The Smoke is Rising

by Mahesh Rao

  PART THREE

  Winter

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE law courts of Mysore were housed in an Indo-Saracenic nugget opposite the faded green of Manuvana Park. The building had gained national prominence when a scene from a super-hit film song of the seventies had been filmed on its front lawn, between rows of flame-hued zinnias. These days the garden was bedraggled and contrite, its flower beds plagued by stray dogs who would collapse in the scanty shade of the frangipani trees like a set of errant commas. Justice, as envisioned by a Scottish sculptor in 1908, sat heavily on a plinth in the court complex. The downturned sword in her right hand looked like a walking aid and the expression on her face appeared to suggest immense relief at having been able to take the weight off her feet. If the artist had intended to create an impression of stately reason, safeguarding truth with a powerful gaze, his facility had failed him. In Mysore, justice took on the guise of an irritated matron who really did not wish to be harangued by the petty squabbles of an ungrateful rabble.

  Behind the court car park, a number of shed-like structures housed the more prominent of the city’s tireless notaries. This was a prime location: some family feuds over the deserving occupant of a notarial seat here had spilled across generations. The longest serving functionary in this cloister was I P K Rangaraja, a man famed for his probity and his devotion to an ancient tweed suit, worn as a mark of contempt for the Mysore weather. Some years ago he had famously uncovered the participation of a number of his colleagues in a scam involving the submission of falsified land title documents. The unscrupulous notaries were soon attending court in a different capacity and Mr Rangaraja basked in the exaltation that came with successfully guarding a profession from disrepute.

  Opposite the seat of the notaries’ operations, the shade of a large sampige tree acted as a billet for the squadrons of interested parties that gravitated towards any hub concerned with the dispensation of justice. Scribes carrying portable typewriters zealously guarded space on the wooden benches. Ambulance chasers mingled with hotel touts; students at the evening law college shared experiences with sympathetic conmen; journalists killed time by trying to tease out scandals from desperate petitioners. The vexatious litigants could always be identified by their plastic bags full of papers and the lust for substantive advantage that warped their backs.

  One gentleman with close-cropped, greying hair in a crisp white kurta was a steadfast feature of this juridical bazaar. He arrived on foot every weekday morning at exactly ten o’clock, in his hands a thick folder and a basket containing his lunch dabba. His exemplary attendance meant that the scribes even offered him a place on one of the benches. The man spent his time looking through his papers and benignly taking in the day’s events. He never solicited conversation but always responded to questions politely, neither enlightening nor offending anyone.

  In the past few weeks, security at the court building had been increased, not as a result of threats from terrorists or organised criminals, but due to the increasingly animated conduct of the members of the Mysore Law Congress. The genesis of the strife could be traced back to an incident six months ago when an advocate’s motorbike rammed into the back of a judge’s car outside the court. There were no casualties but a frenzied row had ensued with the use of vivid language on both sides. Official complaints were made, investigations pursued and the matter would have ended, reaching some forgettable stalemate, were it not for the fact that elections to the post of President of the Mysore Law Congress were imminent. The two main candidates, not confident that caste affiliations and their own distinguished professional histories would deliver victory, had dredged up the incident as a symbol of the disharmony that could disable the Congress’s future activities, without strong and dynamic leadership. A bilious brew of local gossip, procedural irregularities, vested interests, caste politics and tutored braggadocio meant that a strike of local lawyers was virtually inevitable. The Mysore Evening Sentinel called it an unforgivable perfidy that struck at the heart of the administration of justice. To the congregation under the sampige tree, it was simply another inconsequential distraction.

  Beyond the parochial concerns of the courts in Mysore, the broader legal community was involved in an intense debate that now engaged many sections of civil society. The subject of the controversy was proposed legislation that could make the declaration of judicial assets mandatory and subject to public scrutiny. The majority of judges, of course, were entirely content that details of their wealth be submitted to the appropriate authorities. In fact, many of them were already providing this information to various bodies who could be trusted to treat it with responsibility and respect.

  The contentious issue was whether the particulars ought to be released into the public domain. It was no secret that there were hostile elements who would seize the opportunity to ensnare the judiciary in frivolous litigation and media-fuelled imbroglios, a situation which would neither assist the upholding of fundamental freedoms nor enhance the efficacy of the courts. The Indian legal system had many unfulfilled requirements but a vaudeville centred on the bank balances of judges was certainly not one of them. Campaigners for transparency gave sermons on accountability, institutional integrity and, above all, public confidence. A certain section of the judiciary, however, wanted to emphasise that it too suffered from a lack of confidence in the intentions of the general public.

  One pro-information rights commentator stated that what was at stake was the humanity of the judiciary. The response from the editor of a prominent daily was that judges had shown themselves to be all too human. In support of this contention, a former Supreme Court judge was quoted as estimating that twenty per cent of judges in the country were vulnerable to subornation and unlawful inducements. The venerable gentleman, caught between his duty to the nation and loyalty to his old colleagues, had chosen his words carefully, making judicial corruption sound like a highly communicable influenza rearing up in a delicate constituency. In spite of this incrimination, society at large remained optimistic. After all, the conclusion to be drawn was that an awe-inspiring eighty per cent of the judiciary could still be trusted to maintain the rule of law with a humbling display of integrity. In these times of rampant parliamentary and administrative skulduggery, that figure could only be cherished.

