The Smoke is Rising

by Mahesh Rao

  ‘I am so sorry for the short notice.’

  ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Nothing has happened exactly but I really need to cancel. I hope that you will not be offended. I am so sorry.’

  ‘But I am not following you, Susheelaji. I mean, all of a sudden?’

  ‘Jaydevji, I don’t know how to explain it to you but please try to understand. Sometimes events just overtake us and we have no control over such things. And then everything has to change.’

  ‘But what has happened? You are just talking in riddles now.’

  ‘Please Jaydevji.’

  ‘Are you not feeling well?’

  ‘You are not trying to understand me. Please, these matters are beyond our control. Surely you must be able to see that.’

  A pause began to grow, the kind of dead air that could never be filled by breath or static.

  ‘Well, as long as you are all right and there is no bad news.’

  ‘No, there is no bad news.’

  Another silence threatened to descend.

  ‘Goodbye.’

  Susheela hung up.

  The opening gala of the first Mysore International Film Festival was a sensation. The Promenade had been transformed into the cynosure of contemporary culture. Not only had representatives of the national press descended on Tejasandra Lake, the festival had managed to attract some international media attention too. The beacons that had turned the Anuraag Kalakshetra into a dazzling alcázar were matched only by the celebrity wattage on the red carpet. Beyond the organisers’ most outlandish prayers, stars from Bollywood, Tollywood, Kollywood, Mollywood and Sandalwood had made an appearance at the event, their respective entourages managing to overwhelm the local dignitaries, press corps and gathered fans. There were enchanting vignettes of previous junkets to Mysore, passionate endorsements of the treasures of the Lake Utsava and a general adoration of the circumstances that had brought them all together at last.

  The members of the festival jury appeared delighted to be in each other’s presence and were more than generous with their time and perspectives. The press were most keen to engage with the president of the jury, a director of heavy-handed comedies of errors who had been involved in a couple of infamous casting couch scandals in the eighties. Equally popular was his fellow judge, a cine queen of yesteryear who looked ravishing in an ivory lace confection. Her fans had eagerly followed her much publicised victory over an addiction to gin and prescription painkillers, and were now keen to see her in the flesh.

  ‘Madam, you are a vision of beauty and grace!’ shouted a photographer.

  ‘Young man, I hope your girlfriend is not here,’ she replied, her voice husky with her new medication.

  The president of the jury made a charming speech on what could be achieved when disparate communities came together in an urban setting to build a cultural edifice that the rest of the world could only look on in envy. Faiza Jaleel emailed the first part of her report to the sub-editor in the office within minutes.

  Representatives from the main sponsors were also keen to take advantage of the unique promotional opportunities. Their business cards were discreetly handed to photographers to ensure that their names and designations were noted correctly. As the constellations gazed benignly down on the lakeside proceedings, a number of quaint friendships were formed in the media glare: starlets and city corporation officials, minor socialites and the board members of the Mysore Tourism Authority, local captains of industry and the Chief Officer of Mysore Central Jail, Nuclear Thimma and everyone.

  With the frenzied distractions on the red carpet and the blitz of jubilation on the Promenade, it was hardly surprising that the merits of the film that was screened that evening remained something of a mystery. Indeed, reports appeared on a couple of news channels setting out observations on two entirely different features. The organisers of the film festival, however, had their own yardstick by which to measure the gala’s success, and by those norms, the opening was declared a triumph. It was the perfect launch pad for the inauguration of the Lake Utsava the following day.

  Bhargavi looked at the string of mango leaves hanging across the door and the scattering of marigold petals on the ground. Someone else had definitely moved into the room. The door was padlocked.

  She knocked on the neighbour’s open door. Parvathi emerged from the room, wiping her hands on the front of her sari.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I was looking for Uma, your neighbour.’

  ‘She has gone.’

  ‘You mean, she has left this place?’

  ‘Yes, gone completely. Some new couple is there now. They moved in yesterday.’

