The Smoke is Rising

by Mahesh Rao

  In spite of the fact that Mala was married to the elder of the brothers, her age, background and experience meant that a recalibration of familial norms had been necessary. Certainly, that much had become evident the first time she had met Lavanya, a week before her wedding.

  ‘You will not have any problems in Mysore,’ Lavanya had said, while adjusting Mala’s pallu. ‘Anand knows everyone.’

  Mala had quickly learnt that her role in her relationship with Lavanya was to be that of an eager pupil, curious and admiring in equal measure. For her part, Lavanya would by turn explain or advise, treating Mala with a complacent grace. Mala was sure that as long as she stuck to these parameters, she would be able to avoid any potential unpleasantness or conflict. She had the measure of the intricate difficulties in Girish’s relationship with his brother and sister-in-law and she now felt responsible for preventing any manifestations of his prickly discontentment in their presence. Her powers were circumscribed but she could certainly play the part she had been assigned with an earnest vigour.

  Lavanya reached for a brochure that was resting on the microwave.

  ‘Look Mala, I want to show you something. But please, we haven’t told people so not a word to anyone, okay?’

  Mala looked at the brochure’s thick sleeve: an aerial shot of an arc of glittering villas set in a landscape of palms and jewelled lawns. The name of this Shangri-La was Terra Blanca, ‘Mysore’s most exclusive lifestyle enclave’ according to the serpentine calligraphy on the first page. Mala began to turn the pages reverentially.

  ‘I didn’t even know they had such places in India,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ breathed Lavanya, as if Mala’s comment had buried within it a primal truth.

  ‘Are you thinking of moving here?’ asked Mala.

  ‘Not thinking! We have already booked one of the villas on the western side of the development,’ said Lavanya.

  ‘Really? I can’t believe it!’

  ‘Really, really, really!’

  ‘These houses, I mean villas, are amazing but this is also such a nice house in such a good area. Will you really sell it and leave?’

  ‘Mala, this place was good for us but our needs are also changing. The main thing is security. They have 24-hour armed guards and cameras at Terra Blanca and they are very careful about whom they let in. Shruthi can play outside with no problems. And you know, they are also very strict about who can buy a house there. We will be with other people like us.’

  Mala’s face was a picture of elation.

  ‘And just look at the facilities. There’s an excellent school there, a shopping complex, a cinema and a mini-amphitheatre for weddings and other functions,’ continued Lavanya, seizing the brochure and jabbing at the relevant pages.

  ‘The swimming pools look so nice,’ said Mala.

  ‘Everything is nice! Look at the fitness centre and the spa. And it even has its own medical facility and fire department.’

  Mala reached out for the brochure, like she would for an infant. As she thought up a few more questions to ask Lavanya, she allowed herself to be relieved that the conversation was taking place in the kitchen.

  As Uma walked home, the wind grew stronger, filling the air with a fine sediment that lodged itself in the corners of her eyes and coated the roof of her mouth. It was Saturday evening and there was already a huddle of early drinkers trying to attract the attention of the man behind the counter at Raksha Wines. A woman sitting on the pavement had clearly given up the struggle for the time being. As Uma walked past her, she looked up, her eyes raw with need. Uma glanced at her and kept walking.

  Emerging from the chaos outside Raksha Wines, a man in his thirties, with a face like a pair of pincers, called out to Uma.

  ‘Eh, don’t pretend you can’t hear me,’ he yelled at her receding form.

  The man was a local fixer. In the greasy world of municipal graft, his was one of a number of names that could prove useful in ensuring a desired outcome. Providing all due funds were made available on time, his areas of expertise were legion: a speedy landline connection, multiple SIM cards without proof of address, an expedited income certificate from the tahsildar’s office, domestic gas cylinders without delay and the prompt registration of land title documents. His weekend swagger was not one produced by large quantities of local whiskey, but instead by the sense of distinction that came from providing a public service in a mutilated system.

