The Smoke is Rising

by Mahesh Rao

  Bhargavi watched as the camera returned to the Promenade, displaying the bleakly prosaic configuration of defiance. Rocks and bricks curved through the air on their implacable trajectory. A fire blazed in the distance. The contours of the retreating protestors shifted as the arrangement of helmets, shields and body armour moved forward in a sudden spurt. The scene shook violently and then returned to the placid surface of the lake again.

  Bhargavi sat down on the floor, her eyes pinched in concentration. The images she was seeing did not fully accord with the haunting presence in her head, the repeated appearance of a dark woman in a yellow sari, her unruly hair twisted into a braid, holding all her belongings as she navigated her way through a city of smoke and screams.

  At the Mysore Regency Hotel an emergency meeting of the Contingency Plan Committee was drawing to a close. It had been decided that security would be increased all around the perimeter of the hotel grounds and that extra precautions would be taken at the gates. Text messages would be sent to all hotel guests informing them of the trouble in the city and advising them to stay in the hotel. Hospitality managers would also be in charge of providing periodic updates on the situation to everyone at the hotel. Extra supplies of food, bottled water and diesel were being delivered and the stockpile of emergency torches and blankets would be checked immediately. Senior members of staff were briefed on their roles in case of every eventuality, from a bomb blast in the hotel vicinity to an armed attack by insurgents. The liaison officers in charge of communication with all relevant emergency services also swung into action. Personnel trained in first-aid procedures were dispatched to report on the status of medical supplies. Floor plans of the hotel were photocopied but would not be distributed yet. There was a delicate balance that needed to be maintained between precaution and panic.

  Susheela called her younger daughter.

  ‘Prema, it’s me.’

  ‘Hi amma, how come you’re calling at this time? Everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, everything’s fine. Actually, not everything. I’m fine but I thought you might have seen online or something that there has been a lot of trouble in Mysore.’

  ‘Really? No, I didn’t know. What’s been happening?’

  ‘There have been riots by the lake and explosions and God only knows what.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘On the TV they are saying that it is those farmers again, although no one is sure about anything. They went there to ruin that lake festival and the police responded and now things are just terrible. They say some people have died. And there are flames coming from some of the buildings on the Promenade.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘It’s all they are showing on every channel. It’s truly terrible. I don’t know what is happening to this city. Such strange things seem to be going on. First, Uma disappears without a trace. There’s been no news from her. Just like that, she has left town, it seems, without even a word. These people, after all you do for them, sometimes it really makes you wonder. And then, well, then this happens.’

  ‘Amma, one second, this will get very expensive for you. I’ll just call you back.’

  Susheela continued to describe the bewildering images that flashed and froze on screen. There was nothing new to say after a while but they stayed on the phone, both knowing the precise nature of the comfort that was needed.

  ‘Okay, I’d better leave you now,’ said Susheela.

  ‘No, it’s fine. I am not doing anything anyway.’

  ‘But this call will be costing you a lot.’

  ‘No, it won’t. There’s no need for you to go anywhere if you don’t want to.’

  Susheela asked Prema a couple of half-hearted questions about her teaching before a curious tremor crept into her voice.

  ‘Amma, is there something else wrong?’

  ‘No, no. I think it’s just when you see all this destruction and madness in your city, it’s very shocking, you know.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re sure there’s nothing else, no?’

  Susheela experienced a desperate desire to unburden herself, a vigorous jolt to her carefully maintained hoard of experiences and impulses. The quiet concern in Prema’s voice had in a moment bored through the hard surfaces of that private vault.

  ‘I don’t really know how to tell you.’

  ‘Is it something serious?’

  ‘No. That’s the stupid thing. It’s not serious at all. But it’s the only thing I have been able to think about.’

  Susheela’s anxieties were ripe for revelation. Her account unfolded slowly, full but measured. She mentioned the day that she had been stranded in the city, an incident she had never discussed; she spoke of the unexpected meeting at the Erskine Club and the dinner by the lake; she revealed the sudden pleasure of the lengthy phone calls that surfaced in her life by stealth; she told the story of the first time they had ventured out, feeling audacious in the quiet streets of Mysore; she acknowledged the significance of each subsequent encounter; she explained that she had woken up to the possibilities of a new friendship. She told it all. Finally, she described Vaidehi’s visit and her own reaction to it.

  ‘Oh my God. I don’t know what to say,’ said Prema.

  ‘Maybe it was not fair of me, to tell you this all of a sudden.’

  ‘Of course you should tell me. I am glad you told me. So, after that woman came to your house, you didn’t tell him about what happened?’

  ‘No. How could I? It was too awful.’

  ‘But have you spoken to him since the day he was supposed to come over for dinner?’

  Susheela paused.

  ‘No. I did call him once more but I was very relieved that he was not there. There was only his answering machine. I left him a message saying that we could not meet again as it was very difficult and I hoped that he understood.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘I don’t know. What more can you say to a machine?’

  ‘You didn’t even try to talk to him after that?’

