by Mahesh Rao
The rest of the journey passed in silence.
CHAPTER TWO
Venky Gowda had only ever sustained one vision in his life: HeritageLand. He dreamed of a world where cutting-edge technology could harness the drama of the ancient epics and transport his compatriots to an alternate reality. When he slept, he twitched and kicked, mouthing his plans for a recreated Dandaka forest where the curious could follow in Lord Rama’s footsteps, battle the Lankan army in an elaborate flume, cut off Shurpanakha’s ears and nose with laser arrows, soar to the treetops in a mechanical Garuda. His cupboards were crammed with notes for a Kurukshetra War simulation involving luxury chariots and a buffet service. Napkins within his reach were covered with doodles of the Kailash Wonder Mountain and the Yamaraja Monorail.
Venky’s first attempts at obtaining finance for the project had been met with bloodcurdling laughter. Had he considered the problem of locating a site, the cost of construction and equipment, the logistical difficulties, the power shortages, the possibility that HeritageLand would only attract roadside Romeos feverish at the thought of witnessing the dishabille of a shapely Draupadi?
These were all legitimate points, but Venky Gowda only had one vision. And he was not the type of man to turn his back on it. After years of conspiring and toadying, endless feasibility studies and costs analyses, an MBA from Ohio State University, a rhinoplasty procedure and, finally, marriage into the family of a powerful political grandee, his phantom fantasy world faced the prospect of becoming real. Perhaps the gods had finally decided to bless Venky, themselves waking up to the fact that their universe would be incomplete without a representation of their fight against evil in the twists and turns of a water slide. And that representation would rise in Mysore, erstwhile land of maharajas, India’s second cleanest city and home of many talented snooker players.
Venture capitalists from Hong Kong were ready with finance, architects and engineers worked day and night on the park layout and, crucially, opinions had been canvassed among prominent Mysore residents. The editor of the Mysore Evening Sentinel gave the project a cautious welcome: it would be a good opportunity to showcase the country’s traditions and culture but historical and doctrinal accuracy would be essential. Ahmed Pasha, President of the Mysore Enterprise Forum, could see only benefits accruing from HeritageLand. He speculated at length on the growth in the city’s economy based on projected revenues from the theme park and also took the opportunity to publicise the fine merchandise in his own furniture showrooms. Priyadarshini Ramesh, proprietor of the Mysstiiqque chain of beauty salons, declared that she was not opposed to the plans on principle but her main concerns related to the park’s aesthetic impact on the city.
‘Class, not mass,’ she said, stamping her beautifully pedicured foot. ‘We don’t want the whole thing turning into a cheap circus full of low types.’
Professor M M Malikarjuna of the university’s linguistics department ignored the question entirely and instead renewed his appeal for better policing on the Manasagangotri campus in light of the number of youngsters openly canoodling there in broad daylight.
An overall impact assessment of HeritageLand resulted in the following conclusions: the theme park would bring enormous economic and cultural advantages to the city of Mysore, transforming it into a premier global tourist destination; any adverse environmental impact would be mitigated by the planting of trees on the park site and by the use of low-energy light bulbs; no obstacles could be envisaged in the grant of licences required for the park as all necessary inducements would be incorporated into its unofficial budget; the residents of Mysore, or in any case those who held any serious influence, would provide full support for the project as long as it was realised in the best possible taste.
A celebration party was held at the Mysore Regency Hotel where all the guests agreed that the head chef had outdone himself with his Hyderabadi chicken lollipops. The Secretary of the Mysore Regeneration Council made the mistake of bringing up the issue of the land yet to be acquired for the project site and was beaten down by several colleagues. There seemed little value in wringing their hands over a virtual fait accompli.
Susheela stood by the window peering at the hunched figure by the gate in the white vest and khaki shorts, a small basket in his right hand. She seldom allowed doubt to factor into her deductions, but this time she pursed her lips as she tried to make up her mind. Certainly he looked crude enough to signify someone with an uncouth mentality. She was sure it was him that she had seen on previous occasions.
