The Smoke is Rising

by Mahesh Rao

  The Tejasandra Galleria was next in line at the lakeside: a grand labyrinth of shops and restaurants, flawlessly preserved by arctic air-conditioning and hushed adulation. In its early days, valet parking had been introduced in an attempt to shore up its exclusive credentials. It transpired, however, that even the best-heeled Mysore shoppers displayed a degree of nervousness when strangers tried to take over the wheels of their cars.

  The last major addition to the waterside community was the Anuraag Kalakshetra, a small but luxurious concert hall, courtesy of an infamous tobacco baron and his passion for Carnatic music. It had quickly become a crucial part of the city’s cultural landscape, hosting an array of music and dance programmes while also housing a small café that served excellent apricot tarts.

  The group from the Mahalakshmi Gardens Betterment Association arrived at the Tejasandra Galleria in high spirits. In the car, Sunaina had enjoyed telling a story involving the Acting Mayor of Mysore, a second-year medical student and a false-bottomed suitcase. They took the glass lift to the fifth floor, where a reproduction matinee idol seated them at a table by one of La Vetta’s huge lake-facing windows.

  Sunaina, ever-conscious of her currency, made her way around the tables looking eminent yet accessible, not unlike a dignitary seeking re-election. Ramesh followed, reflecting that Jaydev was in many senses fortunate to be a widower. As a napkin fluttered into her lap, Susheela experienced the velvety rush of sudden and splendid gratification. Her sense of expectation and participation had narrowed to such an extent that this accidental social reconnection almost drew her breath like a plunge into icy depths. The elegant stems of the wine glasses, the soft chocolate of the suede-panelled walls and the low buzz of sophisticated chatter began to loosen the pins and bolts that had clamped tightly down on her appetites.

  ‘Have a glass, Sush. Don’t worry, if you get merry and fall in the lake I’ll jump in after you,’ said Sunaina, as the waiter began to pour the wine with ritual attention.

  ‘We’ll have our own wet sari sequence,’ smirked Ramesh to Jaydev.

  ‘Don’t be so lewd,’ said Sunaina, thoroughly enjoying the idea that she could be part of some risqué song-and-dance routine.

  Susheela picked up the glass of wine and took a small sip, being extremely suspicious of anything that could cloud her judgment. She had only been tipsy twice in her life. The first occasion was at a party in Delhi’s Vasant Vihar in the late eighties. She had collapsed onto a swing on the balcony and spent the rest of the evening trying to remember the hostess’s maiden name. The second time was at a restaurant in London the evening of Priyanka’s graduation: after her third glass of champagne, on her way back from the ladies’ room, Susheela had mistakenly sat down at a table with three Russian businessmen. Inevitably, the family ribbing had been endless.

  ‘It’s so lovely that we have places like this now in Mysore,’ said Sunaina. ‘I remember when cream cakes at the Southern Star were the height of luxury.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with those cream cakes,’ protested Jaydev.

  ‘No, of course not,’ Sunaina swatted at his comment. ‘But you know, the fact that we can be proud of places in our home town, in front of anyone from anywhere in the world, that’s something, no?’

  An attractive woman wove past their table and Susheela scrutinised her taut midriff.

  ‘It’s been so long since I went out this late,’ said Jaydev. ‘In the last few months, I’ve been avoiding driving into town at night. The glare of oncoming headlights, can’t take it any more.’

  ‘You should have told me before, na? If you want to go anywhere, I can take you,’ said Sunaina.

  ‘I am sure you would, if I asked you,’ said Jaydev, smiling. He paused and added: ‘But after all this time, it’s having to ask that’s the problem.’

  ‘You men, with your silly pride. I swear, you all create most of your own problems. You know Pradeep Nair? I went to see him in hospital this morning. He looked so awful. He has to have a kidney transplant and even then, who knows how long he will live. All because he kept refusing to have check-ups. His poor wife; who will remember her name after he’s gone? He was always the life and soul.’

  Jaydev glanced at Susheela but she kept her face expressionless.

