‘You horrible murderer!’ Parthasarathy sprang to his feet.

Those close to him pulled him down and calmed him. He sat there, breathing heavily, his eyes wide, glaring at him—that’s how he looked any time a woman was hurt. He may be a devout follower of the peace-loving Rama, but he could get as mad as Lakshmana.

Ever since the time he heard about the abuse that Sita went through with Ravana, he has been like this. He cannot stand a woman being hurt, ever.

‘Anna, cool down. Anna …’ Govindappa Nayakkar pressed him down and gently rubbed his back. When the crowd settled down, Krishnappa Nayakkar finished his version of the event.

The goldsmith was called forward.

He came up, covering his face with both his hands, sobbing. The people around looked at each other’s faces and whispered, ‘Poor man!’ Those who were soft-hearted wept along with him. The others glared at the silent man, he who was the reason for all this, with rage, thirsting for his blood. And the rest gazed pitifully at the corpse in the cart.

The goldsmith’s sobs were strengthening. Hoping someone would soothe him, and glancing at Parthasarathy and Nayakkar he said softly, ‘Rama, Rama, Rama.’ Tears streamed from his closed eyes, dripping down his beard.

27

GOVINDAPPA NAYAKKAR TURNED TO ENGATRAYALU, the astrologer, and said, ‘Rayalugaru, come here,’ and whispered something in his ears.

Engatrayalu took the goldsmith aside, gave him a bowl of water to rinse his face, hands and legs, sat with him for a while till he stopped sobbing and brought him back.

This was a normal practice in the villages—the close relative of any person who has just died would be taken for a walk and given something to drink so that they may adjust to their loss.

The goldsmith returned, took his stand amidst the crowd and silently greeted everyone. He could not speak at first. His eyes were streaming tears again. He was asked to be seated as he gave his version. He wiped his face, cleared his throat and began.

‘Yesterday, at this time, not even in my dreams would I have thought that such a thing was going to happen to me. I didn’t deserve this at all,’ he said, clearing his throat again.

‘This woman who has gone’—the dead person is always referred to thus—‘was my niece. I am her mother’s younger brother. I am a goldsmith by caste. My name is Chokalinga Achari. I come from Mayil Odai village, close to Kayaththaru. Since the morning she and I have had argument after argument. This day has been going from bad to worse since dawn. I have never raised my hand at her, till today. This morning I lost it and gave her a couple of slaps.

‘Actually, things had been going wrong since last night itself. I had gone out of town and I returned only last night. I was quite excited as I had been away from home for more than ten days.