The Smoke is Rising (4 page)

She gathered up the folds of her sari, tucked them between her thighs and squatted to turn the tap on. The
mali
walked around to one side of the tap and looked down at the top of her head.

‘Definitely in a bad mood,’ he said.

‘
Amma
said there were plates under the pots on the upstairs balcony that need to be cleaned,’ Uma said. The water sprayed halfway up her thin arms and wet the edges of her sari.

‘Can you get me another cup of coffee? Even in this heat, my stomach is feeling cold inside.’

Uma did not respond. She quickly rinsed the last of the steel tumblers, laid it out on a mat in the sunshine and hurried back inside the house, without giving him another look.

The sun was lower in the sky but the dry heat still bore away with the same intensity. Seated on the low wall, Mala looked for the hyperactive boys but they were nowhere in sight. Girish sat next to her, his arm slung across her shoulders like a sandbag. He occasionally clicked his fingers as if in time to some mysterious strain unfolding in his head. A few minutes later he stood up and stretched.

‘Time to go, Mala. We’ve got that journey back,’ he said, heading towards the parking area.

The square of shade in which the car had been parked had pivoted around to the right, leaving it fully exposed to the day’s
fury. Its interior felt like a hot, fetid mouth and the seat began to brand Mala’s back and thighs. Girish reversed out of the parking area and slowly began the descent down to the rutted road.

The car was fairly new. Its purchase had been preceded by lengthy consultations with colleagues and relatives. Girish had pored over motoring magazines, scoured road user websites and posted detailed queries on car information forums. The Maruti dealer had come to their home three times and had fielded countless telephone calls. Finally, the loan was arranged, the EMIs fixed and the vehicle delivered on an auspicious day, before Rahu reared up to cause any chaos. Girish had driven the car carefully to the Venkateshwara temple in Sitanagar, a marigold and jasmine garland looped over the bonnet. As the priest reeled off the blessing, Girish stared at the new number plate. His intermittently professed rationalism had been given the day off. Girish was not a man who liked to take chances.

The thrill of ownership had faded rapidly. Three months after the purchase, the blue hatchback looked drab and niggardly, parked by a pile of macadam left in the lane beyond their front gate. With the surging price of fuel, the car had already become of incidental use: shopping excursions, day trips, weddings. Girish continued to wash and polish the car conscientiously, having read about the dangers of oxidation.

As Girish eased the car into second gear, he glanced at Mala next to him. She had lowered the sun visor and her head was turned towards the window on her side. The condition of the road seemed, at least to Girish, to have worsened inexplicably over the course of the day. The car shuddered and bounced as Girish weaved around pits and potholes. Here and there a darker smear of tar indicated a hurried patching up, maybe in anticipation of a VIP visit or a festival procession.

The car passed through a village, extinguished for the afternoon,
and turned on to the wider trunk road at the next junction. Mala continued to stare at the deserted land. The monotony of the dry paddy fields on either side was oppressive. Diamonds of stubble and loam rolled past, at times broken up by a meagre windbreak. Girish slowed down as they approached a bridge. As the car moved across it, Mala looked through the white railings to see that the river below had shrunk drastically. The anarchy of rocks and exhausted channels on the river bed resembled a strange moonscape. She noticed that someone had abandoned a bundle of clothes on the wall of a culvert. It was the only sign of softness in that unforgiving scene.

‘Shall I open the windows? At least the breeze might help,’ said Mala.

‘No, too much dust. Just turn that vent more towards you.’

They were bearing down on a van that was cruising along in the middle of the road. Girish hooted impatiently and flashed his lights. The van seemed to begin moving into the left lane and then shifted again so it was squarely in the centre of the road.

‘Look at this idiot. Who gives licences to these bloody fools?’ Girish let out a series of sharp honks and flashed his lights again.

An arm emerged from the van, undulating in the air.

‘What is this idiot doing? What the hell is that supposed to mean?’ More hooting followed.

The arm continued to motion and then, a few seconds later, withdrew.

Girish moved to the extreme right of the road, his hand pressed down on the horn. There was no oncoming traffic but he still could not overtake.

