The Smoke is Rising (18 page)

The tiles on the floor seemed to shift suddenly as Mala held on to a pillar to regain her balance. Wave after wave of nausea consumed her as she swallowed hard, willing every fibre to check her body’s runaway impulses. She sank to her knees, feeling the sweat breaking out on her face. A woman behind her called out for help. Within seconds Mala was vomiting on the shop floor, kneeling in front of the row of laptops. There was a searing sensation in her nostrils and the heaves seemed to go on and on.

As a sales assistant rushed off to alert the section manager, Girish appeared in the aisle, his eyes drawn to the hunched figure on the floor. In his hand he held a surprise gift for Mala: a small diary bound in creamy yellow felt.

When Susheela and Sridhar left Mysore for Bhopal in the late seventies, the area around Tejasandra Lake had been a swampy wasteland, famed mainly for the tenacity of its mosquitoes and the stench of the dense algae washed up on the lake’s shores. The only conceivable reasons for venturing there were to stave off hunger by catching some of the lake’s toxic carp or to dispose secretly of a dead body. When they returned to Mysore from Delhi, following Sridhar’s retirement, the state government had finally released a substantial tranche of funds to clean up the lake’s fetid waters. A
stew of sewage, pesticides, cattle remains, automobile lubricants, medical waste and plastics, the lake had been named one of the top ten environmental scandals in a nationwide study carried out by a prominent NGO. The clean-up operation had taken another four years to complete, but nonetheless it was a major success for the state’s environmental record.

Some time later a Deputy Commissioner blessed with unusual foresight and dedication had ensured that a flood defence was erected on the western shore, above which wound a stately promenade, modelled on Pondicherry’s Avenue Goubert. The rest of the development then simply fell into place like a series of golf balls slowly tumbling into their holes. The Museum of Folklore had been a longstanding promise from the Department of Culture. Endowments from a number of international arts organisations led to its rapid completion, its modernist design ensuring manifestations of rapture and revolt in equal measure among the city’s consumers of culture. Supporters of the building lauded the mettle of the architects who had set Mysore free from an orientalist vision of domes and arches. Its detractors lamented the lack of harmony between the exterior of the museum and its collections of tribal and folk art from all over India. Most of the rest simply boggled at the price of the entry tickets.

Expensive tickets were not a problem at the Mysore Archaeology Museum, which also arrived at Tejasandra Lake. The government-run museum had previously been located in the centre of the city, in a building so cramped and decrepit that its demolition was a peerless act of kindness. The fossils and antiquities happily made their new home in a three-storey structure with uninterrupted views of the lake’s majestic sweep.

The Tejasandra Galleria was next in line at the lakeside: a grand labyrinth of shops and restaurants, flawlessly preserved by arctic air-conditioning and hushed adulation. In its early days, valet
parking had been introduced in an attempt to shore up its exclusive credentials. It transpired, however, that even the best-heeled Mysore shoppers displayed a degree of nervousness when strangers tried to take over the wheels of their cars.

The last major addition to the waterside community was the Anuraag Kalakshetra, a small but luxurious concert hall, courtesy of an infamous tobacco baron and his passion for Carnatic music. It had quickly become a crucial part of the city’s cultural landscape, hosting an array of music and dance programmes while also housing a small café that served excellent apricot tarts.

The group from the Mahalakshmi Gardens Betterment Association arrived at the Tejasandra Galleria in high spirits. In the car, Sunaina had enjoyed telling a story involving the Acting Mayor of Mysore, a second-year medical student and a false-bottomed suitcase. They took the glass lift to the fifth floor, where a reproduction matinee idol seated them at a table by one of La Vetta’s huge lake-facing windows.

Sunaina, ever-conscious of her currency, made her way around the tables looking eminent yet accessible, not unlike a dignitary seeking re-election. Ramesh followed, reflecting that Jaydev was in many senses fortunate to be a widower. As a napkin fluttered into her lap, Susheela experienced the velvety rush of sudden and splendid gratification. Her sense of expectation and participation had narrowed to such an extent that this accidental social reconnection almost drew her breath like a plunge into icy depths. The elegant stems of the wine glasses, the soft chocolate of the suede-panelled walls and the low buzz of sophisticated chatter began to loosen the pins and bolts that had clamped tightly down on her appetites.

‘Have a glass, Sush. Don’t worry, if you get merry and fall in the lake I’ll jump in after you,’ said Sunaina, as the waiter began to pour the wine with ritual attention.

‘We’ll have our own wet sari sequence,’ smirked Ramesh to Jaydev.

‘Don’t be so lewd,’ said Sunaina, thoroughly enjoying the idea that she could be part of some risqué song-and-dance routine.

Susheela picked up the glass of wine and took a small sip, being extremely suspicious of anything that could cloud her judgment. She had only been tipsy twice in her life. The first occasion was at a party in Delhi’s Vasant Vihar in the late eighties. She had collapsed onto a swing on the balcony and spent the rest of the evening trying to remember the hostess’s maiden name. The second time was at a restaurant in London the evening of Priyanka’s graduation: after her third glass of champagne, on her way back from the ladies’ room, Susheela had mistakenly sat down at a table with three Russian businessmen. Inevitably, the family ribbing had been endless.

