by Mahesh Rao
‘I don’t have my phone with me. I must have left it in the car. I don’t know how to reach the driver,’ said Susheela.
‘Where is your driver?’
‘I don’t know. If there is no parking, he normally just goes round the block a few times but today, I don’t know, he must be stuck somewhere on the other side. And I don’t have his number here.’
Ashok’s phone rang again and he began nodding as he walked back towards his desk.
A police siren began to sound a couple of streets away: a grudging, plaintive noise. Moments later another siren joined the first, the loops of discordant caution appearing to surround the shop. The sound of the protest rose and fell like the swash of a distant ocean. As Susheela listened, a roar went up, followed quickly by a blast of whistles.
Ashok looked up for a moment and then continued talking quietly into his phone. Susheela looked out into the street again but there was no further indication of events unfolding a few blocks away. She chewed on the inside of her mouth. She was furious with herself for having left her phone in the car, furious at the driver for not noticing and furious at this ridiculous predicament where law-abiding members of society could not go about their business because of a bunch of disaffected thugs looking to cause trouble.
The crash of a shutter coming down next door sounded much louder than it ought to have done.
Ashok finished his call.
‘They have burnt a bus near KR Circle. I think the police have sealed off most of the area.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘Madam, I’m very sorry but I have to close the shop. These goondas will start throwing stones through the windows any minute now. They don’t need an excuse.’
Susheela stared blankly at him.
‘Don’t worry, madam, I have my scooter here. I only live about twenty minutes away. You can come home with me and call someone to pick you up. My wife is at home. Please don’t worry, everything will be fine. I just don’t think we should stay here any longer, you know; anything can happen.’
‘You’re going to so much trouble. But you’re right, we can’t stay here. I think … thank you so much.’
Ashok took all the notes out of the cash register, snapped a rubber band around them and tucked them into his pocket. He locked the door to the stock room and switched the lights and fan off.
‘Okay madam, we can go now.’
They left the shop and Ashok locked the main door and quickly wound down and secured the shutter. More than half of the shops in the street were closed and no vehicles were moving. The trouble sounded more distinct now. A body of shouts, police whistles, a strange drumming and occasional loud bursts that sounded like fireworks. The empty pavement glistened in the noon glare.
‘Madam, one minute, madam. Don’t worry, I’m coming straight back.’
Susheela stared in horror as Ashok darted quickly down a side street and disappeared out of view.
The protest had begun with tractors parked all around KR Circle, blocking all the traffic going towards Devaraja Urs Road. The farmers had formed a human chain around the statue of Maharaja Krishnaraja Wodeyar mounted at the centre of the circle. Two groups had unfurled large banners where the assembled camera crews would be able to frame them with ease. Further down, a couple of trucks blocked the area around Gandhi Square. A number of speakers had stood up under the clock tower, each taking it in turns with the microphone rigged up to a small van on the other side of the square.
The ‘theme park farmers’, as they had come to be known, were not the prominent agriculturalists whose vast acreages had borne fruitful political connections and clout. They were the anxious custodians of small tracts, already divided up many times over successive generations, and destined for further apportionment. Their place in the new economic order was even more unclear than the intentions of the sympathetic-sounding surveyors, consultants and brokers who were now making weekly visits to their homes. In recent months, a network of community leaders and NGO representatives had also been making those same journeys, contradicting the reassuring statements of the previous visitors and firing up more speculation and hearsay.
It was these community leaders who had organised the KR Circle protest. Their message was simple. The government was pulling at the loose thread of their livelihoods, rapidly unwinding them, turning a perfectly serviceable garment into a length of useless yarn that would not clothe their wives and children. Farmers who had already been tricked into selling their land for the new theme park and link roads had been given insulting levels of compensation. The weight of the state’s enforcement machinery was now being used to harass those farmers still refusing to sell their land.
