Original in
Telugu - Munipalle Raju
Translator -
GRKMurty
It is from his association that I learnt there lies a great
power hidden in silence and in being silent. After all, isn’t it as his junior
that I have grown up in legal profession? Irrespective of the nature of case,
whenever arguments are in progress in the court of law, there would always be a
silence of a minute or two in that unrestrained flow of his articulation—a
silence that was more like a quick slide into meditation. The words that roll
out after that silence sound like pure recitations from a great preacher;
appear like the reflections of a great poet’s internal turmoil and in turn they
create a profound atmosphere in the court hall, and that is what I often experienced.
He didn’t agree at all to my appeal. It’s after a long silence
that he said: “celebration of 60th year of birthday for one who has lived
like a menial beast; silver jubilee function for merely eking out life as a
practicing lawyer for 25 years—I don’t believe in these functions. Moreover, I
consider it as petty arrogance, for these are to be offered as lamps before
gods to exceptionally great men by ordinary mortals like us. There is a prayer,
the last stanza of which states: ‘Kalaayathasmy
namaha’, which means: Salutations to that time because of which all
petty luxuries have vanquished from the memory. It is to that we must remain
grateful; not to the pettiness of these celebrations.”
Silence…again. As I was getting up to finally salute and take
leave of him, breaking the silence, he restrained me. “Sit down Murty! Won’t
you like to listen about those great men about whom I have just
mentioned?”
“Do love to listen, Sir! Got up simply not to vex you any
longer.”
“Listen then. I will tell you an incident associated with
a Saptati (70th
birthday) celebration.”
I sat down in deference to Goureepathi garu’s saying
that sounded as though coming out majestically straight from the pages of the
history of yore. How does it matter, whether it is midnight or even late night
… to listen to … when the goddess of silence waking from meditative-sleep opens
her frozen lips to utter sacred chanting; the music of the flipping wings of a
swan that rose from the Manasasarovaram to fly to the peak of the
Mount Kailash? Cool breeze is blowing from outside.
“It’s OK! You may light your cigarette.”
“Me! In your presence?”
* * * *
It’s after 30 years that I went to my village again. By then,
you might have grown up and might have started your own practice as a lawyer in
your district. It was a journey that was earlier deferred umpteen times because
of one or the other obstacle coming in the way. Well, blaming an ‘obstacle’ too
might as well be a kind of escapism. We are failing to realize what we are
missing by virtue of our getting entangled in the web of city-life!
“Except for the trusteeship of the Chennakesavaswamy temple—which
again is an aside, it’s almost half-a-century since you lost the relationship
with your village; if you sell off that spacious house to someone or the other,
it will draw curtains,” says my relatives. They also question me, “how does
that petty income from the mango orchard around the house matters vis-à-vis the
quantum of spending you entertain?” I think you too posed a similar
question to me in the past, but I don’t remember what answer I gave you. But
it’s only an ungrateful person who could say, “Relieved from the bondage of his
native place.” For, even the cattle that have lost their way will somehow trace
back their feed alley and return to that very cattle shed. People may wonder
how is that I am thinking so sentimentally, but that’s what the reply I used to
give.
It’s not merely the childhood pleasures, tombs of the parents,
streams, tanks, temples and temple towers, friends of that age that my village
stands for; it manifests in my sweet dreams more as an un-definable ‘bliss’
that is beyond this world and its materialism; as a music of an old raga; as a
tender touch of mother; as the sound of a conch that is drumming the very
values of the life into me. Our house is a reflection of our ancestor’s
treasure trove of spirituality and religiosity. Who knows, when someone from my
progeny feels like running away from the insecurity of inhuman civilization—
won’t that house invite him?
Incidentally, the real wonder is: the beginning, the motive,
and the determination for that journey was a dream—a mere stir of a dream!
Desiring to hold a literary festival in the month of May, for
courts will have holidays, a few lovers of literature have assembled a
coordination committee at our house. We were the hosts. But, like any other
movements of Andhra people, it also turned out to be a child that faced a
prenatal death. Suffice to secure the mike, there starts great speeches. For
the first time I have personally seen in those people who are freely airing
morals and ideals, manifestation of rot. It’s not ordinary rot—rot of cast, rot
of regional feeling, rot of sects and sub-sects, mutual acrimony and
abuses—it’s amidst such cacophony that the committee was dissolved in a matter
of minutes.
