The Smoke is Rising

by Mahesh Rao

  She went upstairs. That morning she had picked out her sari. Nothing that looked too festive or celebratory; a cream chiffon overlaid with sober navy tendrils. Two bottles of perfume stood on her dressing table, almost full. In the drawer, there lay at least another ten bottles, still in their unopened boxes, covered in plastic, the accumulated debris of birthdays and anniversaries. Susheela had never understood these scents, floral gulps with cloying trails that lunged towards the senses. The only smell she really appreciated was the fragile balm of a string of jasmine, practically inferred. But she could hardly emerge from the house to greet Jaydev with long chains of jasmine wound into her hair. The poor man would reverse out of the gates and head straight back home.

  She got dressed.

  A couple of short hoots sounded. He was here. Susheela picked up her handbag, took a quick look inside and then opened the front door. Jaydev was turning the car around in the road. She locked the door and walked towards the gates. A cordon of dark clouds moved over the garden, momentarily turning the world monochrome. Jaydev stepped out of the car and raised his hand. He looked like he was trying to hail a taxi. Susheela waved back. She thought she must look like a six-year-old at the start of the first day of school. There was no one else in the road.

  A strangeness seeped into the scene. They had not seen each other for more than two months but had spoken almost every other day, sometimes for hours. It was a little like listening to her own voice on the answering machine, a startled recognition mingled with a prickly discomfiture. Jaydev appeared a little thinner to Susheela, his face more defined, altogether a more compact person. She lifted the latch, pulled open the gate and then closed it behind her. Jaydev walked around to the passenger side of the car, opened the door and then, perhaps thinking this was too pointed a gesture, left it wide open and returned to the driver’s side.

  ‘Right on time,’ smiled Susheela, getting into the car quickly.

  The inside of the car smelled like an after dinner mint.

  ‘You are looking well,’ said Jaydev.

  ‘Thank you; so are you.’

  She shut the door, put her seat belt on and settled her handbag in her lap.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked, as if they were on a motorbike.

  ‘Ready,’ she replied, as if she had settled her arms around his waist.

  The car moved silently down 7th Main, the windows closed. At the junction, a stray dog barked at it long after it had gone.

  Mini and Mohan Madhavan were celebrating their fifteenth wedding anniversary at the Mysore Regency Hotel. Mini’s younger sister Mony had taken charge as party planner and the guest list had spun itself into a healthy gathering of over two hundred and fifty.

  ‘Although in places like Mysore one can never be sure who else will suddenly show up,’ Mony had said to her friends in South Bombay.

  There had been lengthy discussions about the choice of venue; everyone was agreed that the Regency was not what it used to be. Had anyone been to the Burra Peg on a Friday night recently? Most of the tables seemed to be occupied by men in groups that were a little too large, their laughter a little too loud, their accents a little too earthy. They never ordered gin or wine but managed to put away bottle after bottle of the most expensive imported whiskey. Sometimes they tried to involve you in their conversations about the cost per square foot in Siddhartha Layout or which kebabs to order next. Still, the Lotus Imperial would not be ready till next year and the Regency did have those beautiful gardens sweeping down from the old wing.

  Crystal was of course the theme. Mony had outdone herself in sourcing original table centrepieces, seat covers, a dazzling ice sculpture and silk goody bags filled with charming mementos. Guests were encouraged to wear white but neither Mini nor Mohan wished to make it mandatory on the invitation. Mini, of all people, knew that white could be extremely unflattering on some figures.

  There had been a little bit of thunder earlier in the evening but the sky seemed to have settled by the time Anand and Girish reached the hotel’s side pavilion, their wives a few steps behind. Moments later the power cut out. There was a collective cry from the guests and a nervous few seconds in the near total darkness before the generators swung into action.

  The group joined the queue waiting to congratulate Mini and Mohan.

