by Mahesh Rao
Mala slowed down as she approached the busy junction, easing the scooter to one side. She had been living in Mysore for over two years but some of the routes still confused her with their sudden one-way systems and riots of side roads. City officials had helpfully provided a profusion of signs and arrows at this circle, but they all seemed to look skywards in despair. Matters were not improved by the proprietors of Sheethal Talkies, who had covered up a number of signposts with posters for their morning feature, Desires of the Night, a work chronicling the renaissance of a girl who moved to a large city from an inconsequential town. It was unlikely that Mala would ever have the opportunity to compare experiences with the film’s central character but there were one or two similarities.
Mala had grown up in Konnapur, a three-road town choking in its own dust. It was famed for its Eeshwara temple, a Hoysala masterpiece that today sat among ramshackle lean-tos housing doleful purveyors of pooja items. Little hummocks of vermillion and turmeric rose amid baskets of chrysanthemums, jasmine and marigolds. Coconuts were piled into bushels under unsteady wooden tables. Framed photos of Shiva and Ganesh stood propped up next to brass plates containing twists of sandalwood paste, incense sticks, lozenges of camphor and glistening fans of betel leaves. A little further, at a slightly more respectful distance, a selection of beedi and paan shops nudged the periphery of the temple complex.
The temple was the town’s spiritual and economic hub, providing focus for most of its devotees, traders, handlers, speculators, brokers, priests, academics, itinerants, beggars and charlatans. Mala’s father, Babu, had paid his dues as a secondary school teacher, poet, real estate broker and areca nut dealer before ending up as a tour-guide-cum-travel agent. His business cards confirmed that he was a ‘History and Heritage Specialist’, thereby adding a scholarly sheen to his entrepreneurial activities. Dressed in oversized dazzling white shirts and pleated navy trousers, Babu would tell tourists that he chose not to tie himself down with premises and staff, preferring instead to meet his potential clients in the hallowed domain of the temple courtyard. In his professional ministrations he was finely attuned to the fascinations and appetites of his clientele.
‘Welcome, welcome to Konnapur’s magnificent treasure,’ he would say expansively, as if personally responsible for the temple’s architecture.
‘I can see that you have come here looking for something very special, and I don’t mind telling you, beyond any doubt, you will find it.’
For teenaged gap-year drifters he spun salacious accounts involving multiple gods, endowing the mace, the trident and the conch with an unparalleled lewdness. To salvation-seeking freethinkers Babu elaborated on the transcendence of the self required to discover the eternal identity and, naturally, highlighted Konnapur’s key role in various Vedic milestones. For wealthy North Indian dowagers he played up the Konnapur deity’s impressive record in reversing astrological ill omens, granting male grandchildren and bestowing longevity.
The truth was that while Babu tried to turn his natural resourcefulness and broad knowledge to some personal gain, his love for Konnapur and the Eeshwara temple was profound and enduring. Much of his childhood had been spent loitering around the shrine vestibule, sheltering behind the carved balustrades and watching swallows take off from the moulded lintels. There was little competition among Konnapur’s open sewers and garbage-strewn alleys. Babu’s investment in the temple, and his certain knowledge that destiny had no greater plans for him elsewhere, kept him rooted to the centre of Konnapur. If his embellishments of the temple’s historical and architectural significance resulted in some modest additional income for him, what was the harm?
At the age of twenty-three, Babu’s prospects had been scrupulously appraised by older family members as a precursor to marriage negotiations. Of course, as the saying went, parents would adore their child even if it were a bandicoot, but such subjective regard had to be put firmly to one side in the important business of nuptial assessments. Fortunately Babu’s parents had never had to avail themselves of such undiscerning devotion, nor later face any harsh realities. Babu was tall and broad-shouldered, with an open, confident face that invited further analysis. As a man, however, his looks were hardly of the greatest significance.
Hailing from a prominent Brahmin family that could number among its antecedents several Sanskrit scholars, a tax collector, a leading astrophysicist and the founder of a hospice for destitute widows, the initial outlook had been buoyant. Allowances then had to be made for a schizophrenic aunt and a great-uncle who spent his Sundays dressed as a former maharani of Mysore. There was also some speculation regarding the occasional presence of Babu’s father at an illegal gambling house. It was duly noted that Babu did not stand to inherit land of any great value, the bulk of the ancestral property having found its way into the hands of an alternate branch of the family. Being a graduate, his value had appreciated, but not by much. Years of Nehruvian planning and entrenched official venality had meant that he would still be adrift in a sea of lettered young men, unless a benevolent patron emerged to ease his passage into professional life. This was not an impossible occurrence. The astrophysicist’s son still passed through Konnapur on occasion. As a senior official at Western Railway who lived in a sprawling pistachio-green mansion in Baroda, there were plenty of favours he could grant.
Most importantly though, Babu’s personality conveyed the sense of a man sanctified by fate. His apparent confidence and social ease generated an assurance that could not help but conquer potential in-laws. Babu himself was more circumspect about his future. An opening at a local secondary school did not hold great promise. But he had to get married and he needed to make sure that he presented himself in the best possible light. As a result, Babu talked himself into a favourable alliance.