That night a dream haunted me like a long-drawn mental
whirling, that too, in the early hours of dawn. It was about the Dwajasthambham[3] of
Chennakesavaswamy temple of my village coming out in search of me. What’s this
unusual feat? Who might have attempted whatsoever unholy deed against
Chennakesavaswamy? Why is He—the god who has been hailed in the stories
relating to the place, in the epigraphs of the Chalukya kings and in the poetry
of muses as the Varaprasadee[4]—sending this
message? Though twice demolished in the attacks of Muslim kings, hasn’t He come
up again in the resplendent glory of his past? Did Anjaneya, who later emerged
as the Kshetrapalakudu[5], forget his
duty? Encircling anxieties like the dark clouds; confusion; a vague hidden
threat—the whole tumult made my heart a ravaged forest. It’s not a routine
dream. “Why subjecting yourself to such a trauma? Why not go once? Even
children are fancying to see the paddy plants”, said my wife. The culture of
children is, of course, that of the convent education. They haven’t seen my
village till date. My wife had, of course, seen it after our marriage, on the
day of house-warming ceremony. She has however no acquaintance with
Chennakesavaswamy.
The car that was in the garage for repairs returned. The
journey has to commence in the night, of course, alone. That day two letters
came by afternoon post. They indeed gave a meaning to the signals of my bad
dream.
*
* * *
The letter from Sitaram, whom we all address as annayya [6] garu 7], though short
in extent, makes all the complex affairs of the world quite clear. Despite
there being no concern of the man, sheer external forces inflict so many
problems on him which are indeed beyond my comprehension—even as a lawyer! That
letter has, however, opened my eyes:
“As you know, in those days our forefathers had donated
hundred acres of dry land farm to the temple for taking care of its rituals.
That epigraph is still there on the eastern side wall. With the completion of
Padmapuram project, that land has recently become an irrigated farm. Although a
little of the land in Agraharam [8] has
got alienated, the Archakas [9] could
still meet their living expenses from the rest. Now that it has become an
irrigated land, the government officials have become envious of it. They have
served notices asking us, the hereditary joint-trustees, to hand over the lands
to the endowments department. You must have also received it. No point in
reminiscing about our old glory. Such was their greatness, that our ancestors
by throwing open their grain silos in famine days could take care of poor
people; they never plucked even a single flower from the gardens that they had
donated to the temple; they replaced the ornaments looted by the Muslim
invaders and Pindaris [10];
rebuilt the temple tower, repaired the compound walls of the temple and got the
brass-coating done to the dwajasthambham,
all to create employment to the poor—who would remember them today? What they
now need is the landed properties of the temple. The old Acharya [11],
who was a staunch follower of the tradition, had been bed-ridden; I am given to
understand that his son, who got ruined by bad associations, had even forged my
signature. As the bad politics are advancing to rule the roost, government’s
intervention might be alright. But there is one worry, of course, only one.
When your father and I were the inmates of Salem jail, eating pudding as “C”
class prisoners, haven’t ever demanded “A” class facilities that our status
permitted. Whereas the special officer of the temple wants to have your
“Kanvasa Bhavanam”[12].
It seems the spacious rooms in the temple premises are not sufficient-enough!
Some of those golden vessels that our forefathers had got made and the ornaments
meant for temple are securely stored in a bhoshanam [13] in
the Kanvasa Bhavanam. Like a cobra safeguarding the treasure trove,
Venkataswamy, the loyal protector of your family’s interests, doesn’t show them
to anybody, whatever the pressure might be. If not for this, even otherwise, you
haven’t come this side though decades have since elapsed; so, look forward to
your arrival.”
The second letter is the notice from the endowments
department. Immediately, suitable messages were wired.
* * * *
This journey—almost 400 miles—had it been in a different
context, what a fun it would have been! It’s only the speed of my car that’s
the impetus behind my travel. Crossing the city boundaries, felt as though
stepped into a world of peace, but how to enjoy the beauty of villages in the
dark night? Yet, crossing the railway gates as we drove on the roads running parallel
to the canal bunds… on reaching the Krishna barrage, the hymns of praise of rivers
from Vedas; while driving under the lush green trees, the hymns of peace that
are addressed to the medicinal herbs chanted by the seers of yore have all
appeared as though walking in from a distant valley.
As we approached the village boundary, the North Star that
accompanied us till then as a good omen, started fading. A little away, there
the Sanjeevarayadi tank with its mighty bunds; as we took the next turn there
the shed of chariot of Chennakesavaswamy that comes out on auspicious days;
there the dwajasthamba that
stood tall with its top held erect over the temple compound walls! It is
this dwajasthambha that
caused this journey. At the very next turn is the ‘Kanvasa Bhavanam’. Appears
to have been white washed recently. That’s a divine manifestation.