  Parvathi turned to go back inside her room.

  ‘One minute, one minute,’ said Bhargavi. ‘Do you know where she went?’

  ‘Look, no one knows where she has gone. She just disappeared like a thief in the middle of the night. Didn’t even tell the landlord. He had to break open the lock the next day and then saw that most of her things weren’t there. What was left, I think he took.’

  Parvathi’s eyes narrowed as she looked at Bhargavi.

  ‘Are you a relative?’

  ‘No, I just needed to speak to her about something.’

  Parvathi laughed weakly.

  ‘Other women have been coming here to speak to her too.’

  ‘But why did she just disappear like that?’ asked Bhargavi. ‘It makes no sense.’

  ‘You really don’t know?’

  ‘No.’

  A fight between children broke out in the room behind Parvathi.

  ‘Look, I can’t stand here and talk to you all day but ask anyone here and you will soon find out why.’

  She disappeared into the darkness of the room.

  Bhargavi looked again at the shreds of marigold lying on the damp earth, before moving away. She still walked with a slight limp even though it had been a few months since she had left hospital. It took her a few minutes to get to the next row where she knew some people. She had always been adept at soliciting information and this was an area where tales would be recounted all too readily.

  Before long, she had to deal with a fairly full picture. There were accounts of endless trysts, numerous men visiting the room late at night, money that had changed hands, husbands lured to their ruin, furious wives hammering at the door, bottomless depravity, wrecked lives. Bhargavi knew that somewhere in the folds of the toxic hearsay there lay a seam of truth. It would take her one or two more days before she could run her fingers along its ragged joint.

  The morning of the Lake Utsava saw a great deal of activity on the Promenade, even in the darkness of the early hours. Areas of scaffolding were removed at the last minute, some of the smaller stages were wheeled into place and loudspeaker systems were given a final test. Gate officials and festival stewards were instructed on the conduct of proceedings while sweepers moved around them in a prearranged formation. Lengths of cable maundered below stands and displays, eventually making their way towards banks of generators ranged in the roads that led off the Promenade. A few railings that had been forgotten were being painted in the dull glow of the streetlight above them.

  The Lake Utsava was due to be formally opened by the Minister for Tourism at a short ceremony later that morning. The organisers had spent unconscionable hours poring over the precise seating arrangements in the inauguration marquee, anxiously appraising the relative importance of, among others, the Deputy Assistant Director of Mysore Zoo and the Acting Mayor’s daughters. Chains of chrysanthemums would shortly be wound around any offending utilitarian space. The red carpet that had endured the media’s coruscating affections the previous night had been moved to the VVIP section of the marquee. Venky Gowda’s seat had been specially brought in from Bangalore.

  By the time the sun’s first beams began to lick at the waters of the lake, a sense of exhausted achievement had settled over the length of the Promenade. Authorised stallholders were now free to set up the expositio
ns and the organisers were conducting their final checks in the festival zone. In a few hours the dignitaries would be garlanded, the ribbon cut, the plaque unveiled and eager arms raised in elation. The morning’s frosted light bounced off the steel and glass lattice that covered the Museum of Folklore and tumbled over the miles of silver bunting that stretched out in every direction. The scene was set for the city’s most high-profile public celebrations in recent memory.

  They had run out of most of the daily specials at the Vishram Coffee House. The waiters, through habit, reeled off the lunchtime treats and stood by the tables, practically daring the patrons to attempt to order one of them. Even though the peak rush had come and gone, the din was intense. A table for two was quickly swabbed with a wet rag and the two bank officials sat down, both sighing heavily.

  ‘For what reason do they bother to tell you about these damn lunchtime specials if they never have them in the first place?’ complained the senior bank official.

  His junior colleague was sympathetic.

  ‘It is typical behaviour, sir. That is why the country is in this state,’ he said sadly.

