Krishna's Heretic Lovers: Tht Story of Chandidas & Rami - A Novel

1.

Tantipara

Rami knew she would not sleep until the rain began. The air was electric with the coming monsoon that glowered in the afternoon light, almost chartreuse against luminous blue-black clouds in a heavy sky. An exquisite pang rippled through her body, while two small children slept peacefully at her side. Light and color played in patterns beneath her closed eyelids, and she wondered at the restlessness that had troubled her these past months.

Rising from the pallet, she wrapped herself in a ragged but thick cotton shawl and padded across the well-swept earthen floor. Moving into the damp kitchen, she lit a lamp against the growing afternoon dark and turned toward the household shrine to touch the feet of the goddess Kali—a blackened, ghee-soaked stone suggesting a female form, the deity of her ancestral mothers.

Her grandmother had said, You have been chosen by the goddess, child! The mark on her breast at birth had never disappeared but became more vivid as she grew. To be so favored by her personal deity was a great boon, but when would the blessings take a more desirable turn? So far, her life had been hard. Barely twenty years old and already a widow with two small children, they were the only blessing Rajmohan had left when he departed months ago in the middle of the night. And now, for many weeks, she had heard the call of Krishna’s flute.

Mother Kali, why do I have such restless yearnings? Why am I not satisfied, like others? You give me so much, you are tender and good to me…Beloved Mother, do not forsake me now!

She crouched on the floor to light a humble fire in the open pit that served as a cook stove and oven. Reaching for a clay bowl, she carefully measured ghee, salt, coarse flour and mixed dough for chapattis. The dough stuck to slender brown fingers as she kneaded and shaped it into perfect small balls.

Lightning struck, followed by a swift patter of drops that swooped through the yard and into the open windows of her tiny two-room mud dwelling. She heard the first compelling notes drift across the village, past the banyan, the banks of flowering kadamba, neem and lime trees. Thunder crashed and ricocheted across the rice fields just as the trees began to dance in the wind, and in this tumult of nature it seemed that the universe moved in some deep and hidden place. Drumbeats called a secret rhythm in her body, and she was taken away by a voice lifted in song—a voice of honey and crushed pepper, lilting, warm, of sweet and bitter mixed, full of rain and wind and dusty roads and the rasping sound of wild bees. It was a voice that both kindled and assuaged the longing of her heart.

With a deft wrap of her sari, Rami left the children asleep and the fire burning cautiously in the clay oven to run breathlessly toward the sound. Arriving in the center of the tiny village of Tantipara, she hovered near the temple as the raindrops gathered force. Two dozen villagers were already gathered, lured by the heavenly sounds of the minstrel’s voice and instrument—a large hollow gourd with a single gut string held taut by one hand and played by the other with a thin wooden plaque. Right away she recognized him as one of the Sahajiyas—lovers of Krishna, the beggars who sing, maddened by the wind.

An instrument arising from the earth goddess, Bhu Devi herself, Rami thought. The gourd makes the sound of heaven, as if the gods are singing—no, calling—to us. And his voice! As the song unfurled to the coming storm, his rich voice soared from earth to heaven and back again, lingering in perfect sync, pitched with the yearning of her heart to carry her away in sweet release.

The night is dark,

The sky is filled with teeming clouds

Friend, what can I say to you?

By virtue of many lives,

Him, I have won.

The young man, a sadhu, was clad in a worn dhoti the color of the pale coral beads she had held in the market last week—a faded, soft clay pink, just like the clothing worn by the other Sahajiyas who had passed through the village last year. His long black hair was caught up in a wrap of cloth in the same color, and he wore a hand woven, brick-red vest. About his neck hung three heavy rudraksha malas for reciting mantra. A coconut begging bowl and kamandalu or water pot hung at his waist alongside the small clay hand drum, which he played with a skill that yielded an intricate rhythm, an earthy foundation for the melodic dance of his rich voice. Around his ankles were tied thick woven cords upon which tiers of copper bells jingled—these added to the complexity of the beat, while the otherworldly sounds of the stringed gourd vibrated in the air, causing waves of light and sound to zigzag up her spine and dance in the bowl of her head.