My telegram appears to have reached well in time. Without even
a mild honking, Venkataswamy was there right
at the gate. Hot water was ready. Took bath. Steaming coffee from Somayajula garu, the
teacher staying on the ground floor since long. Slept over like a log.
Contemplated to visit the temple in the twilight hours. Thought I could later
talk to Sitaram annayya leisurely.
Getting up from bed as I was brushing teeth, Venkataswamy’s
message: “old acquaintances from the village have come to see you.” As I was
stepping down, like an insulted goddess of sorrow, grasping for breath,
Brundavanacharyulu garu was climbing up. An impoverished body, of
course, with the usual markings on the forehead with a Pullihora vessel in the hand. Holding his hand as I carefully
assisted, he could come up.
“So, my son, you have come. Trethayugam [14] passed
away. Dwaparayugam has
slid. Now, it is the land under the feet of Kali. I know three generations of
your clan. My life has been blessed. Whenever Chennakesavaswamy sends a word, I
shall instantaneously commence my journey to god’s abode. But I have a
submission to make. My only son has taken to wrong path. He has become amoral.
He is a sinner who even attempted to steal the idols of procession. Pardon him.
I pray nothing more.”
In the twilight’s worship, priests, mentioning my gotra[15] and
the names of my family members recited astottara sathanamavali [16].
They had also blessed me. Presenting silk robes to the deities, I went out to
see the village. As I started, coming under the tower of the temple, I
involuntarily murmured to myself, “Hey! Chennakesava, in the book of time, the
first signature was done by the fate. And now, not much time is left for the
second signature! ‘Yes’, this might be the last worship!”
* * * *
As I reached home, a whiff of fine fragrance greeted me right
on the steps. There, Sitaram annayya in
front of the lamp turning the pages of English novels that I had bought. Right
in front of him, there a basket on the
teapoy filled with ripened sapotas[17].
Sitting like a story-teller lost in his own world! Appeared as a sad-moon
casting its rays in an isolated valley of Himalayas. Reminded me of a meditating
soul, offering oblations at the dawn reciting Aaditya hridayam on the banks
of an unknown river. In that visualization, all that displeasure which swept
over me at the tent cinema house, quietly disappeared. Ponduru khadi [18] shirt; ironed dhovathi [19];
golden-hued stout body that didn’t let you decipher whether he is old or young,
but eyes laden with tiredness… Yet he didn’t appear to me as an old man. His
was an imposing personality. When he was in his youth, I am sure, any lady
coming under the pull of the magnetic waves of his personality might have simply
been enamoured of him.
Restraining me, as I was prostrating at his feet, and lifting by
my shoulders, he hugged me. Saying,
“Remembering your longing for Sapotas that you perhaps, mentioned once in the
past, Kalyani sent them for you,” he smiled with his eyes.
“Kalyani?”
“Yes, Secretary of the Yanadi
Seva Samithi. The child that me
and Chandrika brought up.”
Chandrika!
*
* * *
Sitaram garu is not from our village. He came on
adoption to his Pethalli’s [20] house.
Affluent people, in fact, theirs was the richest family in the whole of our
area. Indeed an aristocratic family. Known to celebrate Dasara festival on a
grand scale for nine days… facilitating poets and pundits in between. His foster father himself was a great poet. With
the kind of their philanthropic deeds … their active participation in the independence
struggle ….in no time all their riches were turned naught. During his very college days
Sitaram garu had an association with the politics of extremism. Many
stories were in air: people used to
murmur about his steadfast desire to replicate the ‘Anushilan samithi’ (which propounded revolutionary violence as the
means for ending British Rule in India) of Bengal in Andhra too. There was also
a talk about his roaming in Bengal for almost a year as an incognito and learning
making of bombs. Once in every week police would visit to spy on his
activities. His father had an ambition of making him a barrister. But
Sitaram garu hadn’t gone to London. Instead, he went to Dublin, the
capital of Ireland, for it was then under the rule of Develara, a known enemy
of the British! But for some unknown reason, he returned from Dublin within a
year. If rumours were to be believed, there he loved an Irish woman, who while
swimming in the sea died. And so, he returned with a shattered heart. Of
course, nobody knew what the truth is. Later he worked for a year or two as a
lecturer in the National College. In the meanwhile, Gandhiji’s non-cooperation
movement picked up momentum. Along with my father, he was in the Salem jail for
almost three years undergoing harsh imprisonment. Heard from father that the
jail life had totally transformed him. Having practiced meditation and many
other yogic postures, he came out of the jail as a lean, sturdy man with a
glowing skin, which was a miracle. He used to recite the verses from the
Bhagawad Gita fluently.
