by Mahesh Rao
Girish was always an enthusiastic participant in such an environment. He thrived on the theatre of transaction and grasped eagerly at his roles. These were the occasions where Mala relaxed and fed off his enthusiasm as he became the disappointed fiancé or the outraged bystander. She ran her finger over a zardozi leaf on a sari, the embroidery scratching against her skin. Girish’s face was flushed in the crowded room, a film of moisture spreading above his lips and across the back of his neck. His eyes flashed at Mala, an intimate connection made in the shop’s thick air, over the heads of two sisters who were examining a length of printed crepe. He was leaning on the counter, his fingers resting on the rounded steel edge, a tiny pulse thrilling in the soft dip under his thumb. Mala noticed that his belt clasp was hanging loose between the sharp creases at the top of his trousers. She smiled at him as he narrowed his eyes at the salesman whose hands were acting out a livelihood being wrung dry.
‘We can always try Srinivas and Sons,’ she said, on cue.
A refreshed scene of offer and counter-offer, declaration and protestation, finally culminated in them leaving the shop with a plastic bag containing two saris wrapped in brown paper.
They wandered past one of the many electronics shops on the same street. A stack of DVD players in their boxes stood on the pavement outside the shop. A buck-toothed boy in a baseball cap urged them to go inside to take just one look at the rest of the stock. Girish ignored him and walked on towards Sheethal Talkies.
‘Where to now? Do you want to look at some jewellery?’ he asked Mala, twisting around in the throng on the street.
‘No, I think that’s enough for today. What do you want to do?’
‘Are you hungry? Let’s go to the food court.’
Mala was not hungry. The smell of fried garlic from nearby food carts and the brawny wafts of kerosene from their stoves were making her feel nauseous. A muted ache was taking form somewhere behind her temples.
They made their way across the busy intersection to Sri Harsha Road, walked past Woodlands Theatre and Maurya Residency, turning towards the new shopping centre that had leapt into the centre of old Mysore. The giant hoardings outside the mall advertised a new range of teak furniture, heavily discounted as a result of a condition termed ‘Monsoon Mania’. In front of the metal detectors, girls with fresh jasmine in their hair were aggressively thrusting flyers for cut-price home cinema systems into the hands of shoppers.
Inside the mall, Girish and Mala trawled up a series of escalators, negotiating pyramids of non-stick cookware, bins of cheap towels and bed sheets, racks of crumpled shirts and a display of framed landscape prints. A remix of a Hindi film song bore into Mala’s head as they reached the fourth floor. The food court was partially screened off from the shop floor by a set of cardboard palm trees. Under paper cut-outs of pizzas and burgers, which hung in dense clumps from the ceiling, a couple of dour security guards circulated around the tables, trying to spot anyone who had smuggled in eatables from outside.
The food court had a complicated payment system involving the purchase of colour-coded coupons from different counters, depending on the type of cuisine. On their first visit, it had taken them half an hour to understand the intricacies of the system and another fifteen minutes to realise that they had paid for the wrong number of dishes.
Mala slid quickly towards the one free table, her lip curling in disgust when she spotted a greasy noodle on the tabletop. She looked around for the boy as Girish went to inspect the demented array of menu displays and special offers. On the next table three men were hunched over a mobile phone, shoulders shaking with mirth. They must have been brothers; as they leant back, Mala could see that they all had the same upturned noses. On her other side an elderly woman was staring at her with vapid eyes. Mala looked away, arching her back in an attempt to get comfortable on the tiny chair.
Girish returned, reciting: ‘Fried-rice-hakka-noodles-aloo-paratha-onion-paratha-veg-pizza-veg-club-sandwich-chilly-paneer-dahi-puri-sev-puri-masala-dosa-paper-dosa.’
‘Plain dosa,’ said Mala.
Girish spun smartly around and initiated the complex procedures necessary to order some food. At the next table, the woman continued to stare vacantly in Mala’s direction. The boy arrived and gave the table a half-hearted swab. After he had gone, Mala took a paper towel out of her handbag and wiped the surface dry. The skin on her wrists looked raw and had begun to peel. She put her hands in her lap and tried to exhale her headache.