  Mala was anxious. She knew that her performance tonight would be feeble, her craft strained and faltering. As she waited, she prayed that she would not see any of her front office colleagues on duty or any of the waiters who knew her by sight. She needed no further reminding that she did not belong here, just as she did not belong at work or at home.

  ‘But where has this tradition come from, recharging your vows?’ asked Anand, looking puzzled.

  ‘Renewing, not recharging. It’s not a battery,’ said Lavanya.

  ‘But what is the point of spending so much money on your wedding if you have to do it all again in a few years?’ he persisted.

  There was no response. Anand would have to resolve these questions of nuptial husbandry on his own.

  Mini looked lovely in a cream and gold sari. Mohan looked drowsy. There were hugs. Gifts exchanged hands. Girish made a witty comment about marriage. Mini seemed to wonder who he was. Lavanya flicked her hair back. Mala looked down. The photographer snapped away.

  On the way to their table, there were several asides as Lavanya and Anand saw people that they knew. Mala smiled fiercely every time she was introduced and then stood behind Lavanya. Anand and Venky Gowda bear-hugged each other. Priyadarshini Ramesh, of the Mysstiiqque chain of beauty salons, blew kisses in their direction. The former chairman of the Mysore Regeneration Council galumphed over with a cocktail dhokla in each hand. Girish’s face gave nothing away but Mala knew he must be bored. She had no idea why he had thought it would be a good idea to come.

  A man in a white kaftan put his arm around Anand.

  ‘This man is too much,’ he said to Girish and Mala. ‘Too much.’

  ‘Mr Pasha, the theme was white. Not fancy dress,’ said Lavanya to him, pretending to look injured.

  Ahmed Pasha wagged his finger at Lavanya in delight: ‘Naughty, naughty.’

  A few minutes after they had sat down at their table, a column of silence settled over them, not heavy enough to spur action, but sufficient to lend a laboured awareness to the evening.

  Waiters were handing single white roses to all the ladies under Mony’s anxious gaze.

  ‘We don’t even know them that well. God knows why they invited us,’ said Lavanya at last, clearly wondering why Girish and Mala had been invited.

  Mala speculated as to whether she ought to ask about the plans for the new house. It could lead to all kinds of problems. Instead, she asked them when they were next going on holiday.

  ‘Ask this one,’ said Lavanya, jerking her head at Anand. ‘He is the one who has no time to even scratch his head.’

  ‘Our Thailand trip was not that long ago,’ said Anand.

  ‘Yes, and we may as well have stayed here since you spent all your time with your phone. Or looking for other Indians in Bangkok.’

  ‘What rubbish.’

  ‘It’s true. The only things that moved him were the sounds of Indians in a public place or when he discovered some word in Thai that had a Sanskrit root. Then he got all excited and stopped looking at his emails for a few seconds.’

  Anand smiled to say that it was true, she had just identified his most prominent but loveable weakness.

  ‘Actually, we will also be out of station soon,’ said Girish.

  Mala looked at him. Something inside her darted out of position.

  ‘Oh? Where?’ asked Anand.

  ‘Two weeks in Sri Lanka. I booked it last week,’ said Girish, fixing his gaze on Mala.

  She looked at his lips, from where the words had come.

  ‘Mala, you never told me,’ said Lavanya.

  Mala was silent.

  Then she said: ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘Oh my God, Girish!
A surprise holiday; how wonderful! Who would have suspected? You don’t really look like the romantic type,’ said Lavanya.

  Girish, having sought an audience for his grand gesture, began to look embarrassed. He smiled awkwardly at Lavanya and then turned to Mala, perhaps to indicate that it was her turn to reveal the various manifestations of his whimsical nature. Mala looked away. At the next table a boy in a three-piece suit was trying to suck up the remains of his melted ice cream through a straw, puckering his lips and rolling his eyes in a frenzy. Next to him, a girl in pink pearls let out a series of staccato giggles. For the boy it was an early lesson in the addictive power of performance.

