The Smoke is Rising

by Mahesh Rao

  Mala flashed a hurried smile in response.

  ‘The king was looking for a bride and began praying to the river god to assist him. Using the river god as marriage broker, you could say. So, after the king had prayed for many months, the river god was satisfied and offered him his daughter’s hand in marriage. The daughter, it seems, was a very beautiful creature. And also very entertaining.’

  The coffee and vadas he’d ordered arrived and Girish broke off to examine them. Satisfied, he popped half a vada into his mouth with a smudge of chutney, shuffling the hot mouthful around with his tongue until it was cool enough to swallow.

  ‘Yes, so this daughter could tell amazing stories, dance beautifully and play lots of instruments. The king was completely bewitched and married her with no delay. But then what happened is that the king became obsessed with his new wife. He began neglecting his state affairs and all his subjects began to suffer. You could say that he was the model for our politicians today.’

  A girl appeared at the table, holding out calendars for sale. Girish looked around impatiently for the tea boy. Within a few seconds, the girl darted away, her skirt billowing behind her.

  ‘Anyway, neighbouring kingdoms began to make plans to attack this state and the subjects began to starve so they begged the river god to make the king come to his senses. It seems the river god appeared before the king and scolded him for his dereliction of duties. The king was very arrogant, thinking that he did not need the river god any more, now that he had his beautiful daughter. So the river god punished the king by making his daughter invisible.’

  A fight had broken out between two stray dogs in the parking area and it was a minute or so before their ferocious barking receded into a series of cartoon yelps.

  ‘Some people, I think, will question whether making a wife invisible is real punishment.’

  Girish smiled at Mala and then continued.

  ‘But the king was highly distraught. He began to pray again to the river god, agreeing to any kind of penance as long as his wife was returned to him in visible format. The river god agreed to return his daughter, but only on condition that the king pray non-stop for forty days, restore the good fortunes of his subjects and also build a temple where the river god could always see it.’

  Mala’s eyes ventured a glance at the next table as Girish spoke. A couple were holding hands across the table’s ringed surface. The tea boy set down two bottles of cola, flimsy straws capering at the top. Red and green bangles clinked on the woman’s lower arms as she traced little circles on her husband’s palms with the tips of her fingernails.

  Mala stole another look. The woman was wearing a white salwar kameez, the fitted bodice showing off her contours. She stretched out her arm and turned the two pens poking out of her husband’s shirt pocket so that they would be correctly ranged for any impromptu drafting. Her hand moved upwards and her fingers swept through her husband’s hair, brushing it away from his side parting. Spotting a crumb at the edge of his mouth, she flicked it away and ran her thumb across his bottom lip.

  Mala turned back to Girish and their eyes locked. She looked down at her lap and then across at the spread of the sluggish river below. Girish reached out for the sole paper napkin sitting in a plastic tumbler on the table and began to wipe his hands meticulously.

  The doorbell rang at a quarter past eleven, spooling out a joyless version of ‘Edelweiss’.

  ‘Actually on time,’ thought Susheela as she smoothed down the front of her pallu and walked towards the door.

  Sunaina Kamath made her usual entrance: she walked into any room as if expecting to interrupt a vibrant conference. Her apparent disappointment at being confronted by only Susheela and a potted philodendron was quickly swept away as she took off her sandals.

  ‘How are you, Sush? This heat, I can’t tell you. It gets worse every year.’

  Behind Sunaina, Malini Gupta smiled woodenly as she took in her surroundings.

  ‘I don’t know whether it’s the global warming or getting older or maybe both. But I definitely seem to feel the heat a lot more these days,’ sighed Susheela. ‘Please come, Malini. First time you’re coming here, no?’

  Sunaina sank into a brocade sofa.

  ‘Oof, I think I’ll just stay here for the rest of the day and not move.’

  Slightly rested, she let out an abrupt chuckle. Her dimples gave her face a softer, more pliant aspect as she dabbed at her neck with a man’s handkerchief. Sunaina’s hair always looked as if she had walked into it quite by chance, the unyielding bob anxiously perched over her face. She stuffed the handkerchief into one of the many pouches in her handbag and looked ready for business.