‘Is this fool crazy or deaf? If he wanted me to pass, why doesn’t he move?’ Girish nosed as close to the van as he could without causing a collision. His hooting was now just an endless, insistent blast.

The van began to gain speed, still in the middle of the road, and pulled away from the blue hatchback.

‘Finally,’ muttered Girish, adjusting his seat belt.

In an instant the van swerved sideways into the middle of the road and stopped, blocking the road. Girish slammed his foot on the brake and the car jolted to a halt, tearing violently at the uneven surface of the road.

Girish had taken his hand off the horn and a foreign silence descended. Mala turned to look at him. He was staring straight ahead, expressionless. The van’s door opened on the driver’s side. There was no further movement.

Girish’s hands remained on the steering wheel, the veins fanning out like the talons of a bird of prey.

A man jumped out of the van. He was slight and athletic looking, dressed in jeans and a tight vest, his hair cropped short. He approached the car at a leisurely pace, swinging a length of cloth.

Mala whispered: ‘Oh God, Girish, please don’t say anything.’

The man knocked at Girish’s window and then pressed his palm against the glass, his flesh pale and turgid. He knocked again, this time harder.

Girish opened the window. The man leant down: ‘
Lo bhosdike,
what’s the problem?’

Girish stared blankly at him. Mala pushed her handbag with her feet into the far corner.

‘I said, what’s the problem?’

‘There’s no problem.’

‘Really? You make a lot of noise for someone with no problems.’

‘There’s no problem.’

The man took a long look at Mala and then shrugged: ‘If you say so, boss. Too much tension. You need to relax.’

Girish was silent.

‘Okay boss, if you say no problem, then there really is no problem.’

The man took another look at Mala and then sauntered back to the van, still swinging the length of cloth. In a moment the van’s engine fired up and it sped off.

The man’s hand had left a greasy imprint on the window. Girish waited until the van was out of sight. He opened the door and spat into the road. Closing the door, he adjusted the mirror, restarted the ignition and began to move slowly forward.

Neither of them spoke for a few minutes until Girish looked sharply at Mala.

‘What do you think I would have said?’

‘What?’

‘You told me not to say anything. What do you think I was going to say?’

‘I don’t know. Nothing. I just didn’t want him to get angrier.’

‘Because I don’t know that much? That I should not make a crazy rowdy like him angry.’

‘I didn’t mean anything. I was just scared.’

They were approaching the bend in the road at Bannur. Billboards scudded past: models entwined in cords of gold, rows of premium quality rubber
chappals
and earnest invitations to MBA courses in Australia. A truck carrying wobbling stacks of timber lurched in front of them. On top of the planks sat a sallow-faced man, his dead eyes focused on some distant point.

The rest of the journey passed in silence.

Venky Gowda had only ever sustained one vision in his life: HeritageLand. He dreamed of a world where cutting-edge technology could harness the drama of the ancient epics and transport his compatriots to an alternate reality. When he slept, he twitched and kicked, mouthing his plans for a recreated Dandaka forest where the curious could follow in Lord Rama’s footsteps, battle the Lankan army in an elaborate flume, cut off Shurpanakha’s ears and nose with laser arrows, soar to the treetops in a mechanical Garuda. His cupboards were crammed with notes for a Kurukshetra War simulation involving luxury chariots and a buffet service. Napkins within his reach were covered with doodles of the Kailash Wonder Mountain and the Yamaraja Monorail.

Venky’s first attempts at obtaining finance for the project had been met with bloodcurdling laughter. Had he considered the problem of locating a site, the cost of construction and equipment, the logistical difficulties, the power shortages, the possibility that HeritageLand would only attract roadside Romeos feverish at the thought of witnessing the dishabille of a shapely Draupadi?

These were all legitimate points, but Venky Gowda only had one vision. And he was not the type of man to turn his back on it. After years of conspiring and toadying, endless feasibility studies and costs analyses, an MBA from Ohio State University, a rhinoplasty procedure and, finally, marriage into the family of a powerful political grandee, his phantom fantasy world faced the prospect of becoming real. Perhaps the gods had finally decided to bless Venky, themselves waking up to the fact that their universe would be incomplete without a representation of their fight against evil in
the twists and turns of a water slide. And that representation would rise in Mysore, erstwhile land of maharajas, India’s second cleanest city and home of many talented snooker players.