  ‘Look, she can’t even speak, she’s so surprised,’ said Lavanya, reaching out and giving Mala a squeeze on the arm.

  Mala flinched, her napkin falling on to the grass.

  The others all looked at her.

  ‘You’ve really booked it?’ she asked Girish.

  ‘All done,’ he announced. ‘Thirteen nights. We arrive in Colombo, then the next day we take the train to Galle. One night there, then some time in the jungle at Sinharaja and then they will take us to see some caves. Really ancient, with stalactites and stalagmites and fossils still visible in the cave walls.’

  ‘I think I have heard of this place,’ said Anand. ‘What is it called?’

  ‘Waulpane cave.’ Girish’s research had been comprehensive.

  ‘It’s meant to be an amazing sight, with a waterfall in the middle of the cave and bats flying all around. After that, we go to Ratnapura, where they have the gems, and then a hill station for two nights. Then to Kandy for another two nights I think, then on to a beach resort and then back.’

  ‘Sounds beautiful,’ said Anand. ‘Sri Lanka is on our list too, no?’

  Lavanya agreed that it was on the list.

  ‘How sweet, he’s done all this secret planning. You had no idea?’ she asked.

  Mala shook her head and smiled in Girish’s direction.

  ‘But I have not got my leave sanctioned. What if they refuse?’ she asked.

  ‘They can’t refuse,’ said Girish.

  ‘If you have any problems, let me know. You want me to talk to them?’ asked Anand.

  ‘No, please don’t do anything like that. Let me ask first. I’m sure it will be fine,’ said Mala.

  ‘Well, it is nice to see that romance is not just in the movies,’ said Lavanya, clinking her fork on a wine glass.

  Anand refused to take the bait.

  ‘You don’t have that long to plan, Mala. Any idea what the weather’s going to be like there?’ Lavanya asked.

  Mala did not respond. She stared at the golden orbs that surrounded the swimming pool, growing larger and fainter, as the bats from the Waulpane cave screeched around her head.

  Jaydev had given the occasion some thought, while being very careful to appear as if he had done no such thing. The cinema that he suggested was an old single screen in Vishveshvaranagar, respectable enough to be safe, distant enough from Mahalakshmi Gardens to be fortuitous. They seemed to have done little else but talk, so going to the cinema would give them a chance just to be. Sometimes that much was enough. It was not the weekend and there had been a light drizzle every evening for the last few days: there was less of a chance of bumping into anyone they knew. Everything seemed in place.

  Under the circumstances, the choice of film seemed almost irrelevant; or it did to him at any rate. Of course it would not do to end up trapped in front of something vulgar or depressing. Luckily the film showing at the Vishveshvaranagar cinema was neither of those things. Faiza Jaleel of the Mysore Evening Sentinel had given it three stars, praising the freshness of its young actors and the allure of the Brisbane locales where it had been shot.

  The film bore the proofs of its creed. The female lead was a medical student in Brisbane, a firm ambassador of her parents’ immigrant values, combining resolute study with stunning expositions of Hindustani music and trays full of halwa. When not acting as a totem for multicultural conformity, the heroine would indulge in an afternoon of chaste conversation with an engineering student from Delhi, played with aplomb by the current teen heart-throb. Persuaded by her plain but jovial best friend, she entered the Miss Australia competition and won the title, precipitating a media frenzy and intense interest from a handsome but morally ambiguous Indian entertainment baron, also settled in Brisbane. The unexpected pageant victory also had the happy consequence of sparking an appetite for Punjabi culture across Australia. There followed scenes of bhangra classes outside the Sydney Opera House, emerald lehengas flaring across the outback and beers across New South Wales being replaced by Patiala pegs. By the interval, there were a number of indications that the engineering student would not give up the girl quietly and a showdown with the entertainment baron on the Story Bridge seemed unavoidable. With a dramatic escalation of strings and piano, the lights came on again.