Two other pink-clad musicians danced and whirled in the wild monsoon light beside the singer. The venerable older one played a two-stringed lute with great dexterity, and Rami noted that he was the leader—the guru. He wore a long multicolored shawl fashioned from various pieces of faded and worn cloth; these were sewn together in a helter-skelter rampage of color and unplanned design and wrapped around his thin body over a dhoti. His gray-black hair was captured in an ochre cloth that was wrapped about his head.

With him was a woman with many silver strands in her long black hair, which was coiled in a thick knot at her neck. She too wore the earthy color in a simple ragged sari trimmed in blue. She carried a one-stringed instrument made with a small round gourd, which Rami recognized as an ektara. The woman’s face was radiant as she danced and whirled, hair coming undone and swinging about her waist. With them was a fourth—a wellfed young man dressed in the clothes of an ordinary villager. He played a large double-headed skin drum with unrestrained passion.

As torrents of sudden rain scattered the crowd, Rami called out to the minstrels, Come! Come quickly! They scurried after her, around the corner and down the narrow lane to the tiny thatched-roof mud hut she called home. Entering the yard she gestured to a dry patch of ground under the thick canopy of a spreading banyan tree. Her children, now awake, stood at the door, eyes huge and shining at the sight of their mother with a grandfather and grandmother and two strange young men.

The minstrels easily took to the shelter provided by the banyan’s ample branches, making a small camp as Rami hurried inside to the kitchen fire, bent down to feed it three sticks of wood, then gently blew to rekindle a blaze from the banked coals. Before long she served hot milk laced with cane syrup, chapattis, and spicy vegetables from her humble patch of garden. While the guests ate, she sat with her children several feet away from the men but near the woman. Rami would eat later, if at all.

The rain settled into a gentle patter, the raw edge of the monsoon granting them some reprieve. As they finished eating and drank tea, they shared smiles of appreciation with Rami. Mendicant beggars were honored in the remote reaches of Birbhum in Bengal, and the Sahajiyas were adept at the graceful interplay of hospitality with villagers, who eagerly fed wandering mystics in exchange for the happiness their songs brought. Already their little encampment was reinforced with a ceiling of dried palm fronds supplied by Rami’s neighbors.

The round-faced drummer, Goshai, smiled as he made introductions, pointing to each in turn then ending with himself. We are Raj Krishna and Mata Arundhati, Chandidas, and Goshai Lal. Salutations and Lord Krishna’s blessings to you for feeding us today!

Pulling her sari across her face, Rami smiled shyly, her eyes shining with happiness as the woman leaned forward and asked, What is your name, daughter?

Ramini, she answered, then pushed her children gently forward toward the woman called Arundhati, and these are my children, Ramchandra and Krishnabai. The older woman’s smile was reassuring as she reached out to take the little girl’s hand.

We have been traveling for almost a year, Goshai continued with enthusiasm. Now we are on our way to a mela in Kenduvilva, where many people will be gathered. Rami watched with keen interest as Goshai pressed his hands together and smiled with unreserved devotion at the elder of the men, informing her, Sri Raj Krishna is our guru. He paused, then turned to the woman with a pranam, And Mother Arundhati is our guru mother.

Raj Krishna had unwound the cloth wrap to reveal long grey hair, which he deftly tied in a knot at the top of his head. With a slight incline of his head, he offered a namaskar to Rami with folded hands. The guru’s dark eyes glittered, not unkindly and yet from an indefinable distance, so it seemed to Rami. He is not identified with this world, she thought, watching him carefully. He is turned inward, a jivanmukta, who has found freedom in this life, as they say. Certainly he gave up his caste, as the Sahajiyas do, long ago—and the mataji also.

Rami had never seen a woman like Arundhati—there was a mystery about her, something unfathomable. She quickly surmised that both elders had known the privilege of high caste at some time in their lives. Regal in their rags, they seemed to exist in a world beyond, as if they knew dimensions of life undreamed of. She sensed that a reservoir of spiritual power was hidden behind their calm, contained demeanor.

Turning to Rami, Raj Krishna picked up the instrument Mataji had been playing. "Ektara, daughter… Ektara is one, one string, ektara is sahajiya, and sahajiya makes one vatul, mad with the inner winds." He began to play and softly sing.

One string, many songs,

so the Sahajiya sings

with one note, one string

and many melodies

Life is like that, O mad one!