The milky sky had begun to radiate a toast-like warmth and the smell of the Bhaskars’ breakfast drifted over the compound wall. Pulling her pallu over her shoulders, Susheela began to walk briskly towards the man, who was now standing gazing up at a frangipani tree in full blossom.
‘Excuse me, do you think this is acceptable?’
The man spun round, his reverie cut short by Susheela’s tone.
‘Every day I see you, helping yourself to flowers from my garden, as if this is some sort of free place for the public.’
‘Madam, these are for prayers. Not for selling in the market. What harm is there?’
‘The harm is that you are taking what is not yours. Every day you come here and just help yourself. Have you ever thought about whether I also need these flowers for my prayers?’
‘Madam, you should not deprive God of these small offerings, wherever they come from.’
‘God will be a lot happier with you if you keep your hands off my garden in the future.’
Susheela turned around, picked up a couple of dead leaves off the path and walked back into the house. The door shut with a sharp click.
Their lunches were packed. The pongal for their breakfast was ready. The coffee was dripping through the filter. Mala had paid the electricity bill the day before. She had washed the front steps first thing in the morning and drawn her standard rangoli: four diamonds intersecting in the middle of a large spiral. It was just after eight in the morning. Mala looked for a safety pin in the coin purse on the kitchen shelf and then glanced at her watch. Gayathri the maid was now ten minutes late. Girish liked her to be gone before he had his breakfast at a quarter to nine.
A couple of minutes later the gate bolt screeched across the stone floor and a shadow passed along one of the tiny front windows. Girish had said that they could afford a maid for an hour a day. Mala would have to get her to run a broom across the floor, mop all the rooms, wash the clothes hurriedly and clean the previous evening’s plates and utensils. The rest was for Mala to manage.
Gayathri gave Mala a practised smile as she walked to the bathroom. Nothing was said of the lateness. In fact, these days Mala said very little to Gayathri at all. When she had first started working there, Gayathri had tried to indulge in some banter. But Mala’s self-censorship had already begun to be a habit for her, one she was not going to break for the maid. Even though Mala knew that it was her place to assert herself, she felt uncomfortable in Gayathri’s all too corporeal presence. She could not stop herself looking at the audacious swell of the maid’s haunches when she crouched low to flick the wet rag under the dining table; her creamy brown belly that pushed through the thin fabric of her sari; her extravagant breasts scarcely contained by her sweat-stained blouse. How could she be so fat when she did physical work all day?
Mala had little knowledge of Gayathri’s home life, having only got so far as to ascertain that she had no children. Gayathri’s response to a query from Girish about her husband was: ‘Aiya, he comes and he goes.’
With that she had let out her long, throaty laugh, a perplexing noise that sounded like a series of quick hiccups, each being ambushed by the next.
There was no evidence of scabrous entertainments in Gayathri’s life but there existed an air of gratification and an earthy zeal about her that Mala had not encountered before. She had once asked Girish if he thought Gayathri drank. He had immediately responded with an interrogation as to whether Mala had smelt alcohol o
n her breath, had she been acting strangely, was there something wrong with her work, had someone said anything? Well, why was she asking then?
Mala regretted ever having brought it up.
The letter was addressed to the Head of Customer Services at the regional electricity distribution company and ran to three pages of block text. The author, the Chief Executive Officer and majority shareholder of a small company based in the industrial corridor to the south of Mysore, was by turns deeply concerned, immensely frustrated and utterly scandalised. The power situation in Karnataka had reached such a nadir that, by hook or by crook, urgent measures were required, come what may, without which, rest assured, there would be extremely adverse consequences for the future of Mysore as an attractive investment area. Furthermore, this was nothing less than a clarion call for the state’s reputation as a centre for the enhancement of development opportunities.