‘It’s so lovely that we have places like this now in Mysore,’ said Sunaina. ‘I remember when cream cakes at the Southern Star were the height of luxury.’

‘Nothing wrong with those cream cakes,’ protested Jaydev.

‘No, of course not,’ Sunaina swatted at his comment. ‘But you know, the fact that we can be proud of places in our home town, in front of anyone from anywhere in the world, that’s something, no?’

An attractive woman wove past their table and Susheela scrutinised her taut midriff.

‘It’s been so long since I went out this late,’ said Jaydev. ‘In the last few months, I’ve been avoiding driving into town at night. The glare of oncoming headlights, can’t take it any more.’

‘You should have told me before,
na
? If you want to go anywhere, I can take you,’ said Sunaina.

‘I am sure you would, if I asked you,’ said Jaydev, smiling. He paused and added: ‘But after all this time, it’s having to ask that’s the problem.’

‘You men, with your silly pride. I swear, you all create most of
your own problems. You know Pradeep Nair? I went to see him in hospital this morning. He looked so awful. He has to have a kidney transplant and even then, who knows how long he will live. All because he kept refusing to have check-ups. His poor wife; who will remember her name after he’s gone? He was always the life and soul.’

Jaydev glanced at Susheela but she kept her face expressionless.

‘It was just too horrible to see,’ continued Sunaina. ‘Poor man is in a shared ward as well. Can you believe it, there are no private rooms available at Northfield Wellness or at J S Desai. I was speaking to one of the directors of Northfield. Dr K Narendra? He sits on a board with me. Anyway, he was saying the private rooms are full of foreigners these days. They are all flocking here because it’s so much cheaper for them to have surgery than back home. Lovely little holiday, get a new knee, buy some souvenirs, take a few photos and then return in two weeks. In the meantime, we are all pushed into the common wards with God only knows what kind of diseases.’

Susheela turned to look at the quiet shimmer stretching out below the windows. The wine had softened all her synapses and the liquid amber of the lights reflected in the lake seemed to mirror her easy composure. Around her, the tinkling hum of the restaurant sounded like it was rising from the waters below, a carefully composed liturgy being offered up in praise. As she gazed at the lake, the gentle play on its surface led to a series of shifts in its aspect, all of them captivating.

Sunaina excused herself, having spotted the new chairperson of the Vontikoppal Ladies’ League.

‘Have you met Twinkie? She’s a bit stiff, but still quite adorable. Maybe you don’t know, but she once had tea with Princess Diana,’ she said.

‘Why would Princess Diana have tea with
her
?’ asked Susheela.

‘I don’t know, something to do with illiterate housewives, or was it vagrants? Anyway, Twinkie said that she almost melted into Diana’s eyes. The compassion simply
rolled
off her.’

‘For the vagrants or for Twinkie?’ asked Jaydev.

‘Oh hush, Twinkie is fully
crème de la
. I must go over and say hello.’

‘She is always so busy,’ said Ramesh, his voice beginning to quaver at the thought of the neglect he suffered.

There was no response so he too left, claiming he had to make a call.

A strange new silence enveloped the table. Susheela’s face was still turned towards the window, her hands locked under her chin.

‘Lost in your thoughts?’ asked Jaydev.

‘It’s so beautiful out there, it’s almost making me sad.’

Susheela expected him to ask her why, but he looked at the water and simply nodded.

The motorbike swerved into a great arc and roared back towards Uma. It was only when the driver was within touching distance that she realised that it was Shankar. He was wearing a pair of sunglasses that made him look like a seedy gangster and Uma was relieved when he took them off.

‘Uma, I’m glad I saw you. Janaki’s not happy with you. Why haven’t you called her?’

‘I wanted to but … how is she? Almost the due date now.’

‘She’s okay; she’s like a bomb ready to explode. She told me to drag you to her mother’s place if I see you. I’m going there now. Come with me if you want.’

‘I can’t come now. Tell her I promise I’ll come on another day.’

‘She wants you to phone her. Here, take her number again,’ said Shankar, reaching for his phone.

Uma did not look at his outstretched hand.

‘You write it for me,’ she said.

‘Oh, so then you can say that you couldn’t make out my handwriting? Here, take the pen. I’m not going to let you blame it on me,’ laughed Shankar.

‘I can’t write,’ she said flatly.

‘Okay look, I’ll write it on this,’ he said, tearing off the end of a receipt. ‘Ask someone to dial it for you from the coin phone, but make sure you call her. I think she’s worried about you.’

Uma took the fold of paper and tucked it into her blouse.

Shankar eased his sunglasses back on and turned the motorbike back around. A moment later he turned his head and asked: ‘Everything is all right?’

‘Everything is fine,’ said Uma and walked on towards the pennants flying high above Mysore Junction.

In the distance, the ochre light in a turret at Amba Vilas Palace guttered into the darkness.