Now come and dance with me,

sing of many things

enjoy this life and play

with one note, one string

Goshai hefted the two-headed drum onto his ample lap and accompanied the elder man as the song grew in power and melody. With the rain now abated, the villagers began to gather around, making themselves comfortable on the ground under the banyan tree or lingering beside nearby huts and the stone wall that bordered the garden across the dirt lane. Mataji pulled a pair of small flat bronze bells out of a travel-stained cloth bag; soon the rhythm was spiced with the tang of their delicate ringing tones. The children, Krishnabai and Ramchandra, snuggled next to their mother and listened as the song took on greater velocity and Raj Krishna’s voice lifted and took flight.

The crowd drew closer as rhythms and melodies interwove, layering texture upon texture. Suddenly the man called Chandidas stood in one liquid motion, gourd instrument in hand, to play a susurration of notes ascending a tonal scale in waves of joy. Absorbing the music with awe, Rami remembered, Ah, yes, this is why they call the gourd instrument anandalahari—I have heard it means "waves of bliss."

Throwing back his head, Chandidas wailed a cascade of notes that sailed beyond the banyan tree and into the coming night. A joyous mood gained momentum as Mataji’s bronze hand bells interposed a fresh burst of rhythm. And then Chandidas danced, placing one foot in front of the other to make a contained circle that opened freely as he began to whirl in growing rapture. The anandalahari became an extension of himself as he held it aloft and called out, Govinda, Radhe, Radhe, Jai Radhe!

Rami stole a sidelong look from under long dark lashes at the slender form of Chandidas. He was transported, in a divine mood—a bhava that swept them up in its current, thick and sweet as honey. Chandidas too had discarded his head wrap. His tangled hair tumbled from its knot and curled slightly, hanging down his back to sway with the dance. Dark, wide-set eyes glowed with passion in the dusky landscape of his face as he flung the melody toward heaven.

Finally the song came to rest, and as it subsided the dance of Chandidas returned to earth. Catching her eye, he smiled sweetly, as if suddenly shy—and yet his smile contained the hint of a warm sense of humor. Something deeper in his being, in the innocent and wise play of his glance, pierced her with an arrow of recognition. Oh! He is like the sun, rising in the long dark night of my heart! Heart beating madly, she looked away in confusion at such a bold thought coming spontaneously to her mind.

As the music gained momentum, a small crowd grew. More food was brought from nearby huts and served in wooden bowls. The wandering minstrels and the villagers mingled, easy and relaxed in simple delight and the ancient communal rite of sharing food.

Sujata, her neighbor, came to sit beside Rami. Where is that worthless Rajmohan? she asked after a while, looking at Rami with a worried expression.

Gone now ten months, sister. I have heard nothing from him, Rami admitted, staring at the ground. Shame flooded her, as she knew that she did not miss her husband or his casual cruelty.

How are you and the children faring? Sujata asked.

My father and mother, who live in the next village, bring me food, and my neighbors are good to me, they share what they have. Rami gestured to her hut, I have this place. My children have food and shelter. I am helping the mothers by washing clothes at the river. I have no complaints, really…

Sujata hugged Rami then shook her head sadly. Everyone in the village knew that Rami had been abandoned by the goodfor-nothing Rajmohan. It had been almost a year. He was surely in trouble, maybe even dead, run off to where only the gods could know. And Rami with two little ones, alone and forced to wash the clothes of the villagers to survive. Mother Kali! Sujata resolved that tomorrow she would bring Rami some milk and two pots of ghee, since Sujata had the blessing of a very fertile cow. Thanks to the goddess, Rami’s garden was lush with vegetables and always giving.

Shaking off the moment of sorrow, Rami turned her attention back to the minstrels. The arrival of wandering Sahajiyas in the village was a cause for celebration, now well underway with the rain abated for awhile. The minstrels’ songs had underwritten a madcap happiness in their hearts as they called out for Govinda, player of the divine flute, Krishna, the dark blue Lord, Madhava, the honey sweet One, and the Queen of all hearts—His Radha!

With each new song their cares and difficulties melted away in a loose weave of ecstasy and longing for the Supreme Person, Hari, as the crowd spread beneath lime and mango trees and spilled into the neighborhood. As night came on, the flames of small lamps flickered on low walls and tiny porches all over the village enclave—a thatched-roof, communal patchwork of round mud-brick huts, makeshift shelters and a few larger bungalows intermingled with worn pathways, trees, cows, garden patches and banana groves that gave way to green pasture at the village edge.

