Samskara aka Funeral Rites [dir. Pattabhirama Reddy]

It was probably a couple decades ago that I came across writer and academic UR Ananthamurthy's 1965 short novel Samskara, a searing indictment of the the hypocrisy in ritualistic Brahmin society. UR was a perennial iconoclast (in the years before his demise, he got into trouble with the establishment for suggesting that the Mahabharata has references to the consumption of flesh, including beef, by Brahmins) and a passionate fighter for his secular beliefs. In Samskara, by engineering a moral question that leads to the disintegration of a Brahmin colony he prods the hollowness of orthodox society, suggesting that in its quest for self-denying austerity and ritual, it has lost essential humanity. The 1970 film version, which I am seeing only now, is a faithful adaptation of these themes.

Fittingly, Samskara begins with a death. The victim is one Narayanappa, who during his lifetime was notorious for deliberately offending the Brahmin orthodoxy in which he was born, by abstaining from the prescribed rituals, indulging in meat and liquor, and - horror of horrors - consorting with the low-born woman Chandri. His lifeless corpse embodies the dilemma facing the community - should one whose life was dedicated to mocking Brahmin traditions be accorded the ritual funeral reserved for the high-born? And if so, who among them should undertake to perform the rites, since he then cannot be touched by anyone other than a Brahmin. The situation is compounded when a grieving Chandri offers all her gold jewelry to ensure a proper sendoff for her beloved Narayanappa. Trapped between their fear of ostracism and greed for the reward (and general necessity, as they are forbidden to even partake of food until the dead man has been taken care of), the Brahmin locals place the matter in the hands of Praneshacharya, the deemed leader of their community.

Praneshacharya is a study in contrast to Narayanappa. Known for his deep knowledge of scripture, he is single-minded in adherence to their prescribed norms and austerity. His marriage to an invalid woman he assiduously tends to by himself makes his home life also a model of self-sacrificing devotion and celibacy. Even his critics like Narayanappa admit that unlike the others he is at least a sincere Brahmin. In Sanskrit the name Pranesha roughly means "Lord of One's Life" and can be used as the term for a spouse. While not a caricature prig, Praneshacharya appears to have designed his entire life to focus on climbing the spiritual plane hierarchy. In fact one of the reasons why Narayanappa had not already been ostracized from the Brahmin community despite his provocative behavior is that Praneshacharya held back on this step, hoping that he could, by personal example and counseling, reform the wayward prodigal. This again can be interpreted as selfless benevolence or a calculated piety-garnering exercise.

Anyhow, with the matter placed in his hands, Praneshacharya feverishly pores over his texts but finds no answer. He then prays for divine intervention from the god Maruti / Hanuman (also a representative of celibacy and unswerving devotion in the Ramayana), relying on the device of placing a flower on the idol and waiting to see which way it falls. Here too, Praneshacharya's prayers fail him. In a daze from disappointment, exhaustion and hunger, he comes upon Chandri; at that moment, his self-control fails him and they give in to their physical urges.

His lifelong commitment to the austerities of spiritual life breached, followed immediately by the death of his wife (a reflection of the death of his self-imposed celibacy?), Praneshacharya wanders out of the village barely conscious of himself. In the meanwhile, Narayanappa's body continues to rot, and dead rats and hovering vultures show up as omens of blight. A plague is spreading through the community and nearby villages. As Chandri desperately tries to get her man cremated by any means, Praneshacharya's aimless tramping brings him in contact with the garrulous hedonistic Puttu, who takes the guru under his wing to show him the "sights of the world" (or at least the neighboring temple fair). In partaking of these pleasures (and eating at the temple feast without undertaking any purification rituals), Praneshacharya 'pollutes' the entire temple community. He begins to regard himself a bigger sinner than Narayanappa, who was at least open and honest about his transgressions.

I normally do not like to dissect plots in so much detail, but in Samskara, the course of the narrative and the questions it raises is what powers both book and film, and without bringing out these themes, there is no discussion. It questions the rigidity of strictures that force individuals to shirk basic human decency or be so conscious about denying oneself any gratification that the merest tremor can bring down the arduously built tower of virtue. Ananthamurthy's book was the subject of much debate when it was released, and the film version in turn had to fight the imposition of a ban by the censors.

Made on a low-budget with location shoots and a wholly naturalistic style, Samskara is a milestone in Kannada film. The crew, assembled as a true collaboration of creatives coming together to work on a meaningful project, included a foreign DoP (Tom Cowan) and editor (Steven Cartaw), possibly because the makers felt that local technicians at the time were not sufficiently conditioned for cinema verité. Acclaimed writer and stage personality Girish Karnad in his first screen role brings a lot of humanity to his portrayal of Praneshacharya, drawing our empathy for his dilemmas even as we realize that he (and the community he represents) has engineered his own fall from grace. The film adaptation of Samskara is undoubtedly a precursor to the social justice focused cinema of Shyam Benegal (Ankur, Nishant, Anugraham) and an engaging experience in itself.