed a hungry heart," his mother frowned.
"Jalpesh is the adventurer. I'd rather we be quiet Brahmins comfortably at
home," his father answered.
"How can you compare Tiyaga and Jalpesh? Tiyaga immediately repents at
the slightest rebuke. Jalpesh resents the slightest hint of much-deserved criticism.
Tiyaga's adventure will end in peace. Let him follow his best intuitions like a path.Purandaradasa reached his destination, so will our son reach his; Ramadasa wa s
protected by King Rama, so will Tiyaga be," his mother said with certainty.
"They're like those two stars, one the steady polestar and the flickering unreliable
one near it, there," she said, pointing.
"The world isn't always so simple. Haidar Ali and his forces are creeping
South; the British and the French traders are digging footholds on our soil. They're
settling in the port towns. Missionaries are learning Tamil. Our people need strong
leaders with knowledge. I learned the scriptures by heart. Let Tiyaga learn the
Puranas, the classical Telugu of Potana, as well as Sanskrit," his father suggested.
"I suppose. But deep inside I still hope he becomes a composer, rather than a
dull pundit. He's something special. I still believe the dream I had-- it's still vivid in
my mind," his mother said.
"My dream too is still alive. But after our disappointment with Jalpesh I
can't feel too secure in my fond hopes. Tonight as always in bhajans we sang of
surrender; well let's be surrendered. We'll leave it in God's hands. Maybe Tiyaga
will be a comfortable pundit; or maybe another Purandaradasa," his father
shrugged. "In the end is it up to us?"
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6.
Tiyaga's father thought of his son Jalpesh, then fought the depression which
that thought often brought.
While Ramabrahmam was a dharma-doer, who read from the Rama epic
daily, and followed the upright way of Rama, his son Jalpesh was a wild and crazy
boy, whom no one could tame. In school in Tiruvarur Jalpesh's dwarfish teacher
punished him before, after, and during each offense, but that had only made
matters worse. Jalpesh would see the cruel red eyes of the teacher, who was also a
cardplayer, astrologer, money-lender and priest. This man gave teachers a bad
name by hurrying lessons when he had a funeral to perform, and by always actingas if teaching was a constant irritation or a burde nsome chore he hated to perform.
The teacher didn't really care if the pupils knew their lessons, but he had
ways of causing them pain if they didn't keep in line. He took his little stick and
gave a fixed number of whacks for each offense. And when he was tired he had the
boys administer punishments to each other, so Jalpesh hated all his peers.
"Jalpesh is a quirky boy with many a nervous disorder; he doesn't seem
happy unless he is in mischief, dragging a dog through dust with a choking noose
till its tongue hangs out," the elders complained. "We fear he is a sign of the times
coming upon our whole community."
His father looked down, and then up into their faces. "I will see what I can
do," he promised. Jalpesh has trouble sleeping, that may be a cause of his
disturbed mind.
Ramabrahmam added prayers each day onto the hours of prayers a Brahmin
must say. He chanted to the divine power behind the golden sun: "Purify my son!"
He looked for ways to change his son's behavior. Jalpesh always seemed glad to
disobey and cause dismay. He slouched and slumped, and Ramabrahmam prayed:
Please straighten him out, Lord!
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Ramabrahmam waited for the right moment to speak with his son. Jalpesh,
I need to have a serious talk with you.
It sounds serious. In fact you sound like a grumbling goblin, he smirked,
running his nervous fingers through his almost, but not quite, black hair.
Are you trying to be rude and reckless, or does it just happen?
Yes. Well, well... Thats a deep subject... Get it? Well... deep. Deep
well?
"Jalpesh, we're Brahmins!" he would say, but this made no impression. You
are so pitiful. Always the underdog, never having the wherewithal everybody elsehas, why can quote t you be more like your brother? Must we punish you in public
even more?
The more you try to shame me, the more Im going to shame you, Jalpesh
threatened.
Ramabrahmam said, Why do you act like a stray dog roaming aimlessly,
when we are Brahmins? Do you feel you are a dog, a scavenger?
Maybe I am a ruler-- a ruler also scavenges, doesnt he? He takes booty
from a neighboring kingdom, isnt it? Brahmins are scavenging too, they go here
and there for meals.
How dare you insult me, how dare you insult our community. What is
wrong with you?
Im just a victim of my times. The right stars when I was born were not
aligned.
"Jalpesh, if you lose everyones respect, it will be difficult if not impossible
to win it back again.
Maybe youre right and maybe life is stranger than you think-- like me.
Well, everything passes, and we are all changelessAtman,sharing in the
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highest Spiritual Self," Ramabrahmam philosophized.
Blah blah blah, Jalpesh said, and Ramabrahmam was unable to go on
talking.
Jalpesh ran wild with a fierce energy, a manic explosion of confused
sensations and desires, chaos rupturing and forces spilling uncontrollably.
Thundrous belch, runny nose, stye in the eyes, drool and expectoration. Old men
would say, when he'd spit in public places, "Never used to see that in the old days."