  Uma needed nothing from that world and had no reason to stop to see what the man wanted. She paused outside an unassuming temple, tucked into a small courtyard next to a printing press. The temple was frequented exclusively by the low caste inhabitants of the surrounding sprawl. Others preferred to worship at the two temples on the main road, where presumably the deities were better equipped to deal with the ordinary concerns of members of the upper castes. It was time for the evening aarthi and a long but orderly queue stretched out of the temple entrance. Uma decided not to join the queue. Instead she slipped off her chappals in the road, folded her palms and bowed her head in prayer.

  A few minutes later she was making her way down the row to her room. A number of children nearly crashed into her on the narrow path as they raced towards the hill leading up to Mysore Junction; there were rumours of fireworks. The white belt of one of the girls’ dresses had come undone and fallen into a pool of dirty water outside the door of Uma’s room. She picked it up and laid it flat across the top of a tyre that had been left leaning against the wall.

  Uma’s room was in darkness. The power cut had already lasted over two hours and it was entirely possible that it would continue through the night. The monsoons had still not arrived and the water levels remained low in all the hydroelectric dams that served the state. Uma lit a candle below the picture of Shiva. She picked up a cloth hanging on a hook, dipped it into a bucket of water and dabbed at her upper arms. She lifted her hair up and swabbed the back of her neck, her upper chest and her face. She then moved to the washing area and poured a judicious amount of water on to her feet, massaging her arches and running a finger deep into the crevices between her toes. Picking up a towel, she wiped her feet dry and then lay on the mattress.

  The wind outside sounded like silk being ripped. Under the picture of Shiva, the candle’s flame shrank into a blue bead before leaping back to illuminate the unplastered brickwork behind it. The top of Shiva’s face was in shadow but Uma could see his palm raised in approbation. She forced herself to concentrate on the hand and its munificence. The flame’s rhythms grew less erratic and the dim light began to pull on Uma’s temples and cheeks, gradually drawing her into a murky delirium far beyond sleep.

  It was a reverberation at the door that restored her to the darkness of the room. The flame had died and all she could make out were the sky’s distant pleats in the gap between the wall and the roof. The wind had dropped but a different sound had taken its place: what seemed like the leaden resonance of a man’s voice imitating the wind. Uma turned on to her side and faced the door. The sound faded. Moments later she started as something clattered against the door, perhaps a handful of gravel. She slowly sat up, her eyes shut, listening. All she could make out was the barking of a faraway dog, steady and mechanical. She continued to sit upright, her arms clasped around her knees, computing the textures of the night.

  When the scratching at the door began, she recognised it instantly. By now she was familiar with the long, uneven rasps against the grain of the wood that sounded like they were being drawn along her scalp. From her first few weeks in Mysore she had been the target of opportunistic advances and arrogant demands which followed the same sinister pattern, whatever their provenance. The sound continued for a minute or so before ending abruptly; a low cough followed and then some receding footsteps.

  Uma opened her eyes and looked through the gap between the wall and the roof. A navy wash was leaching across the sky in an almost imperceptible advance. She closed her eyes again.

  CHAPTER FIVE

&nb
sp; The quarterly general meeting of the Mahalakshmi Gardens Betterment Association (MGBA) was scheduled for seven in the evening at the function hall of the Erskine Club. The MGBA had been set up nearly fifteen years ago as a reaction to the municipal authorities’ steady indifference to the provision of essential amenities in the area. The objects of the Association were ambitious: once the local community’s activist potential had been harnessed to resolve the neighbourhood’s problems, the same faculties would be directed towards uplifting more disadvantaged localities and creating a sense of unity in Mysore. Unfortunately the last decade and a half had seen the pioneers of local welfare becoming mired in a swamp of issues very close to home. As a result, the more philanthropic aspirations had been postponed indefinitely.