  In the half-light of the early morning, the loudspeakers set up on the walls of the city’s Venkateshwara temple let out a ghostly crepitation. The city was beginning to wake: a rickshaw rolled past the main bus stand, a few labourers sipped their coffee seated on the pavement by Sriram Circle and street sweepers crossed the road towards the front of the temple. A trio of buses, sporting garlands of marigold and jasmine, pulled into the bus stand and eased themselves into a row. A man opened the door of the first bus and jumped down from its steps on to the hard earth below. Three other men followed, their descent a little more hesitant and cautious. They all knew that the slowly brightening day held in store a decisive pronouncement. As they stood uneasily in front of the buses, each light smudge in the sky refracted an ambiguous portent.

  The loudspeakers sputtered into the dawn a few more times before releasing the low strains of a devotional song. The singer welcomed the morning, praised the light for its benevolence and gave thanks for the end of night. The men looked down at the spidery trails of paan juice on the paved ground, silent and trying not to read any significance into the words of the song. Its sound probably rose up over the temple wall and towards the tops of the coconut trees every morning. There was nothing special about today.

  A few minutes later another handful of men arrived at the bus stand, their faces sealed against surprises. They joined the first group, a taut diffidence descending. The men seemed to need a welcoming sign, an indication that they were not simply detritus blown here by an ill wind. One of the men suggested going across the road to the coffee stall and they agreed that it was a good idea. But no one moved.

  The driver from one of the buses jumped down and headed to
wards the back wall of the bus stand compound. The men watched as he stopped by the wall, adjusting his trousers in front of the words ‘The Sword of Truth will Safeguard the Voice of Democracy’ spray-painted in red. He turned back towards the men and they all instantly looked away.

  Just as one of the men pulled out his mobile phone to make a call, a van made its way in to the compound. The door slid open and another group joined those already waiting. As their numbers grew, a buoyant spirit descended over the men and the few women who had joined them. There were jokes, a playful headlock and some theatrical tutting. More people arrived. They came on scooters, by cart and crammed into rickshaws. Eight young men pulled up in a gasping Premier Padmini and three others on a bicycle. A couple in their seventies emerged from a tonga, rattled but cheerful. The young man who had first jumped off the bus began a headcount and then abandoned it. He divided the assembly into three sets, one for each bus. It was evident from his manner that from this point no further tomfoolery would be tolerated.

  ‘Vasu, what time are we leaving?’ a woman asked him.

  ‘In exactly twenty minutes, whether or not everyone is here,’ he said.

  In just over three hours they would reach the outskirts of Bangalore and, depending on the traffic, it would be another half hour or so to the High Court. The judgment in the dispute over the government’s acquisition of land for the HeritageLand complex was due to be handed down before midday. It had taken years to get to this point and all the parties involved wore their bruises heavily.

  The last protest by the theme park farmers in the centre of Mysore had led to a lathi charge at KR Circle, futile arrests, avoidable injuries and an abiding sense of failure. A group of community activists led by Vasu had become convinced that focusing on the legal process already underway was the only meaningful option. Rage and venom were easy to reap but the activists firmly held that only a well-placed belief in the legitimacy of their claim could sustain their campaign. It was the type of optimism that could part seas and arrest storms. The alternative was to collapse in the streets around KR Circle as smoke rose into the skies.

  A local proverb said that a closed fist could not accommodate righteousness. Vasu said that angry men did not have the cool heads required for effective action. The activists had spent months explaining and reassuring, building up a deep swell that would break on the steps of the High Court, leaving a corpus secure in its ideology and vindicated in its stance.

  Vasu’s family had lived on the same plot of land for generations, slowly watching the smoggy extremities of Mysore snake up from the horizon. Dowries, debts and disputes had whittled away at the property and now all that remained was an acre and a half of tenacity. When Vasu’s father first heard of the land acquisition, he had sensed an intrigue. Although illiterate, he was well informed and he knew that even the most nefarious land-grabbing schemes could come cloaked in official sanction, bearing bouquets of worthless enticements and desiccated promises. Vasu was the only member of the family who had passed his PUC and he was immediately put in charge of getting to the bottom of the rumours and speculation.

  Over the last few years Vasu had gathered an abundance of information, made contact with NGOs all over the country, learnt from human rights experts, formed links with other farmers’ organisations, consulted environmentalists and visited every village in the affected agricultural belt. It felt like everything he had ever done had been leading up to this day.

  Ignoring the acid rawness in his stomach, Vasu began his headcount again.