As evening cast its shadowed veil, mists rose from the fields and drifted through the village to mingle with the smoke of dung fires and nearby pujas. Soon the rain would begin again, but the villagers and musicians made the best of the interlude between storms. An arati puja was underway at the terracotta temple in the village center, announced by the ringing of bells as lights were waved before the deity, a dark and brooding Shiva lingam. Facing the deity was the god’s vehicle, a large stone Nandi— much beloved by the children of Tantipara, who were often seen whispering in the bull’s ears, as it was said that Nandi carried one’s prayers straightaway to Lord Shiva. But it was the stone image of Shakti, the primal Mother, who was their real treasure. Her origins were so remote that no one could remember them. Every day She received their offerings of honey, ambrosial fruits, ghee, sandal paste, and spices.

Sweet smells permeated the air around the crowd, now satiated with the fullness of song, dance, and togetherness. As thunder boomed through the outlying rice fields once again, Rami took her sleepy children inside to bed, where they tumbled onto the pallet and were asleep in an instant. The villagers wandered off to their homes while the minstrels settled in for the night beneath the banyan not far from her door.

Rami lit the lamps and put away food, cleaned the hearth for tomorrow’s fire, washed her face and hands. Then she stood for a moment at the open window. The visitors were settled for the night, natural and at ease on thin pallets that had appeared from the bags they carried, supplemented by the villagers’ kind offerings of blankets and mats. Raj Krishna, Mataji, and Goshai were already asleep. Her eyes lingered on Chandidas, who sat beside the small fire smoking a stone chillum, seeming deep in thought. Again, an unsettling pull of recognition rippled through her core. Blood raced in veins to the thunder of her heartbeat, and her breath came in a sudden, ragged pant. Goddess Mother! Kali! What is this?

At that moment, Chandidas turned slowly and looked directly at her. With dark eyes glowing, he exuded a familiar, steady calm. Rami felt she had known him all her life, and yet, she had never before encountered such a man. Slowly, with eyes riveted to hers, Chandidas lifted his hands and pressed them palm against palm, making the sign of namaskar. His gesture was as gentle and tender as a kiss.

As the first heavy drops splattered on leaves and dusty ground, Rami returned the gesture then slowly moved away toward the children and her own narrow pallet. She removed her sari and lay down to another restless night filled with aching dreams, waking often to flashes of lightning, the crash of thunder, and the pelting of rain blown by gusts of wind.

2.

Sahajiyas

Rami dropped a heavy load of laundry on flat river stones and raised a hand to wipe beads of sweat from her brow. There was just enough time to finish the job before the rain began once again. Sixteen saris, four large cotton blankets, and ten dhotis had to be beaten, stone-slapped, stomped, cajoled, wrestled, rinsed clean in the river, now muddy from monsoon rains, and laid out to dry on the flat stone ledges further up the bank. It was hard labor that demanded much of the muscles of her small but strong young body. The children played exuberantly in the shallows nearby while Rami organized her task and went to work. She noticed the traveling minstrels nearby, sitting beneath a large neem tree, cleaning and tuning their instruments, smoking hashish, laughing and talking among themselves.

Shaking out a sari and immersing it in the swiftly flowing water, Rami glanced in their direction. How did they live? Were they just blown by the wind from village to village? To Rami, who was besieged by cares and woes, they were a wonder—they seemed so light-hearted and at ease with whatever came to pass.

They are foolhardy, most likely, or so Sujata says, though she enjoys their music well enough! Rami reflected. Shirking their born duty to family, clan, religion. Still, they touch me in strange ways… Oh, to have such freedom in this cruel life!

An hour passed, and still she worked hard and steadily.

Hari Om! Namaskar, sister. The sound of a voice startled her. Looking up from her work, she saw that it was the young sadhaka, Chandidas, standing three feet away.

Are you talking to me? she asked incredulously.

He raised his dark eyebrows and smiled, answering at first without words. Your name is Ramini? he inquired aloud.

Nodding to affirm, her smile was warm but tentative as she regarded the man standing before her. He had a strong quality of tejas—a raw spiritual power of charisma and radiance that poured from his face and form. She saw that his hands were full of kokila flowers, and her thoughts ran like quicksilver.