Venture capitalists from Hong Kong were ready with finance, architects and engineers worked day and night on the park layout and, crucially, opinions had been canvassed among prominent Mysore residents. The editor of the
Mysore Evening Sentinel
gave the project a cautious welcome: it would be a good opportunity to showcase the country’s traditions and culture but historical and doctrinal accuracy would be essential. Ahmed Pasha, President of the Mysore Enterprise Forum, could see only benefits accruing from HeritageLand. He speculated at length on the growth in the city’s economy based on projected revenues from the theme park and also took the opportunity to publicise the fine merchandise in his own furniture showrooms. Priyadarshini Ramesh, proprietor of the Mysstiiqque chain of beauty salons, declared that she was not opposed to the plans on principle but her main concerns related to the park’s aesthetic impact on the city.

‘Class, not mass,’ she said, stamping her beautifully pedicured foot. ‘We don’t want the whole thing turning into a cheap circus full of low types.’

Professor M M Malikarjuna of the university’s linguistics department ignored the question entirely and instead renewed his appeal for better policing on the Manasagangotri campus in light of the number of youngsters openly canoodling there in broad daylight.

An overall impact assessment of HeritageLand resulted in the following conclusions: the theme park would bring enormous economic and cultural advantages to the city of Mysore, transforming it into a premier global tourist destination; any adverse environmental impact would be mitigated by the planting of trees on the park site and by the use of low-energy light bulbs; no
obstacles could be envisaged in the grant of licences required for the park as all necessary inducements would be incorporated into its unofficial budget; the residents of Mysore, or in any case those who held any serious influence, would provide full support for the project as long as it was realised in the best possible taste.

A celebration party was held at the Mysore Regency Hotel where all the guests agreed that the head chef had outdone himself with his Hyderabadi chicken lollipops. The Secretary of the Mysore Regeneration Council made the mistake of bringing up the issue of the land yet to be acquired for the project site and was beaten down by several colleagues. There seemed little value in wringing their hands over a virtual fait accompli.

Susheela stood by the window peering at the hunched figure by the gate in the white vest and khaki shorts, a small basket in his right hand. She seldom allowed doubt to factor into her deductions, but this time she pursed her lips as she tried to make up her mind. Certainly he looked crude enough to signify someone with an uncouth mentality. She was sure it was him that she had seen on previous occasions.

The milky sky had begun to radiate a toast-like warmth and the smell of the Bhaskars’ breakfast drifted over the compound wall. Pulling her
pallu
over her shoulders, Susheela began to walk briskly towards the man, who was now standing gazing up at a frangipani tree in full blossom.

‘Excuse me, do you think this is acceptable?’

The man spun round, his reverie cut short by Susheela’s tone.

‘Every day I see you, helping yourself to flowers from my garden, as if this is some sort of free place for the public.’

‘Madam, these are for prayers. Not for selling in the market. What harm is there?’

‘The harm is that you are taking what is not yours. Every day you come here and just help yourself. Have you ever thought about whether I also need these flowers for my prayers?’

‘Madam, you should not deprive God of these small offerings, wherever they come from.’

‘God will be a lot happier with you if you keep your hands off my garden in the future.’

Susheela turned around, picked up a couple of dead leaves off the path and walked back into the house. The door shut with a sharp click.

Their lunches were packed. The
pongal
for their breakfast was ready. The coffee was dripping through the filter. Mala had paid the electricity bill the day before. She had washed the front steps first thing in the morning and drawn her standard
rangoli
: four diamonds intersecting in the middle of a large spiral. It was just after eight in the morning. Mala looked for a safety pin in the coin purse on the kitchen shelf and then glanced at her watch. Gayathri the maid was now ten minutes late. Girish liked her to be gone before he had his breakfast at a quarter to nine.

