The Smoke is Rising

by Mahesh Rao

  The show’s producers had taken inspiration from a variety of cultural leitmotifs to put together a concept involving the anguish of weight gain, the enchantment of celebrity, the allure of a distant island and the rapture of the human condition. Six celebrities and six non-celebrities, all female and all stout, would be transported to a Mexican island where they would be encouraged to find their inner and outer beauty, all under the strictest medical supervision. The participants would be assessed on their success at transforming themselves and discovering hidden truths about their personalities, with the invaluable assistance of telephone voting from viewers at home. The show’s publicist had already sent out communiqués heralding the identities of the high-octane judges: a former Miss Asia Pacific, celebrity nutritionists Valmiki and Vanitha Govind, a stuntman turned fight choreographer and the personal physician to a retired Chief Minister. There had been some concern that the reality format no longer held the pulling power of previous years. As a result, battalions of media monitors were dispatched, market researchers appointed and focus groups set up. The final conclusion, some months later, was inescapable. Moti Ya Mast would send the ratings into the stratosphere. Faiza, notebook in hand, would undoubtedly be watching.

  For years, Susheela had been a fan of the tangy rather than the sweet. Her natural constituency was the lip-sucking sourness of limes, the quivering tartness of tamarind on her tongue and the acid sting of green mangoes. She had once made Sridhar drive back to his cousin’s home in Indore, when they were nearly halfway to Bhopal, in order to pick up a jar of gooseberry pickle that she had left behind on the dining table.

  Once she was in her fifties, though, there appeared a new arrival that laid waste to her established palate. Sugar made a grand entrance in Susheela’s life. Of course in the past she had on occasion popped a festive laddoo into her mouth, a squidge of birthday cake or some steaming prasada after a Satyanarayan pooja. This new interest in sweet things, however, was unprecedented in range and depth. She remembered the first time that she had realised that something had changed beyond all doubt. It was at the wedding reception hosted by Cyril and Sanjana Fernandes for their daughter Maya. On a whim, Susheela had drifted past the dessert table and returned with a single scoop of fig and poppy seed ice cream in a scalloped silver bowl. The first mouthful had been an epiphany, an unclouded insight into the realms of other people’s pleasure. The jammy trails of fig had yielded at just the right moment, offering up their nutty grains. The swirls of poppy seed were engaged in a creamy conspiracy and Susheela had unlocked each of their dark secrets. The dessert had feathered her mouth and throat and left her with no option. She returned to the buffet and then had to summon all her willpower to resist a third visit.

  Maya Fernandes’s marriage ended a year later with some unpleasant allegations on both sides but Susheela’s sensory stimulation had endured. Puddings, pastries and payasas had floated into her gaze like stunned fireflies in a searchlight’s sudden beam. The envelope of rich butter cream coddling the carrot cake from the coffee shop at the Mysore Regency; the tender resistance of plump raisins in a dollop of pongal cooked in hot ghee; the honeyed tang of freshly made jalebis, the sticky coil coming apart in her hands: Susheela’s surrender had been complete.

  As the driver slowed down at the traffic lights on Narayan Shastry Road, she told him to make a quick stop at the Plaza Sweet Mart. It would not take long to pick up a small box of kaju pista rolls. The driver worked for her on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays, by arrangement with Shantha Prasad, fellow resident of Mahalakshmi Gardens. Neither of them required a full-time driver and they were both agreed that it would be an extravagance. So a mutually convenient arrangement had been struck, with Susheela offering to let Shantha have the driver during the latter half of the week, including Saturdays. It was a sacrifice that Susheela hoped would be acknowledged by a similar act of kindness. This never came.

  She was surprised to see that there was hardly a soul at the Plaza Sweet Mart. She made her selection and then walked down the road to pop in to Great Expectations. Ashok the owner stood up as soon as he saw her.

  ‘Welcome madam, not been here for many days.’

  ‘How are you? I came one evening, I think your daughter was here. Nice girl.’

  ‘Thank you, madam. Looking for anything particular?’

  ‘Any books on Ayurveda? But properly written please, not by some fraud who makes up any old rubbish. There are plenty of those. Vata, pitta, kapha, alpha, beta, gamma … as if no one will notice.’

  Ashok smiled sadly, apparently wounded by the depths of chicanery in the publishing business, and busied himself at a display, looking for books that would not affront Susheela.

  A mulch of sweet wrappers and plastic bags lay at the entrance to the cyber café. The sliding door sat uneasily in its groove, threatening to crash to the ground at any moment. Girish could not tell whether or not the place was open for business. He knocked on the door and, a few muffled noises later, the door slid open by a few inches. He could just about make out the face of a girl with a red dupatta loosely covering her head. She raised her eyebrows once in quick enquiry.

  ‘Open?’ asked Girish, an edge of annoyance creeping into his voice.

  The girl raised her eyebrows again and stepped slowly to one side, pushing the door open by a few more inches.