  ‘It was just too horrible to see,’ continued Sunaina. ‘Poor man is in a shared ward as well. Can you believe it, there are no private rooms available at Northfield Wellness or at J S Desai. I was speaking to one of the directors of Northfield. Dr K Narendra? He sits on a board with me. Anyway, he was saying the private rooms are full of foreigners these days. They are all flocking here because it’s so much cheaper for them to have surgery than back home. Lovely little holiday, get a new knee, buy some souvenirs, take a few photos and then return in two weeks. In the meantime, we are all pushed into the common wards with God only knows what kind of diseases.’

  Susheela turned to look at the quiet shimmer stretching out below the windows. The wine had softened all her synapses and the liquid amber of the lights reflected in the lake seemed to mirror her easy composure. Around her, the tinkling hum of the restaurant sounded like it was rising from the waters below, a carefully composed liturgy being offered up in praise. As she gazed at the lake, the gentle play on its surface led to a series of shifts in its aspect, all of them captivating.

  Sunaina excused herself, having spotted the new chairperson of the Vontikoppal Ladies’ League.

  ‘Have you met Twinkie? She’s a bit stiff, but still quite adorable. Maybe you don’t know, but she once had tea with Princess Diana,’ she said.

  ‘Why would Princess Diana have tea with her?’ asked Susheela.

  ‘I don’t know, something to do with illiterate housewives, or was it vagrants? Anyway, Twinkie said that she almost melted into Diana’s eyes. The compassion simply rolled off her.’

  ‘For the vagrants or for Twinkie?’ asked Jaydev.

  ‘Oh hush, Twinkie is fully crème de la. I must go over and say hello.’

  ‘She is always so busy,’ said Ramesh, his voice beginning to quaver at the thought of the neglect he suffered.

  There was no response so he too left, claiming he had to make a call.

  A strange new silence enveloped the table. Susheela’s face was still turned towards the window, her hands locked under her chin.

  ‘Lost in your thoughts?’ asked Jaydev.

  ‘It’s so beautiful out there, it’s almost making me sad.’

  Susheela expected him to ask her why, but he looked at the water and simply nodded.

  The motorbike swerved into a great arc and roared back towards Uma. It was only when the driver was within touching distance that she realised that it was Shankar. He was wearing a pair of sunglasses that made him look like a seedy gangster and Uma was relieved when he took them off.

  ‘Uma, I’m glad I saw you. Janaki’s not happy with you. Why haven’t you called her?’

  ‘I wanted to but … how is she? Almost the due date now.’

  ‘She’s okay; she’s like a bomb ready to explode. She told me to drag you to her mother’s place if I see you. I’m going there now. Come with me if you want.’

  ‘I can’t come now. Tell her I promise I’ll come on another day.’

  ‘She wants you to phone her. Here, take her number again,’ said Shankar, reaching for his phone.

  Uma did not look at his outstretched hand.

  ‘You write it for me,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, so then you can say that you couldn’t make out my handwriting? Here, take the pen. I’m not going to let you blame it on me,’ laughed Shankar.

  ‘I can’t write,’ she said flatly.

  ‘Okay look, I’ll write it on this,’ he said, tearing off the end of a receipt. ‘Ask someone to dial it for you from the coin phone, but make sure you call her. I think she’s worried about you.’

  Uma took the fold of paper and tucked it into her blouse.

  Shankar eased his sunglasses back on and turned the motorbike back around.
A moment later he turned his head and asked: ‘Everything is all right?’

  ‘Everything is fine,’ said Uma and walked on towards the pennants flying high above Mysore Junction.

  In the distance, the ochre light in a turret at Amba Vilas Palace guttered into the darkness.

  The next day was a Saturday and Girish had left the house early. The morning hours seemed to stretch indefinitely like acres of molten tar. Mala stood in the doorway, arms folded tightly against her chest. The hot air around her throbbed like a heartbeat and the leaves overhead were engaged in a sly susurration. It was sure to rain. She had brought the clothes in earlier and they now sat in neat ironed piles on their bed: Girish’s handkerchiefs, socks, short-sleeved casual shirts, short-sleeved formal shirts, long-sleeved casual shirts, long-sleeved formal shirts, work trousers, casual trousers, vests, underwear, long kurtas, short kurtas and pyjamas. Her own petticoats and saris she would do later. The sky gradually began to darken. An autorickshaw piled high with gas cylinders blocked one end of the narrow lane. Goats daintily stepped past the vehicle, guided by the deep guttural ‘uhhhnnnhuh’ of their herder, a wiry young girl in a faded salwar kameez. As the goats approached, Mala became aware of the time and her pulse quickened. Girish would be home soon.