  Behind one of the buses, Ramanna let the beedi drop out of his mouth and ground his heel on it until a small pit had formed in the red earth. He pressed at his knuckles languidly, coaxing out a dull crack from each one. He had not expected so many people to be here; certainly not enough to fill three buses. Facing away from most of the others, as usual, he made no attempt to engage anyone in conversation. He was here only because he knew that he had to safeguard his interests. There was little else now to bind him to these people.

  Ramanna had no sentimental attachment to his land. In fact, the sight of the rutted path that led to his fields filled him with a stinging revulsion. The land only represented what it was worth in monetary terms: an opportunity to move away from the village and start life somewhere else. The money would perhaps allow him to learn a trade in Mysore. An acquaintance had started a business tending to some of the gardens in Jayalakshmipuram; maybe he could do that for a while. The land was nothing but his route away from the village and its ligatures of antipathy and malice. Ramanna and his family were not served at either of the village’s two provision shops. They were ignored at the bus stop and taunted at the post office. Excrement had been left in a torn plastic bag outside their door and broken glass sometimes glinted demonically on the approach to their house. Ramanna had married out of his caste and he had to live by that decision. The inhabitants of the village were well known for their hospitality and good cheer at festivals; what was less well known was the virulent hostility that many of them would direct towards transgressors of ancient codes.

  There was nothing Ramanna wanted more than to sell his blighted holding. But he wanted the right price. He would not give up the one thing of any value that he owned for anything less than its proper worth. Now that determination saw him preparing to take a seat on a bus, his face blank, making common cause with some of the people who spat at his children in the street.

  Vasu began his headcount for the third time.

  The oldest person in the group was Kenchamma; at least, that was the general supposition. Neither she nor any of her female contemporaries knew their exact age. When asked, she would throw her head back and let out one of her soundless laughs, her jaw quivering delicately.

  ‘All the girls in my family grew up like weeds. Who knows the age of weeds?’ she would ask.

  Kenchamma owned a small parcel of land that lay across the proposed site for one of the HeritageLand ring roads. She had spent the last fifteen years sitting in the doorway of her house, listening to the smack of her tongue against the roof of her mouth and looking out at the surrounding fields. Her constancy was as much a feature of the landscape as the crackling beds of dried sugar cane leaves or the kites that traced daring arcs with their frozen wings. Her two remaining sons worked the fields and it was their shifting forms that Kenchamma watched. She had lost five children in childbirth, two to measles and one son had been found hanging from a tree at the edge of their smallholding. She had lived on this land for over sixty years, arriving as a girl, already married three years. The land was bordered by a stony ravine, a line of wood-apple trees and the narrow lane that led to the nearest village. These markers traced the physical edges of her experience but their nearness had not blunted her intuition or her foresight. Today she had insisted on making the trip to Bangalore, as the stakes were as high for her as for anyone else.

  A woman walked to the front of one of the buses and cracked a coconut on the ground with a deadly swing. A few heads bowed in silent prayer. The elderly had already been allowed to board the buses and make themselves comfortable. Now Vasu began to direct the others towards the bus doors. Two buses had been borrowed from a milk cooperative’s local office and the third hired from a tour company. The arrangements had been made, then cancelled and then reconstituted. The angry charge that ran through the community had not helped Vasu in his attempts at planning this journey. But, in the end, he and his colleagues had managed to convince the majority of the importance of a solid presence at the High Court.

  The buses moved out of the compound and made their way towards the Bangalore–Mysore highway. The woman who had cracked the coconut took a steel dabba out from under the folds of her pallu and began to pass around some prasada. Her morning prayers had been the culmination of twenty-one days of fasting and the sugary semolina would yield good luck. As the buses gained speed, Kenchamma’s reedy voice punctured the chill air. The message was clear. If a woman her age could sing all the way there
, no one else had any excuse to brood.

  Getting his hair cut had always made Jaydev nervous. Even as a child, every time the barber visited the house to administer to the men and boys in the family Jaydev would steal up the back stairs and seek asylum in one of the unoccupied rooms on the top floor. His elbows piked into his lap, he would endure an anxious spell in a rosewood cupboard that smelt of camphor or behind knobbly sacks of paddy, listening for the sounds of pursuit. All the while, as if in sympathy, a fretful rumble would descend from the pigeons settled in the ancient rafters. The pattern continued throughout his childhood in spite of his mother’s exasperated warnings, her fingers twisting his ear into a red ball of flame.

  His adult years had meant an inevitable but uneasy accommodation with the monthly ritual. It was not vanity or sloth that brought the unsettling pall. Jaydev felt a disconcerting loss of control at delivering himself up to these silent, sullen men who manipulated his head with brusque gestures and appraised him unabashedly. Trussed in a towel, being goaded by an inconvenient reflection, a handful of waiting men watching his transformation, Jaydev endured his sessions in clenched abeyance. Over the years, habit had brought relief at a shop squeezed into a nook on 5th Cross, its owner as much a creature of routine as Jaydev. The slack hours were predictable, the service rapid and the lights relatively dim. But now, after thirty years, the barber had wound up his business and Jaydev suddenly found himself trying to identify a replacement.