All the concerned parties were becoming increasingly restive in anticipation of the High Court’s decision on the legality of the land acquisition notices and the calculation of compensation. But as far as the protestors were concerned, they had to keep shouting loudly. There was no need to think that the battle was drawing to an end as it was far from clear that the judges would side with the farmers. To make matters worse, there were also strong rumours that some of the land, instead of being used for the theme park, would be resold to developers at an eye-watering premium, who in turn would parcel off the land and dispose of it at exponentially inflated rates.
For its part, the government saw the matter with unimpeachable clarity. It had already provided – voluntarily, it wished to stress – vast quantities of indisputable evidence to demonstrate that the completion of HeritageLand was vital for the development of the region. Not only would it generate large amounts of wealth for all persons residing within the catchment area, it would add to the prestige and standing of the whole state. The government expressed unmitigated outrage at the suggestion that any land would be misappropriated by officials and sold on to developers. If such mean-spirited allegations were being levelled at the government, it demanded proof of the existence of these base intentions. The state had already guaranteed that the land acquisition would not take place for any unconscionable transactions, so it was unable to understand the nature of the farmers’ discontent. The government strongly suspected that the opposition was simply stirring up the emotions of these poor sons of the soil in order to make trouble in advance of the Assembly elections. If that were the case, the opposition had sunk to depths that the current legislators had never imagined possible. The government called upon all right-thinking members of the opposition to desist from this mischief as it was unethical, unconscionable and, most of all, un-Indian.
The assertions had gone back and forth during meetings, in newspapers, on television, at rallies and outside judges’ chambers. It was, however, an unfortunate but incontrovertible truth that even the most eloquently phrased arguments could be displaced by a rock hurled from behind a parked tractor or a lathi rammed into the sinews of a field hand from Nanjangud. It would probably never be known which came first, the rock or the lathi. But what followed was documented with great precision and made it into most Mysore sitting rooms in a couple of hours as hyperactive spates of breaking news.
A row had broken out at one end of the road, where a truck had tipped out a heap of sand, encroaching on the strip of tar next to some half laid pipes.
‘Oh, oh, is this your father’s road? Take your rubbish and dump it somewhere else.’
A man in his mid-twenties had come running up to the side of the truck, gesturing at the sand.
The truck driver stopped drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and looked at the man.
‘Take my father’s name again and see what I do,’ he said.
‘How can you just block the road like this? We are having a function at home and a hundred people are coming down this way. What will they think?’ asked the man, squinting up at the driver, his hand shading his eyes.
‘I don’t know anything about that. I am just doing what the building people told me. Go and speak to them inside,’ said the truck driver.
Shankar was abo
ut to challenge the driver further but then changed his mind. It was too hot, there were still so many things left to organise and he knew that the sand would never make its way back into the truck. He walked back home, his mobile phone pressed against his ear, calling a rickshaw driver to make sure that his wife’s grandparents would be picked up in an hour, and then calling a distant cousin whom he had forgotten to invite. Better to confess now than to have to deal with the consequences of not inviting him at all.
The area in front of his house was covered by a bright red canopy, nailed down on to wooden poles on either side of the road. Rows of trestle tables and folding chairs occupied the centre of the road, providing shelter to a number of opportunistic stray dogs that would be banished later. A number of his mother’s female relatives were standing in the doorway of his house and in its tiny front courtyard. A handful of Mysore silks crowded against some handloom cottons in the paltry shade cast by a tilting coconut tree; the talk was of the persecution effected by the school holidays. Shankar squeezed past the women and looked around for his wife, Janaki. He entered the house, walked down the dark corridor and knocked on the locked bedroom door. Janaki’s sister let him in and shut the door again. He smiled sheepishly at Janaki’s mother and Uma, who were sitting on a mat in the corner.
Janaki was lying on the bed, directly under the fan, its revolutions only sending down coils of feverish air. Her heavy green and gold sari seemed to weigh her down like a shroud and the sweat on her face had left her forehead spattered with pale patches where her powder had smeared.