Rukmini’s family owned great swathes of land around Konnapur. Her father’s orchards and plantations were breathlessly enumerated by those who liked to keep abreast of such matters. In all likelihood the extent of his wealth was exaggerated in those provincial circles, thereby rendering his children even more attractive. His four sons and eight daughters could launch themselves into their adulthood with more than a degree of confidence.
Rukmini had been eager to study further, perhaps Hindi literature at college. This would have entailed moving to another town, an outlandish prospect for an unmarried woman. Rukmini accepted this fact, being above all a woman of great pragmatism, and resolved to throw herself into the life chosen for her with all the enthusiasm that she could muster. Happily she had avoided the fate of her sister, who had recently been coupled with a boss-eyed creature in a safari suit, albeit one with a safe full of gold; at least her husband was handsome, articulate and entertaining. It was a good start.
As time went on, however, it became apparent that Babu’s perpetual élan was not going to fuel an ascendancy in any chosen field. True, there were occasional successes in his varied careers, but these instances of good fortune could not disguise the fact that the months and years had generally been difficult and unpredictable. Rukmini had been forced to sell off most of the land that she inherited to meet various expenses. The small amount of capital that was eventually left was cautiously converted into Unit Trust of India units, generating a modest but vital sum of interest. She would run her finger around the blue edges of the certificates, before locking them in the secure compartment of her Godrej wardrobe. Rukmini was not in any doubt that bemoaning her husband’s fortunes would be futile and unbecoming. She had, after all, two daughters to raise and a labyrinth of social obligations through which to navigate.
In spite of the hardship, Rukmini felt that she had done well. Babu’s loving regard had made up for the shortcomings; she still thrilled at the awareness of his sudden presence and the rush of so many memories. The first Sunday of the month had always been special. At about half past six in the evening Rukmini and Babu would leave the house, Babu’s mother having concocted some fantastical event as a decoy for the children. The couple wou
ld then make their way to Sujatha Talkies for the early evening show. Depending on the film, there would either be an impatient tumult outside the cinema, manic ticket touts shoving their way towards anyone who looked desperate or simple, or a few layabouts keeping a weary eye on the stray dogs that padded around under the ticket window. It was always the same: a length of fresh jasmine, the cracked leather of the balcony seats, oil-roasted peanuts at the interval and the charge of Babu’s hand on her hip as they groped their way down the dark aisle at the end of the film. Later it was dosas and coffee at Kwality Hotel, Babu putting on a new accent each time to try to get the attention of the waiters in the ear-splitting din, osh bosh Britisher, ithe kithe Punjabi, apro kapro Gujarati. The waiters were never amused, and rewarded Babu with looks that could curdle milk. Rukmini and Babu would leave in high spirits, the syrupy burn of the coffee coating their tongues, their table instantly seized by a hungry waiting couple.
At the Vishram Coffee House in Mysore, two public sector bank officials were having lunch.
‘So, what news, sir?’
‘You have to tell me.’
‘So Kumar got promoted.’
‘Why wouldn’t they promote him, the buttock-licking chamcha.’
‘Sir, it is a real shame that they didn’t transport the filthy fellow to the moon with that space mission. And leave the bastard there.’
‘The moon does not deserve such treatment. Not happy with ruining this country, the government has to go and destroy the whole galaxy too.’
‘Chandrayaan-1, that rocket is called, sir. How many more will be sent?’
‘If these satellites are anything like the Nehru-Gandhi family, there will be one every five or six years.’
‘Sir, one more coffee?’
‘Make it one by two.’
‘You are correct, sir, about all this ruination. Every day things are getting worse. They will need to sort out all our social nuisances before that HeritageLand is built.’
‘Very true. The whole world will be looking at us.’
‘I tell you, sir, the current climate of criminality is too much. You know what happened with my aunt and an auto driver?’
‘Your aunt?’
‘Yes, sir. On my father’s side. She suffered very serious verbal abuse and mental torture.’
‘What happened?’
‘She was walking to the market, sir, and this idiot slows down next to her. She thought he was just wanting a fare so she told him that she was not interested. Very nicely, she told him, sir, my aunt is not just any kind of woman.’
‘Then?’
‘Then he asked her to go with him to a lodge. Can you believe it, sir? My aunt is in her sixties.’
‘What nonsense is this? What kind of bastards are becoming auto drivers these days?’
‘That’s what, sir, you will not believe. Two, three more times, he was inviting her to some lodge.’
‘She should have just given him two tight slaps on each cheek.’
‘She is a heart patient, sir. Diabetes, too.’
‘That is beyond the limit. Beyond the limit, I say.’
The two sipped their coffees in silence for a couple of minutes. Two blonde women walked past their table and left the restaurant.
‘Sir, all these yoga students who come here, they don’t have jobs in their own countries?’
‘No, it’s a very difficult situation for them. No jobs, thrown out by their families, rejected by society. Yoga is their last chance to make something of their lives.’
‘That is very sad, sir; maybe that is why they are all so thin?’
‘All that worry, unhappiness, shame, financial pressure, and on top of that, doing yoga in this heat, eating bad food and getting loose motion. What else will happen?’