The letter’s author recognised that the damage to the country’s reputation as a rising superpower did not require elaboration but, nevertheless, felt compelled to enumerate all the associated dangers. The author also pointed out that there was neither rhyme nor reason, prudence nor perception, aim nor ambition in the state’s power-supply policies. He graciously acknowledged the lack of long-term investment in the sector and the grave challenges posed by transmission leakages and power theft; even so, his only option was to highlight to the authorities the fact that there was simply no justification for the current dismal state of affairs.
Attached to the letter was a schedule detailing the dates and times of load-shedding, power holidays and voltage drops in the last six months, along with calculations of output decline, loss of revenue, and expenditure on alternate power supplies. The author sought a full and frank explanation for the unscheduled power losses and a complete and comprehensive plan for the avoidance of such eventualities in the future. If an adequate response was not forthcoming, each and every legitimate avenue would be explored by the author of the letter, including, but not limited to, judicial intervention. The author’s final point was that the idea of a project such as HeritageLand being contemplated in Mysore would be comical were it not so insulting. The letter was copied to the Karnataka Electricity Regulatory Commission, the Mysore Enterprise Forum, the Mayor’s office and the Federation of Indian Chambers of Commerce and Industry.
Girish slowly replaced the letter in a manila folder marked ‘Urgent’ with a faded red marker pen. The word was followed by a hurried slash, an exclamation mark that added a comedic exigency to the whole business: bungling officials skidding on banana skins and walking into doors as they scurried around, attempting to resolve the power crisis. He wished he could see the funny side, but there was not much laughter to be had on the second floor of Jyothi House at a quarter to three in the afternoon. A pile of quality assurance statements and various drafts of the customer grievance handling procedure sat on the corner of his desk. He flicked the folder on top of this pile, its edges crinkled with heat and sweat, the constituent layers accordioning out in a last mad dash.
A few minutes later Girish called the Director of Customer Relations again but was met by the same collapsed voice telling him in three languages that the mobile phone he was trying to call was either switched off or out of range. He tried the Director’s secretary once more. Sarita answered on the second ring and stated again that sir was in a meeting but yes sir, she had already passed on the message sir, when sir had emerged for a break, and sir had said that he would call sir as soon as possible, but you know how these meetings are sir, especially the meetings with sir, so she really could not specifically inform sir as to when exactly sir would be free to speak to sir but, of course sir, without a doubt sir, she would make sure that she reminded sir when he next emerged, not to worry sir, thank you sir, good afternoon sir. Girish knew she was lying; he could picture her face, like a boulder wearing a bindi. He also knew he would call her again in half an hour and hated himself for it.
Susheela’s left ear was beginning to smart so she transferred the receiver to her other side.
‘We’re having the downstairs bathroom redone. It’s been such a torture, I can’t tell you, and now that the workmen are finally in, life is even worse. Yesterday when I came back they had left the front door wide open and were nowhere to be seen. Now the stupid company has sent the wrong shower door and I’m going to have to sort all of that out,’ said Priyanka, Susheela’s elder daughter.
‘I know, everything goes wrong at the same time,’ said Susheela.
‘Exactly. And Vivek’s in Brussels again, so that’s really helping. Actually he called last night but the line was so bad. It’s been happening the last few times. I think they’ve sold him the same dabba mobile that they sold me, remember? And of course, he’ll make me go and sort all of that out because he’ll claim to be too busy. Amma? One sec, one sec, okay … just got to get this.’