  Girish stepped into the dim room, turning his shoulders away from the girl in disgust. What kind of a business were these people running? Probably a front for some terrorist cell, a mujahidin network having decided that Sitanagar in Mysore would be the perfect base for their activities. One just never knew these days.

  Six partitioned surfaces holding computer monitors had been crammed into the tiny area. The room had no windows and the only light was the murky indigo flicker from the grimy screens. The woman pointed at a computer in the corner and returned to her own screen. Girish squeezed into the space indicated and began his circuit. He had an email from his credit card company, one from Indian Railways and one from a colleague sending on a tedious list of differences between ‘the smart Indian man’ and ‘the smart Indian woman’. He moved on to various news websites, barely absorbing the first few lines of a story before clicking on another link. Then he checked into a couple of motoring websites.

  There was a knock on the door and the girl pushed her chair back with a screech. This time she had a hurried conversation with someone wearing a baseball cap and returned to the gloom of her station. A mosquito dived past his ear with its urgent whine. He once again resolved to buy a computer before the end of the following month. It was simply untenable that he should continue to come to this rank hole and pay money for the privilege.

  Girish had profiles on three social networking sites, all featuring the same brief account. A couple of allusions to his seniority were buried in the short description of his career; there were half a dozen photographs taken during his honeymoon in Ooty; and he had added a list of interests which probably had contained elements of veracity at some point. He had no idea why he even logged on to these sites any more. They had brought neither stimulation to his social life nor favour in his career. As a creature of habit, he supposed that it was just something else that he had built into his routine. He did occasionally like to catch up on the current status of ex-colleagues and college mates. The truth was that he probably scrutinised their profiles a little more than occasionally; quite a bit more. But then wasn’t that what these websites were for? To present a palatable record of your own life and to gawk at the signposts planted by your peers?

  According to Mohit Joshi’s profile he was now based in c, in charge of IT systems for a finance company. There he was posing in front of a fountain on Sentosa Island with his fat wife and lumpy kids. He had apparently decided that he was of American stock. His latest post began: ‘Hey wassup dudes! Howsit hanging?!’ This was from a man who had not left Firozabad until he was nineteen. Mohit’s friends on the website seemed to be similarly deluded simpletons, fleshy c
alves emerging from khaki shorts at various recreational locales.

  A few weeks ago, Girish had been surprised to discover that Abhijit Dutta was now some big-shot television producer in Delhi. In fact, Girish had only thought of looking him up online when his name had flashed up on the credits of a programme on Star One. In a bored moment Girish had wanted confirmation, and Abhijit had popped up in at least twenty-five pages of Google hits. He had certainly moved on from the affable but nondescript entity he had been at university.

  Girish’s recollections of his time at university always fixed him at the centre of a charismatic group with a keen sense of purpose. He had chosen to go to a well-regarded college, part of Delhi University, wanting to escape the reach of his provincial background. But once settled in his cheerless shared room in the men’s hostel, surges of panic had begun to break over him. Faced by the adamant indifference of college cliques, sequestered in an alien city, for the first time he had cause to question his assumed route to success.

  Some months later, a more senior student had come to Girish’s rescue, spotting him at a debating society meeting. A final year mathematician, active in student politics, he had begun shepherding Girish to meetings and rallies, gabbling into his face every time a local party bigwig made an appearance on campus. At first Girish had gratefully tailed his new mentor, hugely relieved at this turn of events. The appearance of energetic activity that marked out the student politicians gave him an identity that he craved, in the face of the wealthier and more confident undergraduates who snaked around the campus. They were able to procure first day, first show balcony tickets at any cinema and tease out knowing laughter from girls in bright churidars at the local eateries. Girish had come to take his academic excellence for granted and needed some other insignia in that unfamiliar new world.

  In time, he had become more actively involved in student politics, persuaded by his new circle that his contribution would be essential. He knew he could speak well (or, as he preferred, ‘orate’) and it was the admiration and exhortations of his associates, rather than any natural ambition or ideology, that was the impetus to his political activities. He began by absorbing the methods of the student union apparatchiks. The murky patterns of patronage and intimidation practised by the mainstream parties were reflected within the student union factions, abetting the rise of a number of muscular political personalities on campus. A student organisation affiliated to a major party would identify particular colleges where block votes could easily be delivered. It would then attempt to manipulate admissions procedures there to ensure that efficient student campaigners would gain entry to the college.

  The political causes espoused at these colleges were becoming increasingly circumscribed: agitation for the reversal of college disciplinary sanctions against a student union official; a forced boycott of lectures following the announcement of inopportune union election dates; and protests demanding the release of an election candidate, arrested for unlawful possession of firearms. Girish quickly came to understand the nature of these operations but was untroubled by their complexion or by the alternate voices within the student community calling for a union clean up. The practice of politics was dirty and there was little to be gained from being blind to that fact. Girish was now speaking eloquently before appreciative audiences, was involved in strategy meetings and writing speeches for campus heavyweights. This was the real draw.