‘It is strange how things change, sir. Here we are, two Indians eating big plate meals and wondering whether or not to have an extra sweet, and these poor foreigners trying so hard just to keep body and soul together.’
‘That is what you call the march of history.’
‘You are a poet, sir.’
‘No, I am a simple man.’
‘No sir, a poet.’
‘All right.’
As Girish emerged from Staircase B of Jyothi House, he quickly checked under his arms for any unsightly sweat patches. He had ridiculed junior colleagues often enough for looking like rotund housewives in tight blouses. It would not do to fall into the same trap. He checked the time and stood under the building’s main arch, determined not to return upstairs for at least an hour.
The adjacent picture framers had spilled out on to the pavement, spreading strips of plywood and pieces of card over a large tarpaulin sheet. Pictures, mainly of deities, were propped up against the front wall of the shop, in the tiny strip of shadow cast by the cracked eaves. Among the beatific blue faces, giant lotuses and gleaming crowns, there stood a monochrome image of Frank Zappa, patiently awaiting its turn. An officious young man appeared to be in charge, taking orders from waiting customers while also arguing into his mobile phone and shuffling sheets of carbon in a receipt book. A teenage boy squatted on the pavement, hammering nails into the back of a frame while keeping a watchful eye on his boss.
Girish thought about walking down a couple of blocks before getting a coffee but the heat was merciless and no one in his office would notice or care. He stepped into the restaurant across the road and it was only a matter of seconds before the milky confection arrived in a chipped glass. Girish sent the coffee back, asking for another glass, incurring the savage but silent wrath of the waiter.
The restaurant was relatively empty at this hour. An old film song played very softly: a solemn ode to the beauty of a country belle.
‘Of course, everyone is at their desks, shuffling important bits of paper, mentally composing crucial memos and notices,’ thought Girish.
He decided to make himself comfortable and looked around to see if any newspapers had been abandoned. The waiter returned with the coffee, this time in an intact but grimy glass.
Raised voices from across the street carried into the restaurant.
‘Look what they have done to my Krishna! Look at my Krishna. Look!’
From where he was seated Girish could see a wiry woman with a hoarse voice in a state of extreme agitation. The usual idlers, starved of entertainment, had quickly gathered around to provide counsel and succour. The woman pointed to an image lying flat on the tarpaulin. A series of sooty smudges had appeared on the picture like smoke rings blown from those perfectly shaped roseate lips.
‘Look there! At the mouth! Look!’
The young man had quickly ended his phone conversation and was now cuffing the back of the boy’s head every time the woman pointed out the mishap.
‘What are you hitting him for? He has not been anywhere near the picture. You have done this. Or else it was that donkey inside. Look at my Krishna!’ screamed the woman.
‘Please calm down,’ said the young man.
‘Criminal sule magga. Ninna mukhake benki hakka.’
‘We’ll fix it.’
‘Nachikedu, paapi mundemakkala. May burning hot coals rain down on your dick.’
‘Che che, is that a mouth or a sewage pipe?’
‘May a stray dog fuck your wife from behind.’
‘She is not my wife yet. The marriage is in six months.’
Girish paid for his coffee and left the restaurant. That was all people could find to do these days: shout like a fishwife and cause a huge scene over a few dirty marks. He walked on the shady side of the pavement towards Kabir Road, stepping around the arrangements of cheap sunglasses and wallets laid out on dirty sheets. He thought of looking in on a friend who worked at a newspaper around the corner but then changed his mind. He was in no mood to hear about the daily miseries involved in being a third-rate journalist for a tenth-rate rag. He turned into Anegundi Road and headed towards the recently opened mall near the Farooqia College of Pharmacy. At least it would be cool and
there would not be any howling harpies to give him a headache.
As he approached the mall he stopped and thought about paying Mala a visit at work. If he waited half an hour or so she would probably be ready to leave. Maybe they could go and have chaat somewhere and then go to an evening show. A vision of them sitting in a crowded snack bar, Mala playing with the chain around her neck, flashed through his mind. The thought depressed him instantly. There was nothing left in him to give to an evening of spontaneous recreation. In any case, going to pick up Mala would entail walking back to Jyothi House to pick up his motorbike and he had no intention of returning there at least until he had managed to speak to the Director of Customer Relations. He turned around again, crossed the road, walked quickly through the metal detectors and disappeared behind the mall’s dark sliding doors.
The towels had been hanging on the line all day and were baked crisp. Uma piled them into a brittle mound in a bucket and stashed the clothes pegs in the cubbyhole under the water tank. On the neighbouring roof terrace, Mr Bhaskar stomped from one end to the other, deep in thought. Uma could not understand why he chose to boomerang from one end of that small space to the other when there were at least half a dozen shady roads along which he could promenade; not to mention the neatly paved paths in the Gardens. She had overheard Susheela mention the same thing to one of her friends the other day. The friend’s response was that Mahalakshmi Gardens was a more agreeable place without the risk of running into Mr Bhaskar. A pleasant enquiry would inevitably lead to a long fulmination from the gentleman on the country’s decay.