  She went back into the house and the sudden darkness made her stop. The room only had two tiny windows covered in steel mesh, which both looked out on to their neighbour’s sagging brick wall. At times Mala thought that she was beginning to shrink into this carapace of a room, that one day her mother or her sister would arrive to find her lying in the dust outside, enclosed in this shell along with the Rexine sofa set and her mother-in-law’s Air India Maharajas. She turned the television on, thought better of it, switched it off, before turning it on and then off one more time. She sat down at the dining table and listened for sounds of Girish’s return.

  She did not have long to wait before she heard the fading thrum of his motorbike in the lane. She stood up at once and went to the kitchen, where she listened for further sounds. Her relationship with her husband was increasingly managed by aural concentration, an association mediated by thumps, creaks and knocks. She was fiercely attentive to clues left by his footsteps, the pitch at which he cleared his throat, the rustling of newspapers and, in particular, the way in which he called out her name.

  ‘Maa-laa.’

  Or ‘Ma-laaa,’ with a slight lilt at the end.

  Or ‘Mah-la.’

  Or ‘Ma-luh,’ quickly exhaled.

  These divinations had become a vital mechanism of governance for her. Sometimes she would stand in the kitchen while Girish was asleep trying to foresee his mood when he woke up. Rasping snores, repeated creaks of the bed frame, a gentle wheeze followed by a whistle of breath: they were all drawn into her computations. She had become an expert at eliminating the sounds of her own breathing lest she miss some vital sign from the man lying on the bed in his checked pyjama and white vest. Her strategy was simple. She had to adapt her conduct so that no part of it could be perceived as a brazen challenge. Yet she needed to gather information and this was provided by the wholly unremarkable soundtrack to Girish’s quotidian movements. Of course her prognoses were hardly foolproof. The sound of his shoes hitting the back of the cupboard was not always the sign of a gnarled frustration; his conversations with the Prabhakar boys, who were playing badminton in the lane, did not always mean that he would be charming for the rest of the evening. But generally a connoisseur could tell.

  There were other subtle signs to look out for too. How long he spent in the bathroom shaving, whether he shut and bolted the door or not after he returned from work, the number of times he stepped into the backyard to answer calls on his mobile phone. Every day Mala added to her cache of intelligence. Sound administration required it of her and habit only served to reinforce the practice.

  As Mala stood in the kitchen, she now listened for sounds from the bathroom. She heard the light being switched on and the slopping of water on the concrete floor as Girish washed his hands and feet. She began to get lunch ready, making sure there was no water on the steel plate and that the cabbage was piping hot. She laid the food on the table and waited by the window, her left heel automatically rubbing against her right ankle.

  Girish walked into the kitchen and sat at the table. A crow had made its way on to the kitchen windowsill and was flapping against the frame: tok tok.

  ‘Chase that thing away. It’ll shit all over the window as usual.’

  Mala shooed away the bird, knocking on the window and breathing a sigh, relieved that he had spoken. Her mood lifted and she shut the window with a smart click of the latch. Spots of rain had begun to appear on the glass.

  She moved to the table and began to spoon rice on to Girish’s plate.

  ‘Stop.’

  Girish surveyed the rice and looked up at Mala. Her hand hovered over the bowl as she stared at the rice, its steam unfurling upwards. Her eyes turned towards Girish.

  ‘Look at the rice. Is this how you like it? Dry, like sand?’

  Mala put the spoon down.

  ‘Tell me. Is this what you eat?’

  The rain was falling much harder now, little eddies forming against the window.

  ‘Sit.’

  Girish had stood up and pushed his chair back. Mala looked at him, her calculations thrown into confusion, her ciphers in disarray.

  ‘Sit. Why don’t you sit?’ Girish offered her his seat.