  Malini Gupta sat straight-backed on a leather and bamboo stool despite Susheela’s attempts to navigate her towards the more comfortable corner armchair. Susheela saved herself some trouble and focused her attentions on Sunaina, it being widely known that Mrs Gupta’s only interests were the cave paintings of Ajanta and the arthritis in her big toe.

  The social call slid into its characteristic rhythm. More on the hot weather, children, other family, traffic, general health, specific health, completed building works, anticipated further building works, weight gain, weight loss, cooks, maids, drivers and gardeners.

  Sunaina dragooned her way through topics like a seasoned politician, mindful of all reasonable views but keen to move on to other more significant issues. She was convinced that her uncompromising sense of community responsibility and benevolent participation gave her a nose for what mattered. If questioned, she would have been hard-pressed to define the community for which she toiled so industriously. In fact, the question would probably only have served to irritate her: the kind of mindless prattle that got in the way of people setting agendas and achieving objectives. Nevertheless, she recognised the importance of weighty nomenclature. Sunaina had always believed that if one invited gravitas, patronage and influence would automatically follow.

  She was therefore an indispensable member of the Association of Concerned and Informed Citizens of Mysore, the chair of the Mysore North Civic Reform and Renewal Committee and the secretary of the Vontikoppal Ladies’ League. No less impressive was her record in the inner circles of the Mahalakshmi Gardens Betterment Association and St Theresa’s Humanities College Alumni Society. She also gave freely of her time to any number of spontaneous causes and supplicants.

  In some quarters her tireless public efforts were viewed as a deliberate counterpoise to her husband’s cantankerousness. A canny property developer, he seemed to relish his renowned irascibility, picking fights with even the paan seller outside Mindy’s. The most recent outrage had been an ugly scene involving an overturned basket of chrysanthemums outside the Chamundeshwari temple. During her early married life, Sunaina had appeared to have a firm grip on her husband’s unpredictability. She had regarded her handiwork with the pride of a dog trainer who had made a success of a particularly idiotic mongrel. But over the years the cur had reverted to form and ever more florid notes of apology had been required to appease her relatives and neighbours.

  Susheela wondered when exactly Sunaina had begun to call her Sush. She was certainly the only person in the world to do so. Uma appeared briefly to serve the chilled juice and some light mid-morning snacks. Sunaina greeted the malai chum chum and the cashew pakoras with protestations, grudging acceptance and then a cheerful zeal. The air-conditioning system rattled away in the background.

  ‘Oh Sush, you’re really trying to finish me off,’ Sunaina groaned, biting into another chum chum. ‘Just after scaring us with all these health stories, you serve us these heart attacks.’

  Malini Gupta had barely touched her plate. A corner had been nibbled off just one pakora. Susheela made a mental note.

  Talk turned to Sunaina’s nephew, whose disinclination to find paid employment troubled her like an ingrown toenail.

  ‘At least he doesn’t gamble or, you know, conduct himself in loose ways,’ said Susheela.

 
; ‘Birdwatching,’ said Sunaina with disgust. ‘That’s the only thing he’s interested in. Always leaping up to tell you that he spotted some crested crow with three legs.’

  ‘But I suppose it doesn’t do any harm.’

  ‘It doesn’t do any good either. He may be comfortably off, but as a life, what does it amount to, all this lying around in puddles, gazing at hens?’

  Malini Gupta seemed to cheer up a little at the thought of the dismal prospects of Sunaina’s nephew.

  The morning’s paper lay folded and pressed flat on the coffee table. The front page revealed that the High Court had granted a fresh stay order on any construction at the site of HeritageLand. The saga of the proposed theme park, one of Asia’s largest, seemed almost immemorial. Every call of support or protest was eagerly absorbed into the civic ether as if the pitch for construction was the real entertainment envisaged by the park’s creators. Almost every aspect of the project was endlessly debated in the local press, the choice of site and acquisition of land being the most controversial. The editor of the Mysore Evening Sentinel was unequivocal in his warning: ‘If we don’t hurry up and build the damn thing, the Chinese will do it, like they do everything else.’