‘What other tortures have you got planned for me? Huh?’ she asked, without opening her eyes.
‘Are you not well?’ asked Shankar.
Janaki did not respond. Shankar looked at Uma and Janaki’s mother for assistance.
‘Please Janaki, it’s only a few hours, then you know you’ll be going to your mother’s house for six months. Or however long you want. Please, just for today,’ he begged.
Janaki opened her eyes and the expression in them softened.
‘Okay, don’t be tense. I said I would do it, so I will. I just don’t want to go and sit out there among those women until the last minute. You don’t know what it’s like being seven months pregnant and having to dress up like a festival cow, that too in the middle of summer. Now go, even your breath is making this room hotter.’
It was commonly acknowledged in their circle that Janaki had been extremely lucky in marrying Shankar, a handsome young man who was doing very well and, it was surmised, would do even better. He had started out as the apprentice to a small-time carpenter but had quickly learnt his trade and sought work in the expanding industrial area south of Mysore. A loan from a government scheme for small-scale entrepreneurs had meant that he had soon been able to start his own workshop. He had recently opened a second unit, taken on extra staff and was now able to meet large orders for cabinets and fittings from a chain of sports equipment shops in the city.
Janaki had met Shankar when he was still working on the industrial estate and she as a ladies’ underwear salesgirl at Padmaja’s Panty Palace in Vidyaranyapuram. Their first encounter had been at a Dasara exhibition a few years ago. Shankar had bumped into Janaki and her cousins, one of whom he had spoken to a few times at the local scooter repair shop. Janaki, a firm atheist, had been lured to the celebrations by the promise of unbeatable food stalls at the exhibition grounds. It was by the pani puri stand that Shankar had managed to get a proper look at her. Undoubtedly she had a special allure, with her eyes the colour of cloudy resin and her prominent cheekbones. Her looks collared the unworldly young man but it was her gritty self-possession that made her irresistible that afternoon. Over the course of the first couple of hours she had laid bare her unorthodox views on the festival, her evaluation of the snacks on offer and her plans to go to the evening computer classes run by the Tribhuvan Trust. Her preliminary interest in his life was something new too. Shankar was not in the habit of sharing details of his ambitions, but the confidences, imparted quietly amid the shouts of dancers and the crash of cymbals, seemed strangely apt.
Their relationship had proceeded tentatively at first. Shankar was unsure whether Janaki, even with her singularity, would appreciate his unsolicited attentions. He was, after all, a new and unendorsed acquaintance. A few weeks later, following Janaki’s words of encouragement, he soon found himself waiting for her at dawn under the gulmohar trees by Tejasandra Lake or, in the evenings, keeping a gallant distance from the alarming window display at her place of work. For her part, Janaki had plunged into Shankar as she threw herself into the business of living: with complete absorption. In spite of the nature of Shankar’s first gifts to Janaki – a tiger-print mobile phone case, a talking plastic heart and, once, a dozen eggs – within a few weeks they were spending most of their time off together. One Sunday afternoon Shankar took her to a secluded spot in Mysore Zoo, a stone in his throat, apprehension stinging his eyes. There he asked her to be his wife and she agreed, interrupted only by the irate shrieks from the gorilla enclosure.
The tag that now attached itself to Shankar was that of an adoring husband, still intoxicated by the heady balms given off by his beautiful wife. Neighbours and relatives observed with an affectionate wistfulness, or more often with self-righteous disdain, that Janaki was feted and indulged like a queen. Why was he spending so much money on a lavish send-off for his wife? Surely for a young couple like them a modest feast with only close family would have done. Didn’t he know that he should only stretch his legs as far as his pallet allowed? All this dhoom-dhaam show, inviting half the town and making such a spectacle; she must have insisted on it. It was plain to see in the way she marched around. Over the next few months she would be at her mother’s place but no doubt her writ would run large even from there.