By then his father and mother had expired. Spent some years in
settling the family affairs. There however remained practically nothing for him
to settle. He had unpleasant moments with some selfish landlords. Suddenly he
left for Vinoba Bhave’s hermitage, perhaps in search of peace. It was also
heard that he actively participated in the movement of Bhave for reforming the
bandits of Chambal valley. Also heard about his performing daredevilry.
Importantly, people used to talk about his following the bandits who hijacked a
marriage bus into the forest that was almost hundred miles away from Gwalior
and his saving the ladies along with their jewellery, without causing harm to
anybody. It was also said he brought with him some of those bandits and made
them renounce their arms in the presence of Vinoba Bhave. He had excellent
oratory skills in Hindi. Well, it need not be said so explicitly about his command
on Sanskrit. An instantaneous learner. It is perhaps with the inspiration from
Vinoba Bhave, he dedicated himself to serve one of the oldest tribes, Yanadis (a tribe), who are aplenty in
and around our villages. By then, all that he had been left with was: two acres
of wet land. Of course, for namesake he was also the trustee of the temple. But
he just remained as an ideal practitioner of his ancestors’ tradition.
He assembled the yanadis who
were leading their lives as the rejected lot, for no one wanted to have any
association with them, if not socially ostracized. He reformed even those who
were habituated to petty stealing. He injected in them a sense of self-respect.
As a Gandhian, he trained them in village industries—particularly apiculture,
weaving baskets and selling them, cultivation of vegetables, etc. Starting a
residential school for yanadi boys
and girls, he lighted lamps in many lives. Yet, he appeared as a person stuck
with an insatiate-appetite, as a perpetual-doubter, as a faithful devotee
searching for a holy-path just as the river that is flowing not knowing the
direction to the ocean. As an ultimate act, he took up on himself the task of
reviving yanadi’s Yakshagana
Bhagavatham [21].
He made them practice the play, Usha Parinaya Yakshagana, that remained in their lives as a reminiscence
of the past. The plays, Nala harithra and Prabhavathi Pradyumnam
that are known as the traditional plays of yanadis, were revived by him. Oh! What a struggle he was to undergo
for exhibiting these plays during the Dasara festival! I am of course not fully
aware of those details. For the first time then a yanadi lass of rare beauty appeared on
the Yakshagana stage of our village as Usha kanya, the daughter of Baanasura. That was Chandrika! The beauty of
blue-hued Drupadaraja’s daughter.
Every movement of hers was that of the beauty of a noble
birth; in every song of hers she appeared like a celestial nymph giving shape to a song to the eternal urges of
her life. I still remember some of the gamakas [22] in
those songs. It is only after seeing Chandrika I realized that for rare beauty,
brown skin is not an obstacle at all. I was then a lad. Had been listening to
the whisperings of the lusty sons of the landlords. I don’t know why, but I often
wondered if these innocent, unarmed yanadis could
ever secure their Chandrika from these Dussaasanas. As feared, when I came home
after six months from law college for holidays, I heard a terrible incident—a sordid
man had raped her and three days after that his dead body was seen floating in
the Sanjivarayidi tank. That night many relatives were in our house for
attending the first death anniversary function of my father. In the middle of
night, Sitaram came hurriedly—saying “hide this carefully in your room”, giving
a small bag he went out hurriedly. It was said that there were no injuries on
the body of the deceased.
But internally profuse bleeding was said to have occurred. Next
day, after all my relatives had left, I opened Sitaram gari’s bag. I saw a
pistol wrapped in a white cloth. “Made in Republic of Ire”! By then police had
come and gone too. No whispers were heard in the village. On the night of my
returning to the college, Sitaram took away that bag. Next year when
Venkataswamy came to the town, he gave me the news: “Sitaramgaru married
Chandrika at an auspicious moment that was decided according to the traditions
of yanadis— at the total
eclipse of the shade of the wooden post erected, i.e., at midday”—I was not surprised, of course!