A couple of minutes later the gate bolt screeched across the stone floor and a shadow passed along one of the tiny front windows. Girish had said that they could afford a maid for an hour a day. Mala would have to get her to run a broom across the floor, mop all the rooms, wash the clothes hurriedly and clean the previous evening’s plates and utensils. The rest was for Mala to manage.

Gayathri gave Mala a practised smile as she walked to the bathroom. Nothing was said of the lateness. In fact, these days Mala said very little to Gayathri at all. When she had first started working there, Gayathri had tried to indulge in some banter. But Mala’s self-censorship had already begun to be a habit for her, one she was not
going to break for the maid. Even though Mala knew that it was her place to assert herself, she felt uncomfortable in Gayathri’s all too corporeal presence. She could not stop herself looking at the audacious swell of the maid’s haunches when she crouched low to flick the wet rag under the dining table; her creamy brown belly that pushed through the thin fabric of her sari; her extravagant breasts scarcely contained by her sweat-stained blouse. How could she be so fat when she did physical work all day?

Mala had little knowledge of Gayathri’s home life, having only got so far as to ascertain that she had no children. Gayathri’s response to a query from Girish about her husband was: ‘
Aiya
, he comes and he goes.’

With that she had let out her long, throaty laugh, a perplexing noise that sounded like a series of quick hiccups, each being ambushed by the next.

There was no evidence of scabrous entertainments in Gayathri’s life but there existed an air of gratification and an earthy zeal about her that Mala had not encountered before. She had once asked Girish if he thought Gayathri drank. He had immediately responded with an interrogation as to whether Mala had smelt alcohol on her breath, had she been acting strangely, was there something wrong with her work, had someone said anything? Well, why was she asking then?

Mala regretted ever having brought it up.

The letter was addressed to the Head of Customer Services at the regional electricity distribution company and ran to three pages of block text. The author, the Chief Executive Officer and majority shareholder of a small company based in the industrial corridor to the south of Mysore, was by turns deeply concerned, immensely frustrated and utterly scandalised. The power situation in Karnataka
had reached such a nadir that, by hook or by crook, urgent measures were required, come what may, without which, rest assured, there would be extremely adverse consequences for the future of Mysore as an attractive investment area. Furthermore, this was nothing less than a clarion call for the state’s reputation as a centre for the enhancement of development opportunities.

The letter’s author recognised that the damage to the country’s reputation as a rising superpower did not require elaboration but, nevertheless, felt compelled to enumerate all the associated dangers. The author also pointed out that there was neither rhyme nor reason, prudence nor perception, aim nor ambition in the state’s power-supply policies. He graciously acknowledged the lack of long-term investment in the sector and the grave challenges posed by transmission leakages and power theft; even so, his only option was to highlight to the authorities the fact that there was simply no justification for the current dismal state of affairs.

Attached to the letter was a schedule detailing the dates and times of load-shedding, power holidays and voltage drops in the last six months, along with calculations of output decline, loss of revenue, and expenditure on alternate power supplies. The author sought a full and frank explanation for the unscheduled power losses and a complete and comprehensive plan for the avoidance of such eventualities in the future. If an adequate response was not forthcoming, each and every legitimate avenue would be explored by the author of the letter, including, but not limited to, judicial intervention. The author’s final point was that the idea of a project such as HeritageLand being contemplated in Mysore would be comical were it not so insulting. The letter was copied to the Karnataka Electricity Regulatory Commission, the Mysore Enterprise Forum, the Mayor’s office and the Federation of Indian Chambers of Commerce and Industry.

Girish slowly replaced the letter in a manila folder marked
‘Urgent’ with a faded red marker pen. The word was followed by a hurried slash, an exclamation mark that added a comedic exigency to the whole business: bungling officials skidding on banana skins and walking into doors as they scurried around, attempting to resolve the power crisis. He wished he could see the funny side, but there was not much laughter to be had on the second floor of Jyothi House at a quarter to three in the afternoon. A pile of quality assurance statements and various drafts of the customer grievance handling procedure sat on the corner of his desk. He flicked the folder on top of this pile, its edges crinkled with heat and sweat, the constituent layers accordioning out in a last mad dash.