The Smoke is Rising

by Mahesh Rao

  Bhargavi shut her eye and opened it again in response.

  Her cousin responded: ‘They were definitely people from the factory owner’s side. But who can tell where they are or who they are?’

  ‘Did you go to the police?’

  ‘I went to register an FIR day before yesterday. They said they would send someone here to take a statement but no one has come.’

  Neither of them mentioned their virtual certainty that no one would come either today or the day after.

  Bhargavi managed to whisper: ‘I didn’t think they would go this far.’

  ‘Don’t speak, akka, don’t speak,’ said her cousin, placing a hand on the only corner of Bhargavi’s forehead untouched by the bandage.

  Uma shook her head slowly, looking from Bhargavi to her cousin.

  In the bed opposite them, a woman shifted and turned to face them. Her face was a patchy yellow and drained of all expression. It was clear though that she had turned to better hear their conversation.

  ‘I think I should go. If it starts raining, the buses …’ said Uma.

  ‘Yes, you should go. It was good that you came,’ said Bhargavi, through almost closed lips.

  Uma nodded, gently cupped Bhargavi’s elbow and then touched her cousin’s shoulder. She turned and walked quickly down the corridor, slowing down to negotiate the dark stairs and then quickening her pace again towards the main exit. The rain had started to fall already and a large pool had formed between the exit and the gates. Uma joined the throng at the main doors, all waiting for a short lull in the downpour. Beyond the gates, the fruit and vegetable vendors had pulled sheets of plastic over their carts and were taking shelter in the doorways of shops and in the porch of the nearby Health and Family Welfare Institute building. The rain poured over the roof of Bethesda Church and hammered away on the tops of the tin sheets that covered the rows of cobblers and key-cutters lining Puthli Park Road.

  Uma and others at the main doors turned in the direction of a series of shouts and drumbeats. In spite of the torrent, a procession was making its way along Puthli Park Road and approaching the hospital. At the head of the group, a huge Ganesha idol mounted on a tractor rumbled past, its pink and purple hues blazing through the dreary slush. The group was probably on its way to the Shiva temple tank where the idol would be immersed in its dark waters. As the drumming grew louder, the men following the tractor leapt into the air, the heavy showers increasing their abandon.

  The charge in the air was infectious. A man standing beside Uma tucked his fingers into his mouth and let out a series of sharp blasts in time to the drumming. Many in the throng began to clap and there were more whistles and shouts. The scenes inside the hospital were forgotten as the frenetic impulses of the procession took over. A couple of young men dashed into the pool of water in front of the hospital and began to kick up a fierce splash. Another burst of applause broke out in the group sheltering from the storm.

  A roar went up from the men in the procession. The idol’s head was caught in the low-hanging branches of a tamarind tree. The drumbeats grew more urgent as the tractor driver, assisted by another man, tried to scythe away the foliage with a stick. A few more men ran towards the tractor from the hospital to assist in the release of Ganesha’s head. Around the tractor the dancing continued as the water beat down. When the idol was finally free, most of the stragglers sheltering by the hospital doors surged forward towards the road. Uma watched as the pounding and yelling managed to drown out even the sound of the rain. The tractor started up again and resumed its imperious progress towards the temple tank.

  Mala’s phone began to shudder on the bed, the screen lighting up. She broke through the surface of her torpor and picked it up. It was Ambika.

  ‘What happened to you? Amma said you’re not well.’

  ‘It’s nothing. Just a bit of fever.’

  ‘Are you looking after yourself properly? You seem to be falling sick a lot more these days. Have you been for a check-up to see if you’re anaemic?’

  ‘I am not anaemic. Must be the weather change or something.’

  ‘You should have a blood test anyway.’