The agenda for this quarter’s MGBA meeting was not particularly heavy. There were the perennial updates on waste collection and street lighting. A number of members were keen to discuss the two incidents of chain snatching that had been reported recently. Mrs Urs of West Garden Road leant forward and told the group that the crime wave was taking a psychological toll: she had begun to have a recurring nightmare in which a tattooed man locked her in the servants’ toilet and made off with her collection of antique snuff boxes. Sunaina nodded as these concerns were aired and then read out a statement from the sub-inspector at the Mahalakshmi Gardens police station, its reassuring message lost in her melodramatic delivery.
Jacob D’Souza, the Secretary of the MGBA, wished to draw attention to the proposed tree-felling on Fergusson Road. He was keen to stress that he did not subscribe to the view that the road-widening project was essential to the city’s development; on the contrary, he advocated the preservation of the jacaranda trees that gave Fergusson Road its unique character. Mr D’Souza’s moving description of his childhood spent in the trees’ lilac shadows introduced a nostalgia to the meeting that was not universally appreciated. A caustic voice at the back of the room suggested that discussion of the issue was premature. The tree-felling proposal was in its infancy and it was unlikely that any firm decision would be taken for some time. Luckily for Mr D’Souza, municipal inertia was as great a boon as it was a curse.
The meeting then moved on to the issue of the enormous hoarding at Shastri Circle. Many of those present were agreed that the visual pollution being visited upon them had now reached unacceptable levels. After all, what was the point of paying these exorbitant amounts for a corner site facing the Gardens if the view was going to be sabotaged by a fifteen-foot advertisement for a water purifier?
The issue had, however, only now made it formally on to the agenda of an MGBA meeting. The hoarding which had caused the present anxiety advertised a luxury jewellery brand: the giant face of a supermodel, an emerald ring in the form of a peacock clasped between her lips, snaring drivers and pedestrians at the traffic lights below. The hoarding had existed at Shastri Circle for a number of years without objection, its staid parade of mobile phone handsets, high-interest savings packages and family cars apparently tolerated by local residents. But there was something about the current image that had awakened a sense of disquiet. The members present at the meeting could hardly condemn the image for its subject, luxury branded jewellery having made its way into many of the home-security lockers in Mahalakshmi Gardens; nor was there any transgression as a result of inappropriate skin-show. Instead the composition of the image and a highly charged quality in the model’s eyes gave an impression of unreserved improperness. Unsightly intrusions on the urban landscape when coupled with unfettered female carnality had proved a step too far in Mahalakshmi Gardens.
The Executive Committee was urged to make representations to city officials without delay and, if possible, a direct appeal to the Mayor’s office. It was implicit in the assembly’s objections that the correspondence would stress the negative impact of indiscriminate signage on the locality, without setting out the particular impressions generated by the supermodel with a ring in her mouth.
There were a few items of little consequence raised as ‘Any Other Business’, some concluding remarks from Sunaina and then the customary vote of thanks. As the members of the Executive Committee stood up, Sunaina glared victoriously at Mr Nandakishore who was seated in the second row. Her bob seemed even more anxious tod
ay, a frizzy tangle on the crown of her head seeking to secede from the rest of her hair. She stepped down from the dais and looked around for her husband Ramesh.
‘The rascal, I knew he would miss the meeting,’ she said, as she waved distractedly to various people.
Little groups had begun to form by the table of refreshments and the function room door. The manager of the Erskine Club had made an appearance, the club crest resplendent on his dark blazer, as if to remind the MGBA members that, regardless of the importance afforded to their association, they remained on club premises. Mr Nandakishore had decided to avoid the office-holders of the Executive Committee and began to engage some new members in conversation. After all, Article 2B of the association’s constitution included among its purposes the aim of ‘promoting unfettered camaraderie and congenial fellowship among the Members and all residents of Mahalakshmi Gardens.’
‘That was very interesting,’ said Jaydev. ‘True people power in action.’