  ‘No. I know that it was very bad of me but I just reacted to what was happening.’

  Neither of them spoke for a few seconds.

  ‘You have no idea, living abroad, what it’s like for someone like me here,’ said Susheela, her voice becoming louder. ‘What people are like here, the judgments they make, what they think, what they say. You have no idea.’

  ‘I know what it was like when she came to see you and I can understand that you were in shock. But you must at least talk to him and explain what happened. How hurt must he be feeling, amma? Beyond that, I am not going to tell you what I think you should do. If you can’t continue this friendship and ignore vicious people like that Vaidehi, that is up to you. You are the one who has to live there. But you must at least talk to him once more to explain. Don’t you think so?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Susheela, ‘you’re right. You are more than right. That is what I need to do.’

  It was difficult to form an accurate judgment of the gravity of the disruption at the lake shore and the scale of the state’s response. Teams of riot police were witnessed streaming into the area but unconfirmed reports stated that Karnataka State Reserve Police personnel had also been mobilised to bring the situation under control. There was talk of special counter-insurgency battalions, Central Reserve Police Force commandos and even the National Security Guard. A well-connected source told one news channel that COBRA units were on their way to Mysore. The airwaves were overloaded with the lethal sparks sent out by special militias, auxiliary paramilitary forces and elite combat squads.

  Accounts of the perpetrators of the violence varied enormously too. It was by turns called a terrorist operation, a Naxalite uprising, a Maoist insurrection, a separatist agitation and a communal riot. Fingers were pointed at al-Qaeda, home-grown terror cells, the ISI, hostile neighbours, fanatics, anarchists, radicals, militants and fundamentalists. Borders had not been secured, intelligence had not been collated, leads had not been followed, signs had not be
en read, lessons had simply not been learnt.

  To eyes hardened by the relentless images of the information age, the scene at the Promenade bore the banality of catastrophe. Armed guards stood at all the approach roads, the skeletons of destroyed cars framing the scene. The entire area was sealed off and a curfew in place. Shattered glass was strewn across the steps of buildings and over the wide pavement opposite the lake. Blood streaked the wall and railings that formed part of the flood defences. Hundreds of shoes and chappals covered the newly tarred road in both directions. Smouldering tyres blocked some of the side roads. Half a mile away, the shell of an incinerated bus directed its macabre gaze towards what was left of a giant hoarding for the Lake Utsava. The silver bunting had been torched and had drifted to the ground as fine, feathery ash.

  The Tejasandra Galleria had not, as reported, been set ablaze. The smoke that had turned the sky above the lake into a dark, distended belly had come from the unprotected stocks of diesel, struck by a flaming missile. But the Galleria had not escaped unharmed. Every ground floor window was smashed; rubber bullets and tear gas canisters had found their way into the atrium and art gallery; a police barrier had been hurled at the glass lift; there was blood on the moulded pillars that soared towards the upper loggia. Fittings had been ripped from carefully papered walls and furniture smashed against the floor of the marble foyer. Merchandise was ruined, trailing in dirt or wrapped around marquee poles and lamp posts. Undressed mannequins had been flung over the lake wall: a few lay mutilated on the rocks, more floated in the water, arms raised towards the heavens, their humiliation complete.

  The Museum of Folklore was shrouded in soot. Inside the Anuraag Kalakshetra, axes and machetes lay at the foot of the winding staircase. Debris covered the stage in the auditorium and the seats had been systematically slashed, their innards weeping onto the floor. Opposite the entrance to the building, the frame of the specially commissioned fountain was dented and shamed, its basin filled with rocks and broken bottles. Further along the Promenade, at the foot of the ramp designed for the vintage car display, there lay ten dead bodies, their necks impossibly twisted, a final tribute to the city’s special day.

  Susheela’s thoughts had not strayed far from her conversation with Prema. It was definitely the right thing to do. She called Jaydev.

  A strange voice answered the phone.

  ‘Is Mr Jaydev there?’

  ‘No madam, he has gone out of station.’

  All of a sudden?’

  ‘He went yesterday only.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Caretaker, madam.’

  ‘Can you tell me, where has he gone?’

  ‘To America, his son’s place, madam.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Madam?’

  ‘Do you have any idea when he will be back?’

  ‘He said he was going for about three months, madam. Maybe four, but he will phone to let me know.’

  ‘I see. Thank you.’

  ‘I can give you his son’s phone number in America, madam, if it is urgent.’

  ‘No, thank you, it is not urgent.’

  ‘Okay then, any other message madam?’

  ‘No, no message.’

  Susheela hung up and tried to work out a few dates. But her mind did not seem to be functioning properly. She kept starting all over again on this simple calculation. The man had said that Jaydev would be back in three or four months. She supposed it could be longer than that. There really was no way of telling.