  ‘As for this so-called HeritageLand, I don’t think we will ever see it in our lifetimes,’ said Susheela.

  ‘I am just sick and tired of hearing about it,’ said Sunaina, her hands fluttering to her temples.

  ‘Every day there is another press release, another exclusive. The park will only have five-star hotels, it will have five thousand fountains, it will be seen from space.’

  ‘Apparently we will be able to experience a day in the life of Tipu Sultan there.’

  ‘Didn’t he spend his days flinging Britishers off a cliff?’

  ‘Maybe that’s what they intend, although I hope not. Think of the mess. Just when street cleaning has improved in our localities.’

  Sunaina gulped the last of her juice like a stricken heroine.

  A bee had somehow made its way into the dining room and its dull drone was interrupted by the thud of its deranged lunges at the closed window. Malini Gupta glanced at the moulded ends of the curtain rail, shifted on her stool and once again examined her uneaten chum chum.

  ‘So, what made you late this morning?’ asked the mali, as Uma carried a basin of dirty utensils to the outside washing area at the back of the house.

  She gathered up the folds of her sari, tucked them between her thighs and squatted to turn the tap on. The mali walked around to one side of the tap and looked down at the top of her head.

  ‘Definitely in a bad mood,’ he said.

  ‘Amma said there were plates under the pots on the upstairs balcony that need to be cleaned,’ Uma said. The water sprayed halfway up her thin arms and wet the edges of her sari.

  ‘Can you get me another cup of coffee? Even in this heat, my stomach is feeling cold inside.’

  Uma did not respond. She quickly rinsed the last of the steel tumblers, laid it out on a mat in the sunshine and hurried back inside the house, without giving him another look.

  The sun was lower in the sky but the dry heat still bore away with the same intensity. Seated on the low wall, Mala looked for the hyperactive boys but they were nowhere in sight. Girish sat next to her, his arm slung across her shoulders like a sandbag. He occasionally clicked his fingers as if in time to some mysterious strain unfolding in his head. A few minutes later he stood up and stretched.

  ‘Time to go, Mala. We’ve got that journey back,’ he said, heading towards the parking area.

  The square of shade in which the car had been parked had pivoted around to the right, leaving it fully exposed to the day’s fury. Its interior felt like a hot, fetid mouth and the seat began to brand Mala’s back and thighs. Girish reversed out of the parking area and slowly began the descent down to the rutted road.

  The car was fairly new. Its purchase had been preceded by lengthy consultations with colleagues and relatives. Girish had pored over motoring magazines, scoured road user websites and posted detailed queries on car information forums. The Maruti dealer had come to their home three times and had fielded countless telephone calls. Finally, the loan was arranged, the EMIs fixed and the vehicle delivered on an auspicious day, before Rahu reared up to cause any chaos. Girish had driven the car carefully to the Venkateshwara temple in Sitanagar, a marigold and jasmine garland looped over the bonnet. As the priest reeled off the blessing, Girish stared at the new number plate. His intermittently professed rationalism had been given the day off. Girish was not a man who liked to take chances.

  The thrill of ownership had faded rapidly. Three months after the purchase, the blue hatchback looked drab and niggardly, parked by a pile of macadam left in the lane beyond their front gate. With the surging price of fuel, the car had already become of incidental use: shopping excursions, day trips, weddings. Girish continued to wash and polish the car conscientiously, having read about the dangers of oxidation.

  As Girish eased the car into second gear, he glanced at Mala next to him. She had lowered the sun visor and her head was turned towards the window on her side. The condition of the road seemed, at least to Girish, to have worsened inexplicably over the course of the day. The car shuddered and bounced as Girish weaved around pits and potholes. Here and there a darker smear of tar indicated a hurried patching up, maybe in anticipation of a VIP visit or a festival procession.