Susheela stepped over a pile of magazines dumped at the entrance to the alley. She made her way slowly between the decaying walls on either side, streaked with ancient seepages and faded strips of film posters. Every few seconds she turned around to look back at the entrance to the alley, a rectangle of metallic light at the end of the desolate passage. The soles of her feet felt smooth and slippery, as if her sandals would slide off her feet at any moment. Small gaps between the buildings led to even narrower alleys. They were all empty. There was no sign of Ashok and even the stray dogs seemed to have disappeared from their haunts. She caught the acrid edges of the stench of burning rubber and looked up at the sky. A channel of brilliant blue wove its way above the upper stories of the shabby offices and warehouses on either side of the alley. Her eyes began to play tricks on her as the windows studding each floor began to vault and reel along the walls.
Susheela made her way back to the main road, once again stepping carefully over the stack of magazines. The heat was intense and she could now see smoke pluming over a nearby building. She leant back against a shaded section of the wall outside Great Expectations, her eyes shut, the windows now little blazing squares, swirling uncontrollably behind her eyelids. She was ready to believe the worst: that Ashok had abandoned her on this empty street, pulsing with unrealised violence and fully consummated fear. In Mahalakshmi Gardens a silent dread dragged its train over polished floors and stairs, through lush verandas, along driveways, past borders of coleus and lantana, under the pergola by the southern gate to the Gardens and into the latticed pavilion that gave on to the lotus pond. Now that dread had stalked Susheela into the centre of Mysore, trampling its veil on the hot asphalt.
‘Excuse me.’
Susheela’s heart lurched and she opened her eyes.
A man in his late sixties, or perhaps early seventies, stood before her, a look of concerned enquiry softening his brown eyes.
Susheela stared at the man, unable to comprehend this chain of events.
‘I’m sorry, but are you okay? You know about the trouble in the city?’
Susheela nodded but her throat was too dry to speak.
‘Please, it’s not safe t
o stay here.’
A moment later he added: ‘I’m sure we have met. If I’m not wrong, you’re a friend of Sunaina Kamath’s.’
Susheela nodded, although she was quite sure that she had never seen him before.
The man obviously decided that he needed to be a little more firm.
‘Are you waiting for someone? Because, believe me, you should not be here by yourself like this.’
Susheela was explaining her predicament to the man when Ashok returned, jumping neatly up the few steps to where they were standing.
‘So sorry, madam. I’m ready now. Shall we go?’
Susheela did not respond. Ashok continued to look at her sheepishly.
The man turned to him, his voice curt: ‘Thank you for the offer but I will see the lady home.’
Turning to Susheela, he said: ‘My car is in the basement of Prithvi House. If you don’t mind walking with me just till there, I can drop you home. I am sure the roads on our side will be clear.’
Susheela nodded again, still tightly clasping the bag of kaju pista rolls from Plaza Sweet Mart.
The trestle tables had been covered with floral paper, the steel plates and tumblers wiped dry and the first batch of guests were patiently waiting for the servers to bring the food around. Uma had left Janaki reapplying her make-up and stood at some distance from the guests under the canopy. Particularly distinguished relatives, the elderly and the children would eat first, and once they had vacated their places, the young married couples, Shankar’s business contacts and bachelor friends would take their seats. After their plates had been cleared, more distant family members and latecomers would be served before the final round of stragglers and community flotsam.
Janaki would have been appalled to see Uma alone, waiting out her turn in front of a pile of broken concrete slabs, a diffident and courteous half-smile fixed on her face. But Uma was not one to cultivate controversy by breaking established norms. She knew that she was already marked in the neighbourhood as someone requiring scrutiny, a woman living on her own with no apparent family ties. She had arrived at the row of tiny rooms with a history firmly laced up and stowed in some obscure compartment. Her guarded responses offered no clues and when the rumours began to uncoil around her, their frequency and intricacy were not surprising.