  Sunaina Kamath had recently taken over as the chairperson of the MGBA’s Executive Committee, in what the previous incumbent, Mr Nandakishore, regarded as a savage coup. She had sent out a memo reminding members that under Article 54 of the articles of association no officer of the Executive Committee could stand for re-election for a third term, a rule that served to terminate Mr Nandakishore’s excellent stewardship. He had grudgingly stepped aside but was determined to ensure that the MGBA would not be deprived of his years of experience in matters of civic importance.

  The general meeting had originally been due to take place a week earlier but a violent downpour had meant that many of the MGBA members had stayed at home. In spite of the sparse attendance, Sunaina had been minded to continue with proceedings. Mr Nandakishore, however, reached into the same constitutional arsenal that she had previously raided and introduced a point of order with regard to the conduct of general meetings. He was surprised to note that Mrs Kamath intended to proceed with the general meeting despite the inevitable violation of Article 14 of the MGBA’s articles of association. The provision required a quorum of thirty members for the transaction of any Association business. Mr Nandakishore’s careful calculation had arrived at a figure of only twenty-nine. After a hurried discussion with some of the Executive Committee members, Sunaina had adjourned the meeting in an asphyxiated voice. In the car park of the Erskine Club that evening, Mr Nandakishore strode through the stinging rain with his head held very erect.

  The second attempt at the meeting was far more successful. It was a clear evening with a punchy freshness in the air and the car park at the Erskine Club was almost full. When Susheela arrived, most of the seats inside the Club’s function room were occupied, even though she was a good twenty minutes early. She walked to the front of the room, smiling warmly at fellow residents who were either currently in her circle or who had left it without causing offence. She sat down in the front row where a few seats remained and continued to look around the room, trying to make her scrutiny look as casual as possible. A tap on her shoulder made her turn expectantly in her seat.

  It was Jaydev: ‘Hello again. It seems we only meet in situations of high drama.’

  Susheela immediately looked embarrassed, not expecting to be reminded again, and certainly not at an MGBA meeting, of her strange vulnerability on that day.

  ‘Hello, what a surprise to see you here. What brings you to our neck of the woods to witness our little dramas, as you say?’ asked Susheela.

  ‘Sunaina and Ramesh have promised to take me to a new Italian restaurant by Tejasandra Lake after the meeting. Being an old man with far too much time on my hands, I have followed them here to make sure that they don’t give me the slip.’

  ‘I certainly hope the food is worth it, if it means you have to sit through discussions about our garbage and traffic lights and so forth.’

  ‘Let me just move forward instead of leaning like this. Is that seat free?’

  The seat next to Susheela was usually free these days.

  At that point Vaidehi Ramachandra gently squeezed Susheela’s elbow on her other side.

  ‘How are you Susheela? I haven’t seen you for such a long time,’ said Vaidehi morosely.

  ‘That’s true, how busy we become without even knowing why,’ said Susheela, with as much regret as she could marshal.

  ‘I’m glad that I’ve seen you here,’ said Vaidehi, cheering up and rummaging in a Shanta Silk House plastic bag. ‘I have been meaning to give you this for a long time but kept missing you.’

  Susheela watched the ominous movements being made by Vaidehi’s hands, all the time conscious of Jaydev looking on.

  Vaidehi pulled out a pamphlet and presented it to Susheela with a flourish. Under an image of a coastal sunset, the front page read: ‘The Twilight Terrain, A Guide to the Final Paths to the Almighty by the Mokshvihar Spiritual Trust’. If the unequivocal wording were excised, on the face of it, the pamphlet could just as easily have been a guide to honeymooning in Goa.

  Susheela scanned the inside pages, which offered vignettes of rudderless pensioners who had eventually discovered the Mokshvihar lecture programmes and trademarked MokshDhyana group meditation techniques. The rest of the pamphlet was devoted to an extensive biography of the Trust founder, a charismatic humanitarian who frequently toured the world with his message of sanctity and salvation.

  Susheela glanced at Jaydev, who appeared to be spellbound by some object in the vicinity of his knees. Around them, even more people had arrived and the pre-meeting chatter echoed loudly through the hall. To one side of the dais, two young men in waistcoats and bow ties were setting out more cups and saucers on a long table.