Jalpesh goofily acted like a baby, without the least self-control. In fact sometimes
Jalpeshs parents traced his troubles back to birth. When he was born the umbilicalcord was strangling him. He was very blue and then pale as a ghost. He had gone
for a long time without breathing when he was delivered-- so long that everyone at
first thought he was born dead. When he was two or three years old he fell into the
river while his mother was washing clothes. He was under water for a long time
before his frantic mother could locate him and fish him out. Sometimes they
attributed his disturbances to those early events. Who can deny our vasanas from
previous births determine much in our lives-- for good or bad! But knowing this
did not solve the problems of how to deal with the problems Jalpesh caused.
"Dharma's rectitude must guide us, righteousness must guard us from our
enemies. We must follow the rules, Jalpesh," his father would argue, after an
offense. "Or all will be a mess." But Jalpesh differed, delighting in doing things
backwards, upside-down and inside-out. When people complained he said, Your
voice is shrill, be quiet.
Jalpesh played the devil's advocate. "Blah blah. My friends are desire, wrath,
envy, greed and delusion! Life would be boring without them."
When his father brought up the justice of the law of God,Dharma, Jalpesh
would say "I've nothing to do with the invisible-- it doesn't exist for me." He
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wandered aimlessly, ogling ladies, mooning around, getting kicked out of sweet-
stalls and bazaar lanes. Everyone knew him all too well and couldn't put up with
too much of him. He went from one wild joke to the next, getting to know the
toddy maker, getting sick as a dog, eating meat, going hogwild any way he could
imagine. He'd laugh loudly and grossly for no good reason and people had to put
their fingers in their ears and hurry away. "What a guy! He follows his impulses as
if he is unaware of any consequences!"
Jalpesh admired ruffians and rowdies, bullies and musclebound scallywags,
but feared he could never be one, because of his inferior stature and slightness of
build. He spouted a steady stream of invectives, and he bothered random people,wheedling and cadging from them. Hes a perfect lout-- except nothings perfect.
Jalpesh had no fixed routine, plan or profession; he made no commitment, having
no fixed way, he broke into many different situations, intruding wherever he felt
like it. He interrupted people by the river with his demands, blurted his every
thought, burped, slurped and chirped without inhibitions. The Brahmins of my
community seem trapped, he observed. They angrily denied it. He yelled at them:
You wont trap me, Im running free. Im gone when you want to stifle me. He
watched the iridescent fisher-king bird dive to the surface of the pond, grab some
small creature and fly off with it. Jalpesh grinned his lopsided smile, admiring the
way the fisher-king bird surprised his prey.
Jalpesh was drawn to ruined lives. He liked to mock and joke and fool with
messed up people. An insane man dressed in an assortment of colored rags, who
bummed around the village for a while, repeatedly had the rags stolen from his
tired old withered body, and he would find trash piled up on his head when he
awoke. Guess who? There was Jalpesh laughing nearby.
Jalpesh would be Eve-teasing a deaf and dumb girl down by the river -- she
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couldn't speak though she gestured-- and villagers would be all the more suspicious
of him. He would tap a blind beggar on the shoulder and hand her a stone. He
would look into homes at night, lurking behind trees, making weird noises. He was
a night prowler looking for dangerous laughs. A noisy nuisance by day, always
looking for trouble, a trickster riding the quickened pulse of contrariness by night.
The drummer to whose beats he danced was a wild and crazy one, and the full
moon always seemed to make him worse.
Like the song of pleasure he repeated mechanically without reason or
meaning, the rhythms of his nerves carried him forward, unsatisfied but looking for
the next sensation. And after every thrill there echoed his father's reproachingvoice, to which he would not listen, and his mother's rebuking eyes, into which he
would not look.
The way he pulls so many stunts, everone says his mind is stunted, she
said.
Nothing he does seems to stun us much anymore, Ramabrahmam
answered. Today someone called him a Brahma rakshasa and a moron.
Tyagaraja said, No, my brother is no rakshasa or moron. Hes just working
out his karma--we talk about karma, right?--well, this is his karma.
Even as a child Jalpesh ignored all warnings. He rammed himself through
life at breakneck speed, running himself ragged. He never stopped to muse on his
actions or their results. When he was being chased for misbehaving he would run
to any nearby garbage heap and stand atop it. Because it was unclean, smelly,
ritually polluting, his father would never climb onto the decaying mass of rotten
fruit, leaves that had been used as plates, rags and dust, excrement and sometimes
even the swollen carcass of a dead dog, rat, bird or cat. Jalpesh would step on the
dog and it would pop, emitting an odor that made passers by turn and hurry away.
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Jalpesh laughed as his father went home.
Jalpesh at night ran with the hot-to-trot dogs, twisted by heat, their tails and
tongues curled up and panting. When Jalpesh mocked and teased these yellow-tan
and cream colored dogs he made a face that looked like a comical caricature of
their faces with their lolling tongues. He harassed the dogs, barking at them,
chasing them and running from them, inciting them to bizarre behavior. His
somewhat misshapen face gawked dumbly at royal glamour when the retinue
passed in the distance, the lights, gold and silksaris of wealth. He followed in
fascination odd assort ments of travelers, gypsies, jugglers, thugs and poor
transients, halfway to the next village, or until they shooed him away. "Keep thatcrazy tatterdemalion away! We don't need one more mouth to worry about feeding!
Here comes the lunatic rowdy!" they would shout to each other.
But thats just what Jalpesh was after-- more food. He was always hungry.