  The two men put in their order and stared for a moment at the frenzied loops left on the table by the wet rag.

  ‘Sir, did you watch that programme last night?’ asked the junior official.

  ‘Which programme?’

  ‘About the Chinese.’

  ‘Which Chinese?’

  ‘Sir, it was a programme about these Chinese people in China. They are running schools where small, small children are learning Hindi. So nicely they were speaking, sir, even better than children here.’

  ‘Chinese children learning Hindi?’

  ‘I promise, sir, you will not believe. They were having conversations, so clear it was. Standing in a line, all smart and very good discipline. But one thing I could not follow, sir, for what reason Hindi? English, Spanish or German, I can understand. But Hindi, sir?’

  ‘It is because by the time they invade us, these children will have grown up and then they will be able to order us around in Hindi.’

  ‘Sir, they must know we don’t all speak Hindi, no?’

  ‘What difference does it make to clean their shoes, whether they tell us in Hindi or Chinese or Kannada?’

  ‘That is true, sir. We need to be very careful but our government is doing nothing about this danger. One day they will just walk across the border and we will all be sitting here waiting.’

  ‘As usual.’

  ‘Sir, you know, the Chinese language is called Mandarin.’

  ‘You duffer. The Chinese language is called Chinese. Mandarin is the capital of some province. In the south, I think.’

  Their lunches arrived, the food so hot that the junior official’s glasses steamed up. Conversation was minimal while the two men ate, their concentration all-consuming. A beggar who had made his way into the restaurant was chased out and given a stern warning by the owner. At the adjacent table, a man let out a long, satisfied belch, his crash helmet still in his lap.

  The bank officials had just finished eating when a tall man knocked against their table, on his way out. The senior bank official knew him so they exchanged a few pleasantries before the man left.

  ‘Sir, who was that?’

  ‘Just someone I know through my cousin. Can’t even remember his name. What is happening to my memory?’

  ‘Sir, I have always felt you have an excellent memory.’

  ‘Anyway, he is G S Anand’s brother.’

  ‘The advertising man?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If he is G S Anand’s brother, why is he eating here, sir?’

  ‘How should I know? Do you think G S Anand has nothing better to do than to feed all his family members every day?’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘This fellow, it’s a sad story. He is separated from his wife.’

  ‘Sir, this separation is becoming very common now, even in our culture.’

  ‘They say the girl’s family cheated him into the marriage. She had lots of mental problems, which they managed to hide and then dumped her on to him. He only came to know after the marriage. One day she started to behave very weirdly.’

  ‘Really, sir? What was she doing?’

  ‘I don’t know the details but they say she was very disturbed. I think she was smashing all the furniture and the TV at one point.’

  ‘Ayyo, howda, sir? Who told you this?’

  ‘My cousin is known to his family. They told him just the other day. So this Girish, that is his name, tried to manage the situation for quite some time but it was too much. He had to send her back to her family. How can he look after a mental patient?’

  ‘It is too much, sir, the kind of cheating that goes on these days.’

  ‘That’s what. Poor fellow, you just never know sometimes what can happen.’

  The man at the next table stood up and looked around the restaurant.

  ‘Hey, is that TV not working?’ he asked one of the waiters.

  ‘If you want to watch TV, sir, you better stay at home.’

  ‘No, no,’ said the man looking irritated, ‘there is something happening at the lake, some trouble, the police have arrested lots of people.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ asked someone else.

  The questions became louder and more insistent in the Vishram Coffee House as news of violence at the Promenade spread. Conjecture and fabrication were pumped into the stale air of the room as diners called up friends and listened to the waiters bringing news from the street. The man from the next table had rushed off to find out more, leaving behind the helmet he had so carefully tended over the course of his meal.

  The two officials paid the bill and left the restaurant. It was time for them to head back to work, but their walk down the street was unhurried. They peered into shop windows and the interiors of restaurants, looking for a television. On a day like this, it would not hurt to be a little late.