  Susheela looked up at Vaidehi, whose face had settled into an expression of beatific encouragement.

  ‘Don’t say anything about it now. You need time to go home and reflect on what is said there. If you have any questions later, please come and ask me,’ said Vaidehi, turning to face the front again, satisfied but with an air of modesty. She was, after all, only the messenger.

  Susheela thanked her and put the pamphlet into her handbag.

  She had never really questioned the complexion of her spiritual fibre: she believed in God, knew she lived a principled life and performed the correct rituals on festival days with an undeniable precision. She would no more have considered becoming an atheist than she would the cultivation of marijuana on her front lawn. But the truth was that she found it difficult to entrust other beings, mortal or celestial, with the business of running an organised existence. Even when Sridhar had been diagnosed with prostate cancer, she had not sought relief in appeals to the divine. Her natural instinct had been to throw herself into finding the best oncologist, keeping an unfaltering watch on the hospital staff, ensuring the maximum possible comfort in his daily routine and communicating regularly with those who needed to be kept informed of his progress. When her sister-in-law had suggested a special pooja for Sridhar’s well-being, Susheela had quickly slotted it in on an auspicious day free of other commitments and made brisk enquiries on acceptable rates for caterers.

  Vaidehi Ramachandra’s overtures did not offend her from the point of view of scripture or orthodoxy. What Susheela did not care for was the presumption that there was a space in her life that needed to be filled or that she was adrift in a sea of moral doubt. The fact that Vaidehi felt entitled to give Susheela advice on her spiritual nourishment was no less irritating: she was hardly a friend, habitually wore her sari two inches above her ankles and her husband had made his fortune selling steel utensils in an alley behind Shivrampet.

  Jaydev leant in towards Susheela and said under his breath: ‘So when are you off to the ashram?’

  ‘Please, not now. She might hear you.’

  ‘I don’t think so. She looks like she is in some sort of trance.’

  ‘Please Mr Jaydev, here is not the place.’

  ‘All I am asking is that you allow me to wish you all the best on your journey to salvation.’

  Susheela could no longer stifle her smile, but persisted in looking straight ahead at the bowl of chrysanthemums on the Executive Committee’s table.

  At that point Sunaina and her colleagues on the Committee took their seats
on the dais, the Treasurer stamped on the floor a number of times and the assembly was called to order.

  As Girish had told Mala that he would pick her up in the evening, she had left her scooter at home and had got a rickshaw in to work. When she left the main gates of the Mysore Regency Hotel at half past five, she saw him across the road, standing by his motorbike, reading the evening paper. The rain had been heavy the night before and she had to skirt around the pools of water in the road, avoiding the onslaught of cars and rickshaws that splashed their way through.

  Their first stop was a sari shop near Hardinge Circle, crisp pleats of turquoise and mauve silk fanning across the bolsters in one of the window displays. In the other, the mannequins appeared to be about to launch into a martial routine, their arms slicing at the neon air around them. Despite Mala’s protests, Girish had insisted that she should at least have a look. She was bound to see something irresistible.

  It was wedding season and the shop was busy. Impassive matrons consulted lists scribbled on pages torn from their grandchildren’s exercise books and huddled conferences were breaking out on the little stools provided for customers. Shop girls circulated with steel lotas of intensely sugared coffee and cold badaam milk, made from a cheap packet mix, as noted by the more discerning clientele. Here the service was still steeped in the traditions of canny servility; the haughty appraisals and polished merchandising of the new boutiques at the Tejasandra Galleria were a world away. Sari after sari was rapidly unfolded, pallus shaken out, borders smoothed flat: a ballet of drapes and furls. Despite the small size of the store, the offerings seemed endless. A teenaged boy leapt about barefoot on bales at the back of the shop, locating additional stock, although to the untutored it simply looked like the crazed caper of a Nilgiri mountain goat. Nothing was deemed unavailable; runners were despatched to nearby warehouses or convincing alternatives were seamlessly conjured up.