When no one was looking he would take a handful of rice from Tiyagas leaf plate,
and when caught he would deny it. Insatiable Jalpesh seemed to eat for his tongue,
his eyes and his nose, his belly and his status. At every feast he found a place to
sit-- crashing weddings, ancestor feedings, prasad distributions, feedings for
brahmins; he was there receiving the kings gifts, and temple gifts, and missionary
gifts. But nothing filled his yawning emptiness. He was always chewing on
something, yet he remained thin as a rail. Did his nervous energy burn it all up, or
did a tapeworm of the soul swallow it? He didnt know. He belched and hurried on
to the next feeding. He was a stomach with a human face and beady eyes,
wandering aimlessly as a random parasite looking for opportunities, improvising
with whatever came along.
Jalpesh would watch a stranger's family in a thatched hut lit by an oil wick
lamp -- shattered faces of flames like facets of rock crystals; he'd howl demonic
sounds and run away.
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Being an outsider, Jalpesh tried to make his younger brother one too, by
telling lies about him.
"He claims to be the holiest soul in all Thanjavur province!" Jalpesh would
lie to neighbors. Jalpesh at home looked on Tyagaraja praying and turned with
disgust, after spitting on him. Random and unpredictable like a monkey in his
actions, he was a youth of low tastes -- sometimes biting and snarling like a dog,
often noisy as a crow, routinely scrounging in the night like a mouse or rat. People
sometimes called him "the Bandicoot."
Jalpesh nevertheless had a kind of luck and success. He had beginners'
luck in gambling, and seemed to get away with wild things."You'll pay for this outrageousness!" his father would warn.
Jalpesh saw the threat as idle. "How much will it cost?" he smirked.
Jalpesh, we Brahmins are above that. We do not stoop to that.
Hey, Im starvin here! Jalpesh exclaimed.
Nevertheless, no. And furthermore--
Empty stomach, dizzy brain! Jalpesh yelled.
But--maybe you have a tapeworm, because the rest of us are not always so
hungry.
Skinny butt! Jalpesh replied. Bag of bones.
You must be good.
Lets just accept that Im no good, and we can all go on from there.
Yet, when he wanted to, Jalpesh could settle down enough to run errands for
deaf old Narayanarupee, the East India Company purveyor. Jalpesh had a Dutch
East India Company coin, which he kept on his person as a talisman. He would rub
it for good luck, and feel the embossed V design over a C and an O. Smooth
round good luck, exchangeable for pleasure-- the coin made him gloat. It promised
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him a future. "Little Squirt, Little Squirt," he muttered.
And in a way Jalpesh was popular among the bored and news-hungry; they
liked to hear the sour notes he played and they encouraged his jarring disharmonies
as a source of tittering folly. He was the kind of madcap gossip who causes
confusion among friends and acquaintances and stirs up trouble for enemies.
Giving misinformation, "repeating" words he'd never really heard, implying
intentions never intended by innocent parties. When Tiyaga gave things away,
Jalpesh would say: "He stole them in the first place, clever boy!"
"Tiyaga is a simpleton," Narayanarupee was convinced, in large part
because of Jalpesh's skewed reports. And Jalpesh made lots of clownish noise sohe wouldn't hear his own conscience, and he attracted everyone's attention to
distract them, too, from serious concerns.
"How shameful that such a dolt as Jalpesh should be the firstborn of our
excellent Rama epic pundit! The Age of Strife, Kali Yuga, strikes again," weary
Brahmins said to each other. And they repeated the Telugu verse composed by the
wandering yogi Vemana: Much like a worthless wife is an idiot son; much like an
idiot son is a jeerer whos always a nuisance-- so says Vemana. While Jalpesh
was still a youth he was written off as a lost cause, an idiot son.
7.
Tiyaga looked for Jalpesh in the night, as his father had asked him. Listening
with all his senses receiving subtle vibrations. In the bells of his ears rang a note
sweet as a golden papaya. Tiyaga was alive to all the sounds and sights around
him, drinking them all in. He knew that when he found Jalpesh the percussion
would be raucous, the quiet would be jangled, he would feel irked as the nerves of
his face twinged with pain when Jalpesh hit him. The anger would rise up and he
would have to concentrate harder to hear secret songs.
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He ran along the road that led outside the village beyond the turnoff to their
home singing "Rama Rama Rama." Some commotion bustled up ahead -- some
organized disturbance of the night's quiet. The closer he approached the clearer it
got: fanfare and drums resounding, the glittering king astride caparisoned horses
prancing and parading with festive glory. "Jai! Jai!"
It was the Dance of the Horses with false legs,poikkal kuthirai. The dancers
were wearing stilts, with horses' heads and fl anks attached to their waists. And
yes, Jalpesh was there, his hair in a top-knot shaking like a little palm tree in a
storm. He was seated precariously on a shaggy earth-colored goat chomping on
leaves.The dancers turned and pranced, their gemmed turbans flashing with the
light of the torches which helpers held. The drumbeats in the crisp Shruva tala
rhythm led the horsemen through their stately paces. "Yay!" The whole wedding
party, and villagers who'd gathered there were enthralled. Drummers jumped and
reared up, prancing and dancing while they beat their drums. Tiyaga kept up his
song to this new rhythm. The dance enacted the bravery of a noble king,
celebrating the beauty of the loving princess. The goal of the players was rollicking
fun and with all their bells and horns and cries of triumph they went for it. "Yay!"