  Ambika had begun to believe firmly in her own diagnostic abilities, acquired in the course of managing her husband’s nursing home. As her home and professional life prospered, her confidence in her opinions and pronouncements had grown proportionately. She now tended to begin sentences with the phrase: ‘I have very often found …’ A chronicle of Ambika’s astute observations would follow, accompanied by instructions to her listener on steps for the future. There had been early signs of these interventions. At the age of twelve, Ambika had discovered that a group of students were operating an examination syndicate, receiving papers leaked by a teacher and selling them on for a sizeable profit. Her alertness led to prompt action by the school authorities, a Good Citizen award from the municipal council in Konnapur and endless recitations of the sequence of events for the benefit of family and friends, while her mother served plate after plate of lentil vadas.

  As Ambika suggested various therapeutic alternatives, Mala felt a sudden and extreme restlessness swell her skin. She sat up and swung her legs off the bed, desperate for her sister to stop talking.

  ‘I’m fine. Tomorrow I’m going to the office, so there’s nothing wrong with me.’

  Ambika sounded unconvinced but let the matter rest. Instead, she began to talk about the difficulties she was facing in finding competent staff, despite the generous rates she was willing to pay. Mala looked at the leaden sky through the window, making non-committal sounds at regular intervals. She was annoyed now, her primary impulse being to hurt Ambika in some way, confounding that voice into silence.

  ‘How is Girish?’

  Ambika always asked this question as if she knew very well that Girish was exactly the way he always was, pompous and sneering, but she would not be the one to be accused of shirking her duty by not asking after his well-being. His superior attitude was a genuine mystery to Ambika and not one that she pondered in silence. She had observed to Mala more than once that Girish may have read a lot of books but he was still a babu in a small office in Mysore, living in that dark, airless house in Sitanagar, while everyone else in India was now ready to lock eyes with the rest of the world.

  Ambika’s chatter continued. Mala responded with her set of stock responses, another accomplished performance designed to remove any doubts in the minds of her family.

  ‘So, what other news from your side?’ asked Ambika.

  ‘Nothing much. We’ll be busy the next few weeks, helping Anand and Lavanya when they shift.’

  ‘They are shifting? Where to?’

  ‘A huge house in a new complex. You should see this place. It has everything, two swimming pools, shopping mall, cinema.’

  Mala could not remember the precise nature of the other attractions at Terra Blanca and decided to endow it with a few of her own: ‘I think there’s also a golf course and a waterfall.’

  ‘Have they sold their old house?’

  ‘No, I think they’ll keep that too. Why sell if you don’t need to, no?’

  ‘Have you seen the new house?’

  ‘Oh yes. It’s like a place from some movie. They even have their own school and fire department.’

  ‘Why do they need their own fire department? Who will be setting fire to their house every day?’

  ‘They have made it so that they can live with complete peace of mind.’

  There was a pause as Ambika digested this information.

  ‘So how much did they pay for it? Any idea?’

  ‘I don’t know the exact amount. But crores. Crores and crores for anything in that complex.’

  ‘Why do they need you to help them shift? They can get some professionals, no?’

  ‘Yes, but they will need help supervising. And we had to offer. Especially since they are taking us to Thailand.’

  Mala was enjoying herself now. She mentioned Thailand with a flighty nonchalance
, like it was a neighbourhood attraction.

  ‘Thailand? Why?’

  ‘What do you mean why? For a holiday, why else?’

  There was a further pause as Ambika tried to make sense of this new revelation.

  ‘But they are taking you?’

  ‘For the company, na? So generous of them. But they are lucky. God has really blessed them, not like you and me, having to count everything.’

  Ambika huffed but made no other comment.

  ‘So how long are you all going for?’ she asked a few seconds later.

  ‘Nothing has been fixed yet, but I think three weeks.’

  ‘Three weeks?’

  Mala searched for further colour that she could add to their holiday plans.

  ‘It’s so exciting for me, leaving India for the first time and that too all first-class air fare.’

  ‘But will you be able to be with Lavanya for that long? I mean, it’s not easy, no?’

  ‘I have come to know the true side of Lavanya.’

  ‘So arrogant, no? Whenever you see her, sleeveless blouse and cooling glass. Someone should kick her.’

  ‘No no, you’re so wrong. You just need to get to know her. We have become very close after spending so much time together and she really is such a wonderful person.’