  Jaydev and Susheela turned to each other and smiled awkwardly, as if hating to admit that they were really rather enjoying the film.

  ‘If we can’t compete economically, at least on the beauty queen front we have no challengers,’ said Jaydev.

  ‘She looks about fourteen,’ said Susheela. ‘And how is she going to pass her final year exams with all those public appearances she seems to be making?’

  ‘That will be revealed in the second half. Maybe that tycoon is secretly her tutor.’

  At least half the balcony seats were empty but who knew what was happening in the rows below. There was certainly enough lewd whistling during the scenes involving the swimsuit competition.

  ‘Excuse me please, I need to visit the Gents,’ said Jaydev. ‘These days, it’s getting ridiculous, every couple of hours.’

  Susheela smiled at the back of the seat in front of her.

  ‘Can I get you anything on my way back?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  A moment later she added: ‘Good luck,’ and then instantly wondered why she had said it.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘I thought you just wished me luck.’

  ‘Yes, I think I did. Well, you know the toilets are not always very clean.’

  ‘One must stiffen one’s resolve.’

  ‘You know, that is one of the saddest things about India.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The state of the toilets.’

  A strange sound came from Jaydev, something between a snort and a sneeze. His legs grazed against her knees as he walked towards the aisle. Susheela was a little perplexed. She had been entirely serious.

  When Uma got off the bus, a long line was slowly filing into the temple premises on the main road.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she asked a woman.

  ‘Free meals there twice a day for the next two weeks,’ she said. ‘Some big man has died and his family is making sure he does not rot in hell.’

  There was no one she recognised in the queue so Uma stood there, watching the temple authorities maintain order.

  The dead man had been widely respected for his philanthropic activities. Every year on Ganesha Habba he organised the distribution of plastic buckets to the needy and during Dasara a mass marriage for poor couples. His sons had chosen to mark his passing in a manner appropriate to his renown, and food was being distributed at a number of temples in the city during the two-week mourning period.

  The deceased’s colleagues at the Society of Mysore Pawnbrokers had taken a half-page advertisement in the Mysore Evening Sentinel to highlight his professional achievements. These included formulating the Society’s code of practice and ensuring improved focus on customer service in all member establishments. A full list of his charitable works was also being produced and copies would be bound in his memory at Shivaswamy Printers. A large number of the late gentleman’s clients were unable to express much regret, occupied as they were in the daily moil of trying to reclaim their possessions from his shops. But the man’s sons were
determined to continue the public-spirited traditions, regardless of nod or favour.

  The queue was shrinking. A photographer from the Sentinel arrived at the temple with one of the man’s sons to document the event for the next day’s edition. Inside the temple grounds, a speech ended to much applause.

  Uma began walking down the slope. The mud had dried, leaving hard ridges of earth that resisted and then cracked under each step. Suddenly she caught sight of Shankar on the main road. He was standing at the edge of the slope, smoking. She understood why he would not call out to her but why was he watching her? She turned and climbed up the slope, her eardrums pounding. As she approached the top, she realised it was not Shankar, not even a man who looked like him. She spun round quickly and hurried back down the hill, looking in both directions. The sun was setting and there were too many phantoms stalking the pitted hillside that evening.

  As the car headed home through the centre of the city, there was a ferocious show of lightning. An avalanche of blue and silver gave Amba Vilas Palace a fantastical silhouette. Inside the car, the ride felt secure and comfortable. There may have been thunder but they could not hear it over the sounds of the sarod that came from the car’s speakers.

  ‘Is this okay for you? I thought you had trouble driving at night,’ said Susheela.

  ‘Sometimes. There’s hardly any traffic now in the opposite direction, so it’s fine. It’s the oncoming glare that can get difficult.’

  None of the traffic lights were working. Jaydev came to a complete stop at each one and then slowly headed forward. This was the hour that the drunks and the reckless chose to take the air of Mysore.