Countless walked down the length of the street and yet their mouths were locked; silence had swallowed their words. Nevertheless, the sound...
Countless walked down the length of the street and yet their mouths were locked; silence had swallowed their words. Nevertheless, the sound of their strides could be heard clearly.
This group of more than 200 feet was divided into three.
The first two feet of the leading group belonged to Ghategara Mallappa. He held a stock of cow-dung cakes in his left hand and in his right, he carried the kullaggi, the ritual fire amid four burning dung cakes, to perform the third-day rites for the dead person. His expression was solemn as he walked purposefully. The smoke from the smouldering dung cakes swirled about him like a hooded snake, egging him on. Though the white smoke stood out stark against his dark body, it merged with the dun-coloured turban.
Right behind Mallappa was Fakirappa. He held the kavala mora – a winnowing tray with bits of boiled meat, bones, brain, tongue and eyes of goat, some roti, savoury snacks like chakkuli and chivuda, a chipped cup of tea, some broken rice and two bottles of medicine. A new piece of white cloth covered them all, fluttering in rhythm with his footsteps. Fakirappa held it down firmly; his face grim.