For four days he has watched me, here at the river as I wash clothes. Does he come bringing me flowers? It disturbs my mind to see him…and how he causes desire to flood my body! What does he want with me? He is Brahmin and I am low caste—nothing but a widowed washerwoman.

Why do you wash clothes for the villagers, Ramini? The young mendicant asked directly.

She looked down and continued with her work, contemplating how to answer. My husband, Rajmohan, left ten months ago. There has been no word of him since then. I am fortunate… the villagers are good to me and my children, they care for me. They allow me to pay for their kindness by serving them, washing their clothes. She paused, hesitating. Mother Kali provides for me in this way, you see?

Taking this in, he asked quietly, You are a widow, then?

A widow? she responded thoughtfully, I think my husband is dead or gone forever, and I am left to take care of myself and our children. Yes, it seems I am a widow, but as you see, I do not wear widow’s white. I cannot bear to take it on myself to do so… The dark flush of embarrassment at her circumstance stole across Rami’s face. Washing the villager’s clothes brought her social status into sharp focus—at least before Rajmohan left, he had kept goats for milk and tilled the soil.

Suddenly self-conscious, Rami reached up to touch the long plait of hair that was knotted and hung from the nape of her neck. Earlier that morning she had adorned her braid with a string of jasmine flowers, and now their sweet scent wafted around her as they brushed against the soft skin of her neck. She looked down at her feet that she had rubbed with red vermillion. Most of the ruddy powder was gone now, washed away in the river. His knowing eyes were on her, and she could feel that he was aware of her shame and sorrow.

Chandidas did not answer right away but gazed at her, as if taking her into himself. His face exuded empathy as he searched for words. Such customs mean nothing to me, Ramini. You are too young to wear widow’s white—surely you are not more than twenty years! He paused. Caste means nothing to me…only the innate sahaja, the human being and the human heart matter—it is the sahajiya way. And you, Rami, have a heart as big as the earth and sky. The beauty of your soul touches me. The Bhagavad Gita says that the Lord Krishna accepts all our offerings, however small or humble! Come sing with us when you are finished with work. He smiled again, bent down to place the handful of flowers at her feet, and, with the Sahajiyas’ customary salutation, Hari Om! he turned to walk away.

At first, his words troubled her. It was scandalous for a man to speak so openly to a woman—and even more restricted by the inflexible laws that separated them by caste. As she leaned down to pick up a sari, Rami remembered that he had been a temple priest in Nannur who had left his life behind to join the troupe of Sahajiyas. It was just gossip, but confusing even so. And yet, while she should have been shocked and fearful, within Rami’s sore heart a space opened that filled with sweet relief and the first glimmerings of joy.

Twenty years old with her husband dead, as everyone suspected, her life was over by social and religious custom. The very thought of becoming a widow—shunned or mistreated by many, reduced to begging for the rest of her life—left her gripped with anxiety. She knew of low-caste widow women in nearby villages who were beaten and sometimes starved or even burned to death. Even worse were the stories of women who were sold or abducted into slavery under the Muslim rulership; women who lived their lives in drudgery or worse in a nawab’s haram. She shuddered and turned again to look at the Sahajiyas, now singing softly beneath the neem tree—except for Chandidas, who sat alone at the edge of a lime grove, his eyes resting on her.

Still in wonder, she returned his gaze for a moment, then greeted her children, Ramchandra and Krishnabai, who ran to her with noisy enthusiasm. Seeing the flowers piled upon the flat rocks, they began to toss the blossoms to their mother. Rami dropped the river-soaked sari she clasped and caught them, one at a time, with wet hands, laughing with enjoyment at their playful mood. In a flash, the children were off again to play further downriver.

Her eyes dropped to the large pile of laundry still to be done. Rummaging through to heave a large length of cloth to the stones at the river’s edge, Rami’s eyes were magnetically drawn back to Chandidas, who watched with a smile.

After some weeks had passed, the small band of wandering minstrels were still encamped by Rami’s hut in Tantipara. After the day’s work was done in fields and gardens, at the looms or cook fires, or repairing huts damaged by the frequent driving rains that tore through the village like gods on a rampage, the people came to listen, sing, and dance with the wandering minstrels. Three or four, then ten, then twenty, thirty or fifty villagers joined the Sahajiyas in the village center outside the temple, or under the big banyan tree in the middle of the western rice paddy where the village deity resided, or sometimes by the tree outside the hut where Rami lived.