Just as cinema reel as these scenes, incidents rolled over in
my mind, the sayings of Sitaramgaru could not get registered in me. In the
meanwhile, Somayajulu garu sent
dinner upstairs. I and annayya had
our food. By then the priest had sent the message: “the officials of the
endowment department will be here day after tomorrow”.
*
* * *
On the dotted day, at 10 a.m., the deputy commissioner,
would-be assistant commissioner, a head peon, and a peon got down from the
jeep. Deputy commissioner was puffing out smoke from a Spenser cigar. I was
shocked. Are these the officers? Is this the government? Are these the people,
whose eyes reflect no knowledge whatsoever, who are going to take over the
ancient monument, the temple! Neither historical perspective nor humility
appears in that reddened eyes! They are not the angels of gods. Little men,
meant for mere counting of commissions. Devils.
The karanam [23] and
Rangaiah Gupta, the man who for all these years maintained the income and
expenses account of the lands and carried out the god’s rituals without
anticipating any benefit, came up with Sitaramgaru. Karanam had shown the records and the survey maps pertaining
to the god’s landed property to the officers. Rangaiah Gupta put before them
the ledgers. They didn’t have the patience to examine the accounts that are
perfect up to the last pie.
“How about this building?” said the commissioner, while his
assistant was staring at me.
“You won’t get this building under any circumstances. Don’t
build up your greed. I am a lawyer. I know the omissions and commissions in
your notice. The temple yard is quite spacious—and it is enough for your
offices to operate from there without any hitch.
God knows what he might have felt, but staring with protruding
eyes and saying, “Think it over again. There is no hurry. We shall come
tomorrow after visiting the lands. Keep ready the list of movables, ornaments,
the vehicles and other items. We shall finish off quickly”, stood up.
Sitaram garu didn’t say anything. After receiving whatever little courtesies
that Venkataswamy could offer, the team had gone away.
The list of ornaments was prepared that night with the help of
Somayajulu garu. I hadn’t seen
the gold ornaments and the vessels that were stored in the wooden box kept in
our room that keenly in the past. The names of my mother’s parents were
engraved on the vessels. Sitaram garu too
looking at them with a surprise, closed his eyes in reverence. Crowns, hand
ornaments, ear studs, vessels, etc. all put together came to 200.
Workers in the temple, palanquin-bearers, light-bearers, daily
priests, and Govardhanacharyulu—they all waited on the ground floor. Assuaging
their apprehensions by saying a few encouraging words to them, as I came
up—Venkataswamy, who was setting the ornaments alright in the box, said
anxiously, “one golden vessel is not traceable, only four are there.” We
searched again. Not found. I wondered: Chennakesava, what is this
materialistic-religious crisis at this stage!
That night I could not relish food. Whose handiwork is this
theft? I have reviewed the whole scene. Somayajulugaru didn’t touch even
one item. Sitting in front of the table, far away from us, he went on listing
the items as we announced. It will be a sin to doubt Venkataswamy. Somayajulu garu went away right in before us. Only me and Sitaram garu remained till the end. He
was the last man to leave. He had a bag too in his hand. Mind is running in
different ways. In these last days—in his impoverished state, did he resort to
this deed? Could that impoverished state be wiped out with this one vessel? Who
knows, poverty can make one stoop to any extent. What answer to be given in
front of Acharyulu garu tomorrow? What a sad picture we will cut
before those officers who have no sense of propriety? It’s not a big deal for
me to get a similar vessel made. But what a great disregard to the deceased
maternal grandmother! There in that disturbed sleep, a dream! There, Sitaram annayya,
whom I have perceived as the man who imbibed the secrets of the Gita, stealing
the golden vessel and discreetly putting it in his bag…Chi! Chi! It’s my weakness to have so much faith in the
humanity… How could he show his face tomorrow? Chi! He was responsible for the death of that rapist which I
doubted then as murder. Wouldn’t a man who killed another be capable of doing a
petty stealing?
* * * *
As anticipated, Sitaram garu did not come up the
next day. Endowment Department people too didn’t turn up. The day passed off
with unrest—full of petty doubts and humiliation. Acharyulu garu did
send food. But could not touch it even.
As the darkness was slowly creeping in, a yanadi boy came to deliver
Sitaram garu’s letter. “Come down to our hermitage. Today is
Chandrika’s Saptati celebration.”
Chi! How to go? To speak what? Yet I started with that boy. Haven’t told even
Venkataswamy.