  Rukmini’s visitors stared at the ground. It was one of many lulls in the conversation. They had looked at Mala once during the entire period and given her a frozen smile, a single accusation at its heart. They had come there as if nothing had happened. But they had also decided that they already knew about what had happened.

  Rukmini raged under her composed exterior. If they would only say something, she would counter it. She would smash her hands against her temples and say it was not her daughter’s fault. Dragging them to where Mala was sitting, she would describe, with great care, every single brutalising experience of which she had knowledge. She would demand that they imagine all the others that had remained sequestered. She would rip each imputation from their guts and tear it to shreds in her lap.

  The lull continued. Gazes shifted, there was a dry cough, a hand beat time lightly against a cushion. Then they stood up to leave, and after that they were gone.

  Rukmini’s jaws were set tightly together as she picked up the used coffee lotas.

  Babu emerged from the bedroom where he had been waiting for the visitors to leave.

  ‘I just heard on the radio,’ he said, ‘there have been riots in Mysore.’

  ‘What?’ she asked, straightening up.

  ‘Mala, turn the TV on,’ he said.

  Rukmini’s daytime prohibition was overturned and the room was filled with the noise of gunfire and sirens.

  The ayah was frantic. Her sister had called her to ask her if she had heard about the trouble at the festival. Not knowing what to do, she had turned on the television, a liberty she would never have allowed herself under normal circumstances. The first sight she saw was a man being helped to a makeshift shelter under a sheet of tarpaulin. His head seemed to have split at the top, his hands helplessly trying to stop the blood flowing into his eyes. The ayah made sure Shruthi was upstairs playing and then called Lavanya’s mobile. It rang but there was no answer. She then called Anand. A message told her that the network was busy and asked her to try again a short while later.
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  She knew that Anand and Lavanya had been at the opening ceremony of the festival. Lavanya had called her for a quick check just as they were being seated for the inauguration speech. That was four, maybe five hours ago. She tried both numbers again but she could not get through. The words ‘Riots at Mysore Festival’ flashed repeatedly on the screen. The reporter managed to convey the sense of panic and chaos at the scene but provided no information on what had actually happened.

  She called her sister, who passed on some more news from a friend who had managed to return from one of the roads near the lake. Apparently, one of the buildings on the Promenade was ablaze, possibly the big shopping centre. She did not know if there had been a bomb blast but there was definitely a fire in the area.

  The ayah went upstairs again to check on Shruthi. When she came back downstairs, the screen showed a clear shot of the northern end of the Promenade. Fumes were drifting across the road, over the rocks at the water’s edge and blowing out over the lake. The ashen sweep made it difficult to see where the wings of smoke ended and where the water began. She switched off the television in case Shruthi wandered down for some reason. In a couple of minutes she would try the phones again.

  All three televisions were on at the Bhaskars’ home, each tuned in to a different news channel. Bhargavi stood in the hallway looking at the huge screen in the sitting room. Mr Bhaskar was standing to one side, eyebrows angrily knitted. The camera seemed to be focusing on a deserted building while a male voice exclaimed in the background. She could not make out his words and did not understand the significance of the office block. It did not even look like it was anywhere near the lake.

  She crept upstairs and stood outside the older son’s room. On his television a reporter was pointing to a police barricade where uniformed guards were milling around a jeep. In a few moments, a distinguished looking officer began to speak to the press, his tone grave and deliberate. He would not pretend that the crisis was completely under control, but the law enforcement authorities were taking all necessary steps to prevent an escalation of the situation. It was important that members of the public were made aware that the violence was attributable only to a few senseless individuals who were determined to indulge in criminal and antinational activities in order to undermine Mysore’s reputation for peace and harmony. They would be dealt with swiftly, in accordance with the law, to ensure that the city returned to normal as soon as possible. The officer turned his back on the ensuing volley of questions and walked quickly towards a waiting car.