  The car passed through a village, extinguished for the afternoon, and turned on to the wider trunk road at the next junction. Mala continued to stare at the deserted land. The monotony of the dry paddy fields on either side was oppressive. Diamonds of stubble and loam rolled past, at times broken up by a meagre windbreak. Girish slowed down as they approached a bridge. As the car moved across it, Mala looked through the white railings to see that the river below had shrunk drastically. The anarchy of rocks and exhausted channels on the river bed resembled a strange moonscape. She noticed that someone had abandoned a bundle of clothes on the wall of a culvert. It was the only sign of softness in that unforgiving scene.

  ‘Shall I open the windows? At least the breeze might help,’ said Mala.

  ‘No, too much dust. Just turn that vent more towards you.’

  They were bearing down on a van that was cruising along in the middle of the road. Girish hooted impatiently and flashed his lights. The van seemed to begin moving into the left lane and then shifted again so it was squarely in the centre of the road.

  ‘Look at this idiot. Who gives licences to these bloody fools?’ Girish let out a series of sharp honks and flashed his lights again.

  An arm emerged from the van, undulating in the air.

  ‘What is this idiot doing? What the hell is that supposed to mean?’ More hooting followed.

  The arm continued to motion and then, a few seconds later, withdrew.

  Girish moved to the extreme right of the road, his hand pressed down on the horn. There was no oncoming traffic but he still could not overtake.

  ‘Is this fool crazy or deaf? If he wanted me to pass, why doesn’t he move?’ Girish nosed as close to the van as he could without causing a collision. His hooting was now just an endless, insistent blast.

  The van began to gain speed, still in the middle of the road, and pulled away from the blue hatchback.

  ‘Finally,’ muttered Girish, adjusting his seat belt.

  In an instant the van swerved sideways into the middle of the road and stopped, blocking the road. Girish slammed his foot on the brake and the car jolted to a halt, tearing violently at the uneven surface of the road.

  Girish had taken his hand off the horn and a foreign silence descended. Mala turned to look at him. He was staring straight ahead, expressionless. The van’s door opened on the driver’s side. There was no further movement.

  Girish’s hands remained on the steering wheel, the veins fanning out like the talons of a bird of prey.

  A man jumped out of the van. He was slight and athletic lookin
g, dressed in jeans and a tight vest, his hair cropped short. He approached the car at a leisurely pace, swinging a length of cloth.

  Mala whispered: ‘Oh God, Girish, please don’t say anything.’

  The man knocked at Girish’s window and then pressed his palm against the glass, his flesh pale and turgid. He knocked again, this time harder.

  Girish opened the window. The man leant down: ‘Lo bhosdike, what’s the problem?’

  Girish stared blankly at him. Mala pushed her handbag with her feet into the far corner.

  ‘I said, what’s the problem?’

  ‘There’s no problem.’

  ‘Really? You make a lot of noise for someone with no problems.’

  ‘There’s no problem.’

  The man took a long look at Mala and then shrugged: ‘If you say so, boss. Too much tension. You need to relax.’

  Girish was silent.

  ‘Okay boss, if you say no problem, then there really is no problem.’

  The man took another look at Mala and then sauntered back to the van, still swinging the length of cloth. In a moment the van’s engine fired up and it sped off.

  The man’s hand had left a greasy imprint on the window. Girish waited until the van was out of sight. He opened the door and spat into the road. Closing the door, he adjusted the mirror, restarted the ignition and began to move slowly forward.

  Neither of them spoke for a few minutes until Girish looked sharply at Mala.

  ‘What do you think I would have said?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You told me not to say anything. What do you think I was going to say?’

  ‘I don’t know. Nothing. I just didn’t want him to get angrier.’

  ‘Because I don’t know that much? That I should not make a crazy rowdy like him angry.’

  ‘I didn’t mean anything. I was just scared.’

  They were approaching the bend in the road at Bannur. Billboards scudded past: models entwined in cords of gold, rows of premium quality rubber chappals and earnest invitations to MBA courses in Australia. A truck carrying wobbling stacks of timber lurched in front of them. On top of the planks sat a sallow-faced man, his dead eyes focused on some distant point.