  Mala sank into the chair and looked at the rice on the plate again. Three little mounds in a huddle, all more or less the same size.

  Girish carefully rolled up his right sleeve and sank his fingers into the rice in the bowl. He scooped up some rice and smeared it across the top of Mala’s head, working it into her parting with his thumb. The hand returned with more rice, slapping it on to her crown, kneading it into her hair, daubing the sides of her head with yet more rice. Mala’s scalp tightened with fear. The heat from the rice made her face itch. Her eyes were firmly shut as she gripped the sides of the chair. Girish’s hand kept returning. She could feel its weight, its heat, its motion. Bile flooded her mouth as she felt the steely edge of his ring graze her forehead. She gasped when a hot surge spread in her lap and warm liquid began to trickle down her legs and over her ankles. She heard Girish put the sambar pot down on the table and carefully wash his hands at the kitchen sink. There was a thud on the kitchen window before he walked out of the room.

  Mala stared down at the puddle of sambar on the floor. There were little pieces of onion glistening in her lap like jewels. Somewhere a scooter wouldn’t start, the engine hawking repeatedly. A clod of rice fell to the floor over her shoulder and landed behind her chair. Her sari began to weigh down on her lap as the sambar cooled, the cotton clinging to the tops of her thighs. Outside, the rain had turned into a fine mizzle. Finally, after a couple of renewed efforts, the scooter started and roared away.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The editor of the Mysore Evening Sentinel was a quiet man. His face displayed a transcendental serenity, with eyes that seemed permanently half closed and a moustache that declared its maturity like a handsome banyan tree. His staff in the newspaper’s offices on MG Road read an array of subtle signals into his silences, and over time endowed him with the powers of a mind reader, a clairvoyant and a skilled agony aunt. While in private he would probably have admitted that he was deficient in all of these areas, there was no doubt that in one field he was a true master: leaning back, keeping his ears open and letting warring parties fling prodigious amounts of mud at each other in his presence.

  In the course of his many years in the business of local news, he had observed an MLA threaten an Assembly colleague with a bicycle chain; seen the former chairman of the Mysore Regeneration Council slapped by his mistress in a branch of the Canara Bank; and been witness to a number of undignified scenes at the tahsildar’s office. A colourful version of these developments inevitably made it to the front page of the Sentinel. Th
e editor’s finest hour had come a short while after the capture of notorious serial killer Ratpoison Revathi in a marriage hall in Hunsur. The Sentinel website broke the news as a world exclusive and that evening’s paper edition came with a pull-out supplement of India’s most feared lady mass murderers.

  The latest public spat attracting the attention of the Sentinel’s journalists concerned the organisers of the first Mysore International Film Festival. The editor had first been alerted to some possible discord when he had noticed the tension between the artistic and programming directors of the festival at a publicity event. As soon as the press conference was over, they each moved to a different section of the room and appeared to be trying to attract an audience of sympathetic supporters. The following morning, Faiza Jaleel was sent to wait outside the Sri Sri Srikantaiah Memorial Hall where the festival’s committee was meeting for further deliberations. While the reporters of the Sentinel had on occasion been accused of shoddy journalism, wanton sensationalism and poor grammar, they had never been known to shy away from the rigours of endless vigils in the corridors of public buildings.

  The stated aim of the film festival’s committee was to broaden audience participation in non-commercial forms of cinema and to provide a holistic view of all aspects of the cinematic process. The programme would include the finest art-house offerings in English, Hindi, Kannada, Tamil, Telugu, Malayalam, Bengali and Odia. A special section on digital films and new media had been mooted but these ambitions were hurriedly thrust aside. It was decided that this particular festival did not aspire to screenings of trendy lesbian romps in Colaba apartments, shot on handheld cameras by returned NRIs trying to make a splash.

  Previous discussions had focused on whether the international aspect of the festival should be dropped, given that participation from non-Indian film-makers appeared to be limited to a Maoist comedy from Nepal and a five-hour biopic made by an Iranian resident of Gokulam. Luckily there was one more foreign entry in due course: a Hungarian director’s retelling of the story of the Sirens.