The Narrow Road to Palem by Sharath Komarraju Page B

‘looking for a bite to eat.’
    The man at the door was dressed in a tattered grey dhoti stained with mud. He was barefooted, and stood with a hunch. From experience Rama Shastri knew that all beggars at the temple assumed that position to garner sympathy from devotees. The light from inside fell on the man from the chest down, leaving his face in darkness.
    ‘Yes?’ said Rama Shastri.
    ‘Ayya,’ said the man, ‘I have not eaten anything the whole day, and they told me that you would not turn me out.’ He stepped into the light and crinkled his eyes at the sudden brightness. Rama Shastri had never seen him before. Was he even from Palem?
    ‘I come from Rayalapalli, ayya, further up along the river.’
    Rama Shastri wondered who had sent him to his house. Once or twice in the past he had taken the temple beggars into his house, and he had eaten with them, but he had no intention of making it a habit. He also did not want to acquire such a reputation in the village. They might even have a word with the temple president and ask for a more ‘upright’ priest.
    He had to keep his distance. And if he were to close the door in this stranger’s face now, no one would know or care.
    ‘I don’t eat much, ayya, and you don’t have to give me any curry. A bit of rice and a spoon of pickle will do.’ The man rubbed his stomach. He had a haggard beard and a dusty mop of hair on his head.
    Rama Shastri looked across the temple grounds in the direction of the shivalayam. He murmured a prayer under his breath. The lord himself was a beggar, an untouchable. Would he not have taken this poor man in? Would he have decreed that one of his own men – another beggar – should starve on the steps of his temple?
    Rama Shastri sighed. Arundhati would not like this. Neither would Bhoomi. But he had to obey the lord’s command.
    ‘We only have tamarind pickle, and we can only spare a fistful of rice. Will that do?’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ said the man. ‘Yes, yes.’
     
    * * *
     
    If she had felt any displeasure at the unexpected guest, Arundhati did not show it. She unrolled another mat in the corner, and because the tube light was not strong enough to reach that far, she lit a candle and placed it next to the empty plate. Then she brought a mug of water and asked the man to stand in the doorway and hold out his hands.
    The night was a pleasant one, neither cold nor hot, neither humid nor dry. Arundhati had turned off the table fan to keep the candle burning, and it left a thin coat of sweat over Rama Shastri’s forehead, which he mopped with his shoulder cloth.
    From inside the bedroom, Bhoomi came out wielding her phone, wearing one of those pajamas that she no doubt bought in the city. Throughout her childhood and adolescence, Rama Shastri had insisted that Bhoomi wore just half-saris. Now one year in the city, and in the name of higher education and modernity, she had begun to preen herself in all these tight clothes. She smiled at the phone, and as her fingers moved on the screen, Rama Shastri caught the glint of just-applied nail polish.
    Where did this girl get the money to buy all of this, Rama Shastri wanted to know. And he would have asked Arundhati too, if the beggar had not been present.
    ‘Put the phone aside, Bhoomi,’ he said, sprinkling a circle of water around his plate.
    ‘Just a second,’ said Bhoomi to the phone.
    Arundhati took a vessel of rice over to the corner and served the guest first. Though he had said he did not want curry or ghee, he did not say no when Arundhati offered them to him. As soon as his plate was full, he grinned with his dirty teeth and began to eat.
    After the vessels returned, Rama Shastri served himself some rice and a spoonful of ghee. He joined his hands at the food. From the corner of his eye he saw that Arundhati was mixing rice grains with brinjal curry for their daughter.
    He had to talk to Arundhati about this. They were spoiling her enough already.
    ‘Mmm,’ said the beggar.