"Jalpesh, father sent me to find you." Tiyagas face, thin and handsome,
glowed in the moonlight.
"And so you have... Then?" Jalpesh joked defiantly. His face was thin and
hang-dog droopy, and it had an eerie look in the shadows.
"Let's go home, as father wishes," Tiyaga said.
Just then the little goat tried to get out from under Jalpesh, who was
straddling him as if he were a little horse; he laughed and an angry villager grabbed
the goat: "Stop it, you!"
Jalpesh said "Alright! Dance is breaking up anyway!" And he led the way
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now, hooting as he went. In the shadows he seemed to have serpents springing up
from his shoulders. In the dark and dusty path Jalpesh found an old rope, and was
flinging it up. Then he grabbed Tiyaga's wrists roughly, wrapping the rope around
them and tightening the knot. He led Tiyaga, who squirmed and resisted, dragging
him to a tree off the beaten path. He then succeeded in tying the rope around it.
"A joke is a joke; it's gone far enough!" Tiyaga protested.
But Jalpesh was on his way home, silent for once.
Tiyaga tugged and pulled for all he was worth, but that seemed to make the
knot tighten. It was sheer luck that Jalpesh had knotted the rope so well; with a few
loops in a few seconds he had put Tiyaga in a real bind.On distant huts subtleties of moonlight glowed and shifted like supernatural
puddles. Units of human feeling pulsing unconscious family music in the peace-
pious night moved closer to dreaming. Everyone would soon be asleep and Tiyaga
would still be alone, tied to a tree, where he would have to stay all night. "Help!
Hello? Mother! Father! Help!"
At first his face scowled, feigning indifference. Then the burning rage rose
up, and fear crept out. He clamped his teeth tight and made a small growling
sound. Then he opened his mouth and inhaled. Help!" His voice felt small in the
big night. "Rama Rama Rama," he hummed, getting used to the idea of waiting
there a long time.
Tiyaga breathed deeply and relaxed. No one came a long. Another crazy
situation, courtesy of Jalpesh. Tiyaga was tired. He didn't care. He was grooving in
the subtle night of downhome melodies deep in his nervous system accompanying
his voice in the key of Rama's name. The popeyed owl in the tamarind tree
watched a while then flew off. Tiyaga had music in him, and since music is a
conscious sleep, a dreaming philosophy, a sleepwalking dance and a heart full of
knowing he was free. He was soaring around though he was bound to a tree.
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He dozed off and saw a young king on an elephant; he was wearing blue and
had his bright-featured wife beside him.
In the skin-and-bones poverty of nothing happening, nothing including "I've
got nothing pressing on me, holding me down, hanging me up, hurting my spirit,"
Tiyaga waited, listening intently, singing in the night, dozing and coming to. Stars
moved, the moon moved. The lives of the humble under their tumble-down leaf
roofs limped toward another day through dreams of plump plenty...
And just before dawn, as a light rain began to fall, a passing monk named
Ramakrishna Ananda stopped and gently untied the knotted rope. He spoke
jokingly to Tiyaga about the knots of the heart which are released byenlightenment, and of the riches of high consciousness, of the far reaches of
freedom's peace. The holy man looked so small and slight, wearing just a sheer
orange cloth, yet he was stronger than anyone Tiyaga knew -- you could see it in
his eyes.
"A jewel can be possessed but also lost, even if you are a king. The name of
the jewel, retaining all the beauty of the namesake and evoking the valuable on
call, is the essence which cannot be lost. The singer-poet owns and multiplies and
distributes this treasure without ever losing it. It is his stock in trade. The song with
a jewel in it, a precious thing of thought and feeling which lives in folks' minds,
that's the beauty, Tiyaga." The monk's eyes said as much as his words. Tiyaga
nodded and rubbed his wrists. The monk went on. If you keep that mantra close it
will keep calamity far.
Tiyaga gave him a look of gratitude.
"The times are full of changes and disruptions. It will get worse before
getting better. Advances gained in centuries past, spiritual and cultural works must
not be lost. You can help keep alive the spark which each generation rekindles,
going all the way back to the fire of the vedic seers' vision."
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The monk asked Tyagaraja, Who is your ishtadevata-- your favorite form
of God? Tyagaraja paused a moment and Ramakrishna Ananda said, Rama is
dharma-- you like Rama if you like the proper order of society, the regard of the
lower for the higher. Rama is the perfect king to serve. Krishna is playful free-for-
alls, tricks, everybody rubbing elbows and mixing it up, no worries about whos
high or low, important or a nobody, old or young, rich or poor.
Tiyaga said, I am devoted to Rama.
Yes, said the monk, and the night music of crickets faded in the first rays
of dawn.
8."Tiyaga! You're alright? We looked and looked -- I've been worried sick!"
his mother said when he came in. "Where on earth were you?"
"Jalpesh tied a rope round my arms to a tree." The boy showed his mother
his sore red arm and began to cry. All the anger and frustration and hurt came
welling up and flowing out.
"My dear child, it is a great pity. Your father should have known. Jalpesh
has a nervous disorder. It's not entirely his fault. The Ayurvedic physician said he
has a disease of the nerves. He was born this way, can't help it. The medicines we
give him only seem to make it worse. Don't take his acts personally. I know it isn't
easy. I'm sorry. You must be quicker than he is, outsmart him. Don't let him get the
better of you, understand?"
