On top of the hillock beyond the temple was Bhootharaya with hair wet and unkempt and body smeared with bright red kumkuma; holding a singara and dancing in a fine frenzy; and in the inner chamber of the temple was Manjunatha, wearing the crown. And there was the bell, a gift from his forefathers to the temple, whose peals resounded through the town.
There was a story he always narrated with great relish: it was about the matadhipathi who had excommunicated him for refusing to compute the movement of the planets according to the traditional Indian method and for using Western calculations instead; he had retaliated with verses in Sanskrit lampooning him. Jois was smart, he knew Jagannatha was modern in his outlook and the story would go well with him. He even knew how to contend that God did not exist. Seetharamaiah, his cousin, was the chief priest at the Manjunatha temple, and so naturally he was jealous of him.
Stallion of the Sun and Other Stories
The Supreme Soul is Father to some, Mother to some. Those who think of it as Mother always have their eyes on Mother's breast. It is a breast ever flowing with milk. Those who drink it can't take their mouth off that breast. They don't ask for other breasts. Those who think of it as Father, raise their heads and look at the Lord in his eye, and they are roused. They want to look and they want to see; they want to swallow the whole world. Can the hunger of the eye ever be quenched? I am one of those who drinks. In sleep, you too drink. When children drink they kick their mothers. But before your heroic passion to bend the world to your desires is born, should or shouldn't your belly be soothed a little first?