Regardless of the weather, grandmothers and grandfathers, parents, children of all ages came to be uplifted by their songs. Word spread, and people from nearby villages arrived as well. Only the fiercest deluge could forestall their joy in the songs of Radha and Krishna that transported them to Krishna’s playground, Vraja, or to Vishnu’s heaven, Vaikuntha—or their shared laughter at bawdy renditions recounting the foibles of ordinary people. Simply being around the minstrels was a balm to the village soul, aching and sore from the hard work of eking out an existence and struggling to survive, even as they watched the rich grow richer with each passing season.

Ammu, Ammu, Ramchandra called, whooping with excitement, Chandidas is teaching me to play the khartals! Rami’s young son, only five, had become fast friends with the travelers. Krishnabai, one year younger than her brother, was also charmed by the open, easy manner of the travelers who, as it turned out, were perfect guests. They were sensitive and unassuming, kept their encampment meticulously ordered, were friendly and kind to all who approached. And yet they were often called vatula—crazy, or taken by the wind—by the villagers, referring to their mysterious spiritual practices and the seemingly crazy freedom of the life they chose.

Rami tumbled headlong into their world, unable to stop the fall or to turn from the delight she discovered in their company. She loved every moment they were near. A strange affection and abiding respect arose in her for Raj Krishna, who was fatherly and kind—although at times he watched her closely in a way that was disconcerting, as if he glimpsed the deeper reaches of her soul. He showed concern for her well-being, and when she served him food or tea, his humble gratitude came as a sweet surprise.

Acutely aware that Raj Krishna was of Brahmin caste, as was Mataji, Rami observed a shy deference around them, but they treated her with a respect she had never known before. The thought that they would eventually leave brought the sting of tears to her eyes. She was surprised by the love that welled up and pooled in her heart like a hidden forest spring, for she loved them all, their moods, their songs and dances, their sweet humor and happy play with the children.

Mataji had easily taken on the role of a mother—she was naturally affectionate, understanding, and at times brisk or authoritative in her instruction. Her bright smiles were deeply reassuring, and there was something inexplicable, a wisdom and mysterious grace that she exuded, which calmed and nurtured all who came within her sphere. Although the men referred to her respectfully as Mataji, Rami came to know her best as Arundhati Ma, who called the younger woman daughter, taught her songs and how to play the small bronze hand bells, the khartals. Rami began to play along as the Sahajiyas sang, and she recognized a deep and perplexing kinship with these wanderers. How would she carry on, once they were gone? And then there was the puzzle of Chandidas. Each night, as on the first, Chandidas offered his namaskar, holding her eyes with his own until she turned away. She often felt his burning gaze on her during the day, and a passionate pull toward him from within.

The minstrels had been living in the village for over a month when, late one afternoon, a small group gathered around Raj Krishna under the ancient banyan tree. The first of many questions had come from the village tailor who asked, What is this sahaja that you sing about?

The Sahajiya elder looked around at the villagers seated cross-legged on the ground before him. Your true nature is sahaja—primordial, innate, free, he began. You are one with Krishna, as He says in the Gita, for He has created you from His own being!

Lifting his hands, the guru continued, To live sahaja is to be free from the constraints of the world, he explained. No matter what the circumstance of our lives, we are free to know the God within, and to do this we take the path of the Sahajiyas. Some call us Baul—mad with the wind, the inner winds of the body. He paused. We do not follow the path that has been given to us by the authorities—the teachers and priests, the maharajas and maharanis, the shahs and nawabs, the kings and all those who hold the power of life and death over ordinary people. We do not chase after the phantoms of comfort and security but seek freedom within ourselves.

Some of the villagers muttered in fearful rejection of his words while others were confused, hesitant, or nodded their heads in agreement. Nonetheless, all had felt the yoke of oppression under which they labored. The maharajas, the nawabs and kings held wealth and absolute power; they were the forces behind the constant religious wars and political intrigues that sapped the strength of the common people. They used human beings like playthings, as feudal possessions or slaves for hard labor, tilling their fields, and serving their pleasure gardens. The high caste suffered less than the common people, it was true. The Vedas say live by the dharma, obey the priests and offer sacrifices— and then surely their karmas would be better in the next life, giving them a higher birth. Beyond that belief, the villagers had no alternative but to scrape by from year to year, planting their crops, hoping there would be no war,