Tiyaga said nothing, but wiped his eyes. He gritted his teeth wanting to go
out and pick flowers and tulasi leaves for worship. The plants grew in Pashupati
Kovil garden, freehold land given to his father by the king.
Tiyaga went out. He wailed to the soothing river. The waters were rolling as
always, lazy and lush. The great Chola king Tirumavalavan had built banks sturdy
enough to channel the turbulent Kaveri river, harnessing it for the farmers to use.
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Otherwise, floods would wash whole villages away. The music of the river
shouldn't drown out the music of the village.
The whacking and smacking of cloth against rocks downstream sounded
homey. Tiyaga wove a tune around that rhythmic beat, a song of the waters. If he
could be anything other than this, he would be a river flowing with feelings --
sssaaaaa-- muddled in monsoon season with turbulence, then growing clear in
moonlight, reflecting dawn, cool and inviting.
On the way home, passing the house of Narayanarupee, Tiyaga heard a faint
hoarse voice calling "Jallllpe-esh!" Jalpesh in fact was sleeping in the shade in
front of the house. Tiyaga knew that Jalpesh would never hear the fearful littlevoice rasping like a dry leaf scraping across hard ground. "Jalllllpe-esh!" the
whisper came again like an urgent mantra. "Jallllllpe-esh, Little Squirt!" Then the
voice pleaded, "Anyone! I dont care who you are! Help! Help me!"
Tiyaga answered the whimper and went in. There lay the old man on his cot
of knotted rope. Mouth dry, desperate yet with a distant glint in his eyes,
Narayanarupee lay there, unable to move. He moaned as in a nightmare: "I cannot
find the place of my ancestors, I cannot see!"
Tiyaga took the old man's twisted hand, and noticed by feeling the wrist that
something was strange. A rapid buzz-like vibration was alternating with a sudden
ceasing of the pulse. It seemed a strange sign to him, and he wondered how long
one could live with such a strange pulsing. Jalpesh, who had always been the
mango of Narayanarupee's eye, snored loudly, deaf to the old man's call. Tiyaga
poured a tumbler of water from the clay vessel, and the old man swallowed it
thankfully. Tiyaga fixed the pillow beneath the feeble man's head. He took a
palmleaf fan and stirred the air around the man to cool him off.
Tiyaga thought of his other brother, Panchapakesha, who had died while still
very young. Little Panchapakesha had sometimes run with Jalpesh, sometimes
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played with him. Tiyaga knew he too might have died at that time, just as easily as
his brother had died. Why not? Life is like the fast-playing fingers at the frets of
the vina-- who knows where the course of life will shift next. Yet it is a pattern,
beautiful, inevitable, just so. The Creator wrote a man's fate on his forehead, and
that was his destiny. Instead of dying, Tiyaga had been blessed to live a good life;
the monk Ramakrishna Ananda had blessed him.
Narayanarupee was breathing his last, the boy sensed it. Tiyaga kept
repeating "Rama Rama" until the man was still as stone.
"He is no more," Tiyaga said. Outside, the tall Kandal trees' buds were in
various stages of unfurling. White and red, the fully unfurled long petals stirredand wavered like tongues of flame in the mild breeze which brushing through them
formed a hushing sound-- "Ssssaaa..."
When Jalpesh found out what had happened he became very angry, and
started throwing things. Tiyaga, as always, was the one who could lull Jalpesh to
restful silence by singing him a song. Saaa... Thanks to Tiyagas soothing
lullabies, Jalpesh forgot the pain in his neck and soon was smiling in his sleep,
dreaming of playing funny pranks. Ssssaaaa...
CHAPTER TWO
Beginning to See the Way
1.
"Rrrrrri!" bellowed the oxen in the early morning. "Rrrrri!" Not too far from
home, in the field his father had been given by the king, Tiyaga was gathering
flowers for the family shrine room. And the silent cows of dawn streamed forth
from their pens, like the light in mountain clouds. The pretty-eyed cows, decorated
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for the harvest festival called Pongal, followed one another in single file. Their
heads and horns were adorned with beads, bells, colors and little spiral seashells, to
celebrate the fruition of the time just past, and with hope for the year to come.
"Rrrrri!" They shone like radiant milk, inspiring Tiyaga to think of the old
Vedic vision: The rays of light, the streams of milk at sunrise. Goddess Dawn, the
mother of cows, rides the skies on a chariot pulled by glorious milk cows. Her
flight is a music of plenty, her womanly beauty is radiant, like the healing
goodness of the Kaveri river flowing patiently along.
Tiyaga watched the slim peasant girl hugging the rounded vessel of milk
tucked close to her waist, resting on the curve of her hip, walking out like dawnitself: her brother with his staff drove the cows to their green grazing meadows.
The cows had a lazy gait and their eyes were like starry night, but so innocent.
"Rrrri!" the oxen were hungry and wanted attention.
Tiyaga liked to see the patient and peaceful cows. Today they seemed
especially beautiful to him. In the pasture they would freely wander, searching for
green stalks and leaves to chew and chew. "Rama, Ramachandra," Tiyaga sang to
himself. In the lush pasture the mother cows would low to their calves, and nourish
and fondle them, licking their faces, sprucing them up, while the tottering new
calves waited expectantly, blinking in the new sunshine. Streams of milk were
flowing for the calf. Later in the day, the milkmaids with praise would
affectionately call the cows with sweet song and more milk would flow and squirt
against the side of the vessel. At dusk the cows would be led back to stalls, and
crickets would sing in the moon-cast shadows, Rrrrriiiii.