  In Girish’s final year, rumblings began to sound that the government was finally going to implement the recommendations of the Mandal Commission: the introduction of quotas for ‘backward’ classes for recruitment to public sector jobs and admission to government universities. The proposed extension of the state’s affirmative action policies meant that almost half of all government jobs and university places were to be reserved for members of lower castes. It did not take long for the college student body’s position to become clear, dominated as it was by upper castes. The organisations on campus were, however, getting mixed signals from the major political parties, who were unsure where to nail their colours, still debating whether the proposals amounted only to inconsequential government bluster. In a change from the usual internal politicking, rival student organisations began to come together to protest against the Mandal recommendations, convinced that upper caste youth were being dispossessed of the opportunities that were available to them.

  Girish suddenly found himself in a widening fissure, a situation that demanded action. His participation thus far had seemed almost abstract, his interests lying in the execution rather than in the achievement. Now as demonstrations and walk-outs began to gather momentum across North Indian universities, Girish and his peers were called upon to articulate a very specific opposition to this new wave of social reconstruction.

  Girish had always known that as a Brahmin of limited means, he would have to be the product of his own diligence and resourcefulness. This had never been a concern as he was secure in his assessment of his academic abilities and had begun to believe in the mantra of merit and efficiency that would finally open doors in a secular, democratic India. Caste was not a factor that needed to feature in these calculations. Its natural habitat was the remote feudal dust plains and tribal thickets of a different modernity. For Girish, caste had become a personal matter, a private cultural identity bound up only with the desultory practice of rituals in the kitchen and the pooja room.

  But the shifting configurations of state patronage meant that his caste identity had reared up in a public arena to make him feel that his future was under assault. High levels of caste-based reservations had existed for years in South India but his awareness of them had been dim. It was only now that his consciousness snagged on the jagged tip of the protests erupting all around him. The student agitation in a number of North Indian cities was becoming increasingly violent. In Delhi a group of students from Girish’s college had tried to barricade parts of Race Course Road and Kemal Ataturk Road, both points a short distance from the Prime Minister’s official residence. Another group had attacked a police station in Moti Bagh, reports of arrests of students and custodial brutality having made their way back to the campus. This new realm of action was a jurisdiction too far for Girish, the supercilious wordsmith: he had never conceived of a reality beyond his finely crafted speeches.

  Not long after he had spoken at a debating society meeting, the publication of an image in newspapers and magazines sent a devastating charge through the arteries of the urban elite. In one horrifying instant, a young man in a pale blue T-shirt, his upper body consumed by flames, faced the camera’s lens with an ossified grimace. The student was a commerce undergraduate who had walked into a busy junction outside his South Delhi college, doused his body with kerosene and set himself on fire in protest at the government’s decision to implement the Mandal recommendations. A number of self-immolations followed in other cities, each appalling incident polarising positions further. The serial debater, however, became curiously silent, fading into the dim hallways of his student hostel. His absence was noted but not acted upon in the frenzy of those eventful days.

  Girish put an end to all his political activities and distanced himself from anyone who was likely to seek an explanation for his desertion. Instead he focused his energies on his studies, reaping an impressive number of gold medals by the time he graduated the following year. His activist days were never to return. They left only a hard certainty, like a cyst under his skin, that the world into which he was about to launch himself was one where, at the stroke of a pen, the meritorious could be ousted and their rewards expropriated. Girish returned to Mysore, the gait of a martyr already assimilated.

  A distant rumble grew into a more discernible pattern of shouts and hand-clapping. At first it sounded like crowd noises from a radio but it was soon clear that this was something quite different. Susheela looked up from the book that she was holding.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she asked.

  At that moment Ashok’s mobile phone rang and
he apologetically put his hand up to Susheela as he answered it. She watched him as he murmured into the phone. The clamour seemed to be getting louder.

  ‘Madam, that was my son. Seems there is some agitation in the city. Those theme park farmers.’

  ‘What theme park farmers?’

  ‘They are having a dharna in the city today and I think there has been some trouble.’

  Ashok looked grave and walked towards the door, beyond which the street seemed unusually forsaken. His mobile phone rang again and he answered it standing in the doorway, looking in both directions.

  Susheela put her book down and moved to the window. Through the gaps in the wooden shelving she could see only a few pedestrians, a trickle of two-wheelers grumbling past and no autorickshaws at all.

  The theme park farmers. There had been something in the paper about them, but with the endless reporting on the progress of HeritageLand, Susheela found it difficult to recall exactly who was aggrieved and for what reason.

  ‘Madam, I think I am going to have to shut the shop. They have closed both sides of MG Road and I think there has been a lathi charge.’

  Susheela reached into her handbag for her mobile phone. She looked in every compartment, a hot rush spreading over her neck and chest. Then she searched again through the bag, tearing at zips and plunging her hand into linty corners, and then looked up at Ashok. There was a ghostly lull in the street outside but layered with invisible waves of ferment, an upheaval that did not give many clues as to its complexion.