  Ambika became subdued and after a few more minutes discussing Anand and Lavanya’s new home she became aware of a few matters that required her immediate attention. In any case, she had only called Mala to find out if she needed anything; she would ring again for a proper chat some other time. Moments after she had ended the call with Mala, she dialled her husband’s extension. She intended to find out as soon as possible whether it was really conceivable that there were housing complexes in Mysore with their own fire departments.

  The rain had been coming down for a few hours now but the skies still seethed. Shankar was sodden, the water running into his shirt, down his torso and dripping from his jeans. He had peeled off his light windcheater and shoved it under the seat of his motorbike, finding its clammy grip oppressive. He wheeled the motorbike into the shelter of an abandoned lean-to and, tucking a small package under his arm, began to trudge through the mud churned up by the side of the road. He always found these rows difficult to negotiate, with nothing to distinguish them, apart from perhaps a tangle of wire or a damaged bicycle left at the entrance. Today matters were much worse. The rain was sweeping into his eyes and some of the lanes were hidden under a foot of water. He thought of turning back but decided to brave the conditions. It was the last box of sweets and Janaki would be furious if she found out that he had come this far without going on to see Uma.

  Janaki had given birth ten days ago. The baby boy had arrived two weeks late, weighing in at eight pounds, with a full head of hair and a breathtaking disdain for his new surroundings. Luckily the birth had not matched the terrifying scenarios that friends had described to him, although he had chosen not to point this out to Janaki. The last few days had been overwhelming: a culmination of ambitions; an indication that dignity and gravitas had finally claimed him. He was now a man.

  Shankar needed to finish distributing sweets to friends and family and he had picked the week’s most inhospitable day. As he descended into the flooded sprawl below him, he placed his feet on anything that looked solid: a brick embedded in the sludge, a partially submerged plank, the top of a section of pipe. There was hardly anyone around. It was only when he reached the phone box clamped to its pole that he realised the extent of the flooding in the area. The stench of sewage clawed at his nostrils. Three children were splashing hysterically outside their home in the first row, the water reaching their knees. He made his way along the gummy slope to the next row, his feet sinking into the brown ooze. Here too the water was rising. A twist of clothes, some plastic basins, a palm frond and then a curled chappal drifted idly along in the current.

  Shankar tucked the package into his waistband and rolled his jeans up to his knees. He took off his chappals and strode into the water, telling himself he was mad. But his conscience would not allow him to turn back. He knew that Uma lived here alone and he could not simply return home without seeing if she needed any help. His toes sank into the moiling sediment as he pushed against the water, past a drenched mattress propped up against a smoke-stained wall. The doors of most of the rooms were closed but he could see that the water was flowing straight in to Uma’s room through the open doorway.

  As he approached the room, he caught sight of Uma sitting on the tin trunk, her legs folded beneath her, a framed picture lying face down in her lap. She was completely wet, her hair clinging to the sides of her face and the turquoise from her blouse leaching on to her skin. The trunk was marooned in a fuscous pool, a layer of scum lapping against the back wall of the room where the rain was running down the brickwork. Every particle in the room seemed liquescent, caught in a state of chemical collapse.

  Shankar rapped loudly on the open door.

  Uma looked across at him in amazement.

  ‘I can’t believe it. It’s like an ocean in here,’ he said, taking a large step into the room.

  ‘In this rain, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I didn’t know it was this bad. I came to tell you something. I have some good news.’ He heard the incongruous ring of his words and his features creased into an embarrassed smile.

  ‘But first you have to get out of here. You’ll get sick and who knows when this rain will stop.’

  ‘What good news? Janaki?’

  ‘I’ll tell you, but first just come with me.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Somewhere dry. Or do you want to sit here in this gutter all night?’

  ‘But where will we go?’

  Shankar paused as he looked around the room.

  ‘Look, I’ll be back in five minutes. Just wait.’