Down on the Kaveri banks Tiyaga heard a Brahmin chanting. Shlokas rose
and fell in cycles.
Tiyaga liked the noble sounds of the ancient Sanskrit; he resonated with its
solemnity. Day after day, Tiyaga listened to his father recite the Sanskrit
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Ramayana, Rama's story, and he studied the Ramayana text and Potana's Telugu
Bhagavatamin the King's Pathasala school. And often he would sit on the narrow
front porch of his home and chant Vedic texts, or study the Shastras, the traditional
books of duties and rites. He would set down the palm-leaves etched with the
written word, and still its rhythms would echo in his mind, merge in the heart-
pounding of his blood, and the steady flow of breath in and out of his lungs. Tiyaga
listened to the music being taught on the porch of Ginger Venkataramayya'a house
across the street. He lived in the world of fine feelings, purified by his love of
Rama, a world of deeper energies responsive to the moments of life, yet able to fly
beyond. With the taraka mantra, which his father had taught him at eight, hedeveloped a strong concentration. He hungered for some deeper goal; what it
would be like he did not know. Words alone, majestic Sanskrit, or homey
mellifluous Telugu, never seemed to fully satisfy the longings of his heart. But
from time to time, music could. Sweet singing could dissolve it all in peace and
wonder. The Vedic chanting turned in his mind from mantra chanting to rhythmic
song, notes cycling along.
Tiyagas brother Jalpesh was agog over cockfights and colorful costumes,
curious belongings of gypsies, and wandering tricksters with trained apes or
dancing bears or fortune-telling parrots, but Tiyaga loved to hear folksongs, the
melodies of oxcart drivers, Tamil ballads of love and war, and temple music, and
he was thrilled to see an open air drama of Rama and a musical shadow play of
itinerant puppeteers. Whenever Jalpesh saw valuables, his already narrow face
looked as if it was being squeezed by clamps, and it drooped with envy and
outrage that the impressive signs of wealth were not his. When Tiyaga saw
bunches of bananas, gems in jewelry, baskets of flowers, he thought of clusters of
notes in musical phrases. The hacking of the woodcutter, the auspicious kolam
designs of fine rice powder drawn by women every morning at the thresholds
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(Mandalas, lotuses, peacocks), the banging of builders, the cries of vendors,
birdsong and sounds from an array of sources-- these his mind played with and
processed, designing fantastically delicate arabesques of rhythmic notes,
rehearsing subtle liquid filigrees of sound. "Rama Rama Rama" was the constant
background. His mother generated a fragrance in her everyday acts, chopping
vegetables, for example, an aroma was soft, sweet and musical. With his mother
Tiyaga would go to a bhajanparty. They would stop at the temple and listen to a
performance of King Shahaji's songs. His father told him of the seven echoes
which one sound produces in the temple of Tiruvayaru. "The holy primordial
vibration Omis the source of the seven tones," his father told him. "From eternalunity, vibrations give birth to variety in order." Brahmins at the temple's inner
sanctum rangpujabells, inspiring reverence, and these ringing tones and other
sounds gave Tiyaga insights into the logic of sound sequences, the flow of melodic
patterns.
Of all the forms of God, Jalpesh liked best the mischievous Baby Krishna--
the supreme prankster stealing yogurt and butter. Jalpesh was not interested in
Rama. Rama seemed to him too serious and formal, too solemn and righteous, too
controlled in his aloofness. Rama seemed to hover far beyond the world of Jalpesh.
But Baby Krishna might do anything-- lie, steal, kill big rakshasas, overcome
monsters, swallow forest fires, hold up a mountain on his little finger.
Tiyaga was calm and self-restrained. He sat contentedly and hummed
melodious songs. He turned inward to enjoy the light within. He gathered his
energies and grew stronger in spirit and stamina. Jalpesh could barely restrain
himself. In fact he couldnt. He threw up, belched, expelled gas, drooled, sneezed,
yawned, squirted diarrhea and laughed compulsively. Could he control any of it?
People said he was strange, and Jalpesh can be a very arguesome fellow. In the
market Jalpesh would argue with a fruit merchant for hours and then say, No I
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have decided not to honor you with a purchase. Each merchant who experienced
this, dreaded to see Jalpesh coming and tried to shoo him away. He was too much
of a pest to deal with day after day.
Why cant you be more like Tiyaga?
Because Im not like Tiyaga. Im me!
Tiyaga watched his mother busy in the kitchen sunlight and wondered about
his family's dependence on the king. The food his mother cooked was provided by
the king. Tiyaga asked, "Why should this be so? Why should we rely on human
beings?"
His mother was afraid he might become asannyasin, a monk, rather than ahouseholder with a family. But she always encouraged his love of music and was
proud when Tiyaga would compose a fitting lyric. She gave him her carved
jingling fish-shaped clappers to keep time when he sang, but then Jalpesh took
them, and no one ever saw them again.