Yanadi hermitage
was located outside the village solitarily, but well within a mile from the
village. Light of twinkling stars was slightly visible on the leaves of the
coconut trees located in the yard. The surroundings were more like the abode of
goddess of poverty. Nothing else was visible. Pushing aside the gate, the yanadi boy directed me to go
inside. Eyes were getting adjusted to the feeble light coming from the lantern.
But some smell of a rotten fruit was terribly irritating nostrils. Noticing me,
they pushed the lantern a little forward. Suddenly my feet came to a halt. That
was a dreadful scene.
There, on a dilapidated cot, was Chandrika. She, the lioness-like,
once had a moonlight face. Now bitten by the dreadful leprosy, she had lost
half of her nose too. She was singing something in a hoarse voice. Sitting on a
stool by her side, Sitaram garu was
feeding her payasam [24].
That vessel – it was the same golden vessel that was found missing yesterday.
Pulling up all her energies, she made an attempt to greet me
with folded hands. There were no fingers on those hands. And an interminable
stink.
“Come, sit down. Today is her Saptati. Desired to eat prasadam from
a god’s pot. All along she lighted my life with a golden torch. A while ago,
she said that her life has been blessed,” said Sitaram.
Tucked myself on another stool.
I felt the sound of flipping wings of the vultures hovering
over the terminal stage of an unblemished love story. Silence was so intense
that even the sound of blinking eyelids was audible. Giving up hunting for
insects, even the lizard on the bamboo-partition stayed still. The alarm-clock
on the table stopped ticking. The dog in the yard that was reared by Chandrika
stopped her melancholic barking. The coconut leaves didn’t appear to be
swaying. Kalyani lighted incense sticks. Slowly, the foul smell waned. Kalyani took
away the golden pot from her father. He has spread the white sheet on
Chandrika’s erstwhile wide eyes. I lost the sense of the differentiating line
between death and life.
At that divine minute, as a man became ‘silence’, became a great Yogi, a sacred person, a Messiah, I
greeted Sitaramgaru once again by prostrating at his feet.
Next day, as the body of Chandrika was getting entombed in the
open yard of the Kanyasa palace, officers of the Endowments Department came in.
I told them: “I am donating this building, the land around the building and the
orchards to the Yanadi Seva Samithi.
These three will be its trustees.” That very day, along with the fifth vessel,
I handed over all the ornaments to them.
* * * *
[1] Kaliyug—according to the scriptures of
Hinduism, it is the fourth stage of the world development that we are currently
in.
[2] Dwaparayug—is the third stage of the four
ages, described in the scriptures of Hinduism.
[3] Dwajasthambham—flagpole in front of the
temple.
[4] Varaprasadee—the bestower of boons.
[5] Kshetrapalakudu—care-taking god of the
temple yard.
[6] Annayya—big brother.
[7] Garu—the social art of expressing
respect by using plural to address a person or appending the suffix ‘garu’ to a
name and so on.
[8] Agraharam—name given to the Brahmin
quarter of a heterogenous village or to any village inhabited by Brahmins.
[9] Archakas—Hindu temple priests.
[10] Pindari—historically,
an irregular horseman, plunderer, or forager attached to a Muslim army in India
who was allowed to plunder in lieu of pay.
[11] Acharya—highly learned man or a title affixed to the names of
learned men.
[12] Kanvasa Bhavanam—name of the building.
[13] Bhoshanam—wooden locker.
[14] Trethayugam—is the third stage of the
four ages, described in the scriptures of Hinduism.
[15] Gotra—In Hindu society, the term Gotra
broadly refers to people who are descendants in an unbroken male line from a
common male ancestor.
[16] Astothara sathanamavali—literally means
reciting eight names after chanting the hundred names of the god/s
[17] Sapotas—a fruit commonly known as
sapodilla (botanical name: Manilkara
zapota)
[18] Ponduru
khadi—“Andhra Fine Khadi”, popularly known as “Ponduru Khadi” is a prominent
name in Andhra Pradesh as well as all over India. This is because this variety
of khadi is produced from Ponduru, a village in Srikakulam District in north
coastal Andhra Pradesh.
[19] Dhovathi—traditional garment worn by men around waist.
[20] Pethalli—mother’s elder sister.
[21] Yakshagana Bhagavatham—a musical theater
in which incidents from the Bhagavatham
were performed for the common man in villages.
[22] Gamakas—refers to ornamentation that is
used in the performance of Indian classical music.
[23] Karanam—village revenue record keeper.
[24] Payasam—a traditional sweet dish.
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