  Uma watched him wade across the room and disappear to the right of the open doors. In front of her, a plastic chair, the only piece of furniture in the room, bobbed about idiotically. The clouds continued in their inexhaustible convulsions, wrapping the room in ribbons of water. Earlier that evening, moisture had begun to seep into the room through the floor, its crevices filling up and foaming malevolently with the liquid disgorged by the saturated ground below. The rain had then begun to pour down the walls as the rising channel outside beat at the door. The rows of rooms had been illegally constructed over a storm water drain at the bottom of the hill leading down from Mysore Junction. Every monsoon they were doused and sluiced, mercilessly beaten for a few weeks by the force of the storms. The torrents had nowhere else to go in that dense maze of battered structures; so they surged onto unmade beds, spouted up around rusting cupboards and spewed over shelves of aluminium pots.

  Shankar returned to Uma’s room, his head lowered against the lashing blasts, brandishing several sheets of dirty blue plastic.

  ‘Where did you get those?’ Uma asked.

  Shankar ignored her and stumbled through the water to the back of the room. A smell like curdled milk was everywhere. Tucking the ends of the sheets of plastic into his jeans and grasping the top of the back wall, he hoisted himself up, his caked feet seeking a purchase against the exposed bricks. Leaning one arm against the top of the wall, with his free arm he began to twist the sheets of plastic into tight rolls that he then stuffed into the gap between the roof and the wall. One section completed, he moved further along the wall and rose up again, his feet manically seeking a cleft in which to lodge themselves. As he tried to plug the gap, the room darkened further, the gloom and the dankness meshing into a miasma that swept to the edges of the room.

  Shankar jumped back into the water, turned around and shrugged.

  ‘The water’s still coming in but it’s better. We’ll see. Come on, let’s go.’

  ‘But where?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s too far to go to Janaki’s mother’s house in this rain. We’ll go to my house and then I’ll take you to Janaki when the rain stops.’


  Uma had no desire to go anywhere. She felt like a creature thrown up by the deluge who bore a natural obligation to witness the waters recede. But she also lacked the energy to protest. She slowly lowered her legs into the water, still clasping the picture of Shiva with one arm. Shankar did not offer her his hand. She followed him towards the doorway, taking tiny steps through the turbid pool, as if her feet had been manacled. Shankar waited for her to reach the row outside, his eyes avoiding her face.

  ‘I’ll try and close the door and then we can go,’ he said.

  He tried to pull the door shut with all the strength he could muster but it would not budge against the heft of the water.

  ‘There’s no money or jewellery in there?’ he asked.

  Uma shook her head.

  ‘Then let’s leave it and go.’

  They worked their way through the flood to the edge of the surrounding slope and then laboriously climbed up to the main road, their feet disappearing into the greedy mire. Every now and then Shankar would turn around to glance down at Uma, catching sight of her outstretched arm as she tried to tramp up the incline without sliding into its swampy creases.

  The tides of water continued to drum down. Shankar wiped the mud off his feet on a concrete slab by the edge of the road, slipped his chappals on and started the motorbike.

  ‘Why are you standing there? Come on,’ he called.

  Uma hesitated and then shuffled forward. She sat down behind him, her ankles pressed together in a tense bind, her left hand grasping the rear grab rail, trying to maximise the distance between them. Her other arm pinned the picture of Shiva to her chest.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, feeling like her legs would abandon her, founder and collapse onto the ground.

  Shankar eased the bike through the overflowing ruts, blinking hard to keep the water out of his eyes. The road was deserted as they rode slowly towards the open fields that bordered the highway, the wheels hissing against the wet tarmac. Uma glanced down at the back of the picture of Shiva, now streaked with a web of fuzzy lines. Shankar’s back was perfectly straight and his shoulders tight with an inescapable awareness. Six inches of water and wind separated him from Uma and in that space there began to fan out the torturous wings of a new certainty. They brushed against Shankar’s vertebrae and paused over the nape of his neck. Uma felt them beat a hot gust against her ribs and cast a shadow over her face. The gap between them was not large but it was enough to accommodate the flailing realisation that, as they headed to Shankar’s home in the rain, they would not make it any further that night.