Around that time Jalpesh got a role in a dance drama. It was the part of
Hanuman and it mostly involved leaping from place to place and cavorting like a
monkey in a Hanuman costume. Jalpesh watched the actress playing Sita sing and
dance, expressing her longing for Rama.
At daily worship at home, Tiyaga sang a song based on an old folk tune, an
oxcart driver's song. It had been on his mind for a few days.Namo namo
Raghuvaya-- "Glory be to Rama forever! King of the Raghu dynasty." His father
had never heard this song before and rightly suspected Tiyaga had composed it.
Tiyaga was getting taller, lean and wheat-colored like his father. His broad
shoulders, resonant throat, and reflective face each year more mature. As Tiyaga's
mother had great hopes for him, so his father more and more let himself hope.
The next day when Tiyaga asked his father "Why do we rely upon the
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king?" Ramabrahmam told him, "When I go to court tomorrow to recite the Rama
epic, you may accompany me. You will learn about life." Tiyaga was not sure what
to think, but he smiled and waved his head like a cradle, a South Indian sign of
agreement.
2.
Tiyaga listened to the songs from the fields as he and his father walked to
the capital, Thanjavur. "Music everywhere," he murmured.
His father agreed. "The smallest star in the sky purrs a song.Anahata, sound
of the unstruck chord, is singing throughout space. There are people in our village,
the ultra orthodox, who are hyper-critical of musicians. They think of them as inthe same class as dancers, and gallants. People who live to amuse. There is a
narrow staleness to some orthodox thinking. 'Manu the ancient lawgiver says no
Brahmin should make his living by music,' they say."
"Even musicians who live only to sing praise?" Tiyaga asked.
"Some people lump them together with dancers, courtesans, carousers. I
don't," Ramabrahmam explained.
"What do they think of Narada, the ancient singer of Vishnu's praises?"
Tiyaga wondered.
"They can't see him in connection with the present. He is long gone, not
someone to be like. They listen to the stories, then go back to sleeping and eating,
with no effect made," Ramabrahmam said. "They call musicians frivolous
parasites."
The path turned and they squinted into the glare of the sun.
They passed a hay wagon piled tree-high with hay. The blue painted wheels
were as tall as Tiyaga's father. In the shade the white bulls chewed contentedly
while their master dozed beneath the wagon in the shade, his head propped up,
using the wheel-rim and spoke as a pillow, his feet propped up on the other wheel
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like a footstool.
Tiyaga had a thought of how music is like travel, and pilgrimage -- music
travels you -- you go places in inner landscapes with its freeing power. He tried to
explain to his father. "Music carries you, it is a path for pilgrimages to far places
within." Ramabrahmam agreed: "It melts the heart. Music is like cosmic harmony,
all the winds and waters, weathers and creatures of creation seen as singing with
inspiration-- if you don't listen and participate, you're untuned, and not playing
your part."
Now they could see theshikhara, the temple spire, looming up beyond the
tall palm trees, reaching to the clouds in the bright sky. The temple-top seemed tonuzzle up against the low clouds like a calf up to a mother cow.
"I wonder if anyone except spiritual musicians can reach life's goal. And
some people think musicians are lowly. It's very strange," Tiyaga mused.
The sun's relentless intensity poured bright golden rays on their bare heads
and shoulders.
Tiyaga thought of ways that music could be considered as a meaningless
jingle. "You can have it for an old song" meant "you can have it dirt cheap, almost
for nothing." In song all things could be glamorized. War has its songs. No doubt
bad men could buy songs of praise from hungry musicians. "Music can be abused,"
he admitted to his father. "But it can be so great -- a sign of perfection -- when
played in the right way." A bony brown cow looked peacefully up from the shady
roadside, chewing her cud.
When they reached the palace compound walls they saw the royal horses
with leath er saddles being led to their stables. How well fed and groomed they
seemed, shining in the sun, clipping along at a smart trot. They seemed quite
important. They saw the European Frederick Schwartz who was overseeing the
construction of a school building. Both Ramabrahmam and Schwartz were
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preoccupied at the moment, otherwise they would have greeted one another as they
usually did. Schwartz was a European perfectionist. He was tearing apart some
construction work that had not been done correctly. It must be done all over
again.
Ramabrahmam and his son took off their sandals and washed the dust from
their feet in a fountain-fed pool.
Schwartz passed that way and said hello. A European was overseeing the
construction of another nearby building. Ramabrahmam folded his hands and
greeted his old friend. As always, the man's clothes looked odd to the boy. Theywere oddly square-shaped and dark. Schwartz came over and spoke to
Ramabrahmam in Tamil. It was second language for both Schwartz and
Ramabrahmam but they managed a brief exchange. Schwartz smiled and re-opened
an old conversation with an invitation and a challenge.
"Why not send your son to my school, where he can gather useful
knowledge?"
"Why should we learn English?" Ramabrahmam asked.
"It will be the medium of the future here. The British East India Company
will continue to offer employment in this region. Advanced civilization will be
possible, even here. The old rituals are dying now. You are an intelligent man, you
see how things are going."
"I pray for the life of all. May your rites, and mine, thrive. May God bless
all."