Susheela’s mouth felt dry and chalky as she listened to Priyanka’s travails. She swallowed hard, having completely lost the thread of the conversation some minutes ago. This in itself was not unusual. Their fortnightly conversations had come to mean progressively less to Susheela. Of course, it was lovely to hear from Priyanka and there was still that warm ripple when she remembered things Susheela had mentioned the previous fortnight. But their worlds had caromed apart a few years ago and the ties had grown flaccid and indistinct. Priyanka’s chatter now seemed like the background buzz from television or titbits gleaned from mobile phone conversations in the doctor’s waiting room. There were vague allusions to Katherine and Carlos, Jude and Alice, Matt and Chris. The call would be interrupted at times by mumbled asides to her PA or her husband. Susheela had noticed that of late Priyanka seemed to have a stock set of questions that she would clatter through, often hurriedly ending the conversation, promising further detail by email. These emails would arrive a few days later, stippled with exclamation marks and breezy references to Merzbau installations, shochu bars, experimental dance and city breaks to Stockholm and Berlin.
Susheela had not consciously withdrawn from Priyanka’s elaborate life. She would not even have recognised the growing distance as a consequence of her own actions. Her retreat was subliminally pre-emptive: she had begun an instinctive process of shutting out before she was cast as the lonely interfering mother gazing at her daughter sashaying into the distance. As far as Susheela was concerned, the important thing was that the precepts of form and propriety were maintained. So calls were made, emails read, cards sent. To proceed otherwise would be to descend into sloth and chaos.
Priyanka’s job entailed something incomprehensible in London to do with capital markets. Where once this had been a matter of accomplishment and esteem, Susheela had quickly understood that the current mood was very different. It now seemed that most of the recent global financial scourges could be tracked back to Priyanka and the incumbents of her world. Heads shook slowly at Mysore dinner parties, expressing disgust at the greed and recklessness of these brash, aggressive bankers and the mercenary politicians who had allowed them to gamble away the futures of decent savers from Caracas to Chennai. Susheela’s feelings remained ambivalent. Where once she had quietly skimmed along on the tide of her daughter’s achievements, she now stood tacitly at the shore, facing the other way.
She would be affected as much as anyone else by the tribulations of global finance, a widow with no actively earned income. There was a sum of cash in fixed deposits garnering a comfortable amount of interest: a combination of accumulated savings, the pay-out from the life assurance company and the entitlement received from Sridhar’s provident fund, following twenty-five odd years of service at House of Govind. She owned the house outright and had no debts. Her circumstances had never impelled her to examine closely the small portfolio of shares that she had inherited from Sridhar. From all the talk on the news, she surmised that it was probably worth very little.
There were gifts from Priyanka too: a new television one Diwali; extravagant bouquets an
d jewellery on her birthday; and two or three times arbitrary cheques for thousands of rupees which Susheela had been embarrassed to accept but too disconcerted to refuse. There was talk now of sinking banks, plunging interest rates and the end of the property boom. Her instinctive response was to look into some belt-tightening options; not easily done, as she did not regard herself as remotely extravagant.
Priyanka had rung off. There was someone at the door and she had to be at her Pilates class in fifteen minutes. Susheela sat by the window, still holding the telephone, looking out at the front lawn. Swirls of pale green, brown and white roiled across the ground, enraged at the lack of water. The mali had left the hosepipe in a great coil in the middle of the lawn, as if to provoke it further. There was a sudden rushing noise, followed by a few beeps. The power had gone again.
She sighed and began to sort through some old envelopes in the magazine rack. The situation was quite different with her younger daughter Prema, who had left Mysore for California on a celebrated scholarship. Her work had eventually led her to a research post involving the application of genomic knowledge to the development of fertility drugs. Prema offered up little about her life. Her telephone calls were more irregular, her emails hardly worth mentioning. Her life seemed to revolve around the lab and weekend rock-climbing trips. Even so, Susheela felt an implicit candour there that seemed to be missing in those lengthy conversations with Priyanka. The call from Prema could last five minutes or half an hour, but Susheela remained a participant. They talked about the most useful exercises for lower back pain, Obama’s sparkling speeches or the easiest way to get an intense smoky flavour in a baingan bhartha. Beyond these moments, Susheela knew that it would be advisable not to probe further. Prema was like a piece of parchment that revealed certain limited truths but which, if inspected too closely, would crumble into a fine dust.