  She turned and walked towards the windows. The shadows were lengthening across the lawn, long bodies with eerie heads stretching towards the house. The dahlias, stubbornly blooming beyond their season, seemed strange and forbidding in that half-light, their faces purple with venom. On the other side of the lawn, creatures seemed to be moving in the upper reaches of the jackfruit tree, alert to the workings of her mind. The world outside was united in judgment: the bougainvillea glowered at her through the kinks in its boughs; a dark nebula descended over the garden, angrily screening off the coral sky; the rose bushes looked bitter and defeated. The windows were still open and the dusk’s chilly breath began to invade the room. Susheela continued to stand motionless, watching the night draw in completely. The shift did not take long. It was what she imagined the final vestiges of sight to be, as it faded into blindness.

  EPILOGUE

  Mala and Rukmini sat in front of the television, neither of them paying any attention to it. On screen the anchor for a talent show took off his jacket and began to dance in front of the judges, keen to show that despite his training at one of the country’s best drama schools, he was still grounded enough to participate in the rough and tumble of popular entertainment. Rukmini was in a state of near slumber, her head gently swaying and her glasses marooned over her forehead, stranded in the course of a half-performed intention to go to bed. Mala was putting together Babu’s medication for the next day, his tablets for hypertension, diabetes and cholesterol placed in rows on her lap. He was getting ready to go to bed, stating that he had a stomach ache.

  ‘It didn’t seem to affect your appetite at dinner,’ Rukmini commented, with a glance at Mala.

  ‘It won’t help my stomach if I starve to death,’ he responded crossly, before leaving the room. There the cupboard door was noisily opened and closed a couple of times and a pillow shaken against the mattress. This was followed by an overwrought coughing fit.

  ‘Every month he becomes more and more like a child,’ Rukmini said, with a sigh. ‘I thought after bringing you two up my work was done, but look, it’s started all over again.’

  The bedroom door was now firmly closed. Mala looked at Rukmini and smiled. Her mother’s mouth had lolled open and her eyes were rolling back into her head. She now looked like an old souse, after a particularly lively night out.

  Mala gently shook her awake.

  ‘You had better go to bed. You are starting to look like someone who has had too much arrack,’ she said.

  ‘Chee,’ said Rukmini, sliding her glasses back on to her nose.

  The talent show had come to an end. A special programme began on the need for civilian activism on social and environmental issues. There was going to be a panel discussion on how communities could come together to ensure better urban governance, taking into account all strata of society. The panel guests were introduced: the state’s Minister for Law, Justice, Human Rights, Parliamentary Affairs, Municipal Strategy and Social Welfare; a spokesperson for the opposition; a renowned cultural commentator; an eminent print journalist and Mr G S Anand, CEO of Exospace Media Ltd and head of the recently formed Taskforce for Civic Harmony.

  Anand’s face looked wider on television, his teeth whiter, his skin paler. He smiled with authority and ease, a man who dealt out charming sound bites like cards falling from the hands of a casino croupier. Rukmini threw an anxious glance at Mala who was looking at the screen, her face inscrutable. Suddenly Rukmini was struck by how very young she looked, in spite of everything.

  ‘You cannot stand in the way of progress and expect not to be crushed,’ said Anand, in response to a question from the show’s host. ‘The smart thing to do is to stop obstructing the vehicle and get on board.’

  Mala watched Anand’s hands fan out as he emphasised his key points. She was astounded that she was related to this man; she had been in the habit of visiting his house two or three times a month; she had listened to his wife talk about her household arrangements on scores of occasions; she knew what was in their dining room dresser, where their bread came from and how often they had back massages. It was through his good offices that she had secured a job and on his wife’s advice that she had begun to experiment with make-up. Tonight she was watching Anand interact with learned experts, as she sat on the cane sofa in her parents’ tiny house, a row of her father’s tablets still in her lap. At first, there may have been an altered cadence in one of the chambers of her heart; her head may have felt slightly lighter; she may ha
ve felt a hurried breath at the back of her neck. But there was nothing more than that now. She could concentrate again on what they were saying, as if she had spent the last few years watching the programme every week, seated here with her mother.

  ‘I would like Mr Anand to explain how he expects people to support policies that take away their livelihood in exchange for empty promises,’ said the opposition spokesman.

  ‘And I would like the honourable gentleman to explain why he supports criminal upheaval, wilful destruction of property and savage attacks on law-abiding citizens in the name of some romantic notion of rural idealism,’ shot back Anand, his face still comfortable, still charming.

  He was gazing candidly at the camera now, directly at Mala, straight into the heart of her home. Looking into his eyes was like seeing a once familiar hillside denuded and devoured, transformed into a sweep of concrete and glass, bearing only a fleeting impression of what was once known.

  ‘I didn’t know he appears on TV,’ said Rukmini, still anxious.

  ‘I didn’t know either,’ said Mala.

  Rukmini stole another look at her daughter.

  ‘Enough of this,’ she complained. ‘These people only know how to talk. As if braying on TV like a donkey will solve anything. Why don’t you change the channel?’

  Mala switched to a nature programme that showed a boat gliding over the waters of a dark river, penetrating into the depths of a jungle.