Schwartz smiled. "Let's call a truce, my friend. Listen, last year when Lord
Pigot, governor of Madras, restored Tuljaji Raja to the throne, the king was so
happy and grateful he said, 'The court of Thanjavur is the Company's. I have only
to beg that they will preserve my honor.' Not a good sign, when a king bows and
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begs. The forces at play in the country are fearful, believe me. The wise know a
wasp's nest does not make a good pillow." Schwartz spoke with intensity, and as if
taking Ramabrahmam into his confidence. "I must tell you my friend, I worry for
the future of this kingdom. Rumors of Haidar Ali's invasion are in the air. The
French and the British are both scrambling for trade rights. Conflicts are brewing,
I'm afraid. I am storing up grain in case things get really bad. If you think the sun's
rays are scorching, wait until the swords of Haidar Ali arrive en masse. I have a
sense of hard times approaching. In Psalm 106 of the Good Book it is written:
'They went astray in the wilderness; They did not find the way to an inhabited city.
Hungry and thirsty, their life was wasting away in them. They cried to the Lord indistress and He rescued them from their straits.' Well, I must get back to work.
There will be crying in distress, I fear. Are you reciting today?
Yes. My son Tiyaga has come along to listen.
Where is your other son? Schwartz asked.
He is otherwise occupied. Hes busy playing the part of a monkey--
Yes, I hear hes always misbehaving.
No, I mean hes playing Hanuman in a dance drama.
I hear he has his troubles. Perhaps he is trying to get your attention. Maybe
he is tired of the old ways. Im told Jalpa means wrangling or haranguing or
arguing in a bullying manner. Why did you name him Jalpesh?
His given name is Panchanada. And I called him Japa-Ishwara. But
everyone nicknamed him Jalpesh, and it stuck. I am expected in court,
Ramabrahmam said. You will excuse us, please.
Best wishes to you. We'll meet again." Schwartz smiled goodbye, and was
off. He was a busy man and always moved swiftly from task to task.
Ramabrahmam folded his hands in sign of farewell to Schwartz.
When they had taken their leave and set off for home Ramabrahmam said:
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"It is a friendly rivalry we have. Reverend Schwartz is not a bad man," he told his
son. "His school will no doubt train many officials for East India Company posts.
Even Jalpesh wants to learn English."
Tiyaga was silent. They passed beneath massive rounded arches in the
palace proper.
Tiyaga was amazed to see the glory of the court. "Riiii!" blasted a horn, and
the sound intensified the wonders of the palace which overflowed on all sides.
Wealth spilled out in opulence. Sheer hugeness of gates and hallways, halls with
brightly painted walls and ceilings, attendants ornamented and arrayed like
heavenly beings. Dizzy with the richness of carved wood furniture and luxuries,astonishing picture-pretty ladies with shining tresses like woven clusters of
peacock eyes, stunned by fragrant jasmine, bright bangles and silk and gold saris,
flowers in garlands and chaplets decorating the sunny rooms. The jingling anklets
on the women's feet made a pulse-quickening musical rhythm, a stream of
expectation and excitement.
Everything seemed much more important in here. Vidvans, honored expert
musicians and authorities in the arts and sciences, were arriving and taking their
places in the big hall. Ginger Venkataramayya folded his hands in greeting to
Tiyaga's father and smiled to Tiyaga in glad welcome. How thick seemed the
pillars, how strong the palace walls. How generous, wise and powerful must the
king be to command such people and rule from such a palace! Yet he must be a
shadow next to the sun which is king Rama, Tiyaga thought. King Rama ruled a
kingdom too, the earth itself and all its magnificence. A pink-legged dove sleeping
in the eaves awoke and watched the goings on. Then it flew up and mated with
another dove in the gracefully carved rafters. They coupled joyfully in the sunlight
then flew off separately, singing. Small feathers drifted down.
Tiyaga heard music coming closer -- a drum crackling like a fire of dry
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wood and dry leaves and seeds bursting in flames, powerfully popping and
snapping; then the naga-swarahorn player came closer through the hallways.
"Rrrrri" double reed sound kept cooking away, intensely, like a night fever, urging
-- where to? "Rrrri!" -- lamenting, searching, announcing the presence of an
emerging power. "Rrrrrri!" It was a demanding, pervasive resonance, harsh as an
elephant's trumpeting, not like a pleasant flute soft as lover's whispers. The players
finally came into sight with their big drums and long black horns. The
nagaswaramplayers had diamond earrings that flashed, and wore brightly colored
lungis around their waists, with tonsured heads and necklaces of rudrakshanut
beads.And next came the king like the dawn sun striking clouds in the abyss,
setting its seal on all that was dark. Raja Tuljaji had frog eyes. His smile beamed
and his ministers like rays solemnly surrounded him, some of them walking
backward so as not to turn from his face. A big-bellied Brahmin announced the
king's arrival, and a retinue of Brahmin advisors with the respected chief minister
Dabir Pandit in their centre took their places near King Tuljaji as he sat on his
elaborate seat above everyone else.
So this was the man his father's dream had impressed. The king took his
throne, smiling to show he was happy, and moving gracefully, to show he was
strong and healthy. The ministers were finding their places, and the formalities of
royal procedure were being followed with pomp. The king smiled and picked up
some betelleaf to chew, from the mirror-shiney silver plate in a lovely woman's
hands. The tall Brahmin standing by the throne bent low and whispered in the
king's ear. An attendant nearby waved a peacock feat her fan, sending waves of
breeze to keep the king cool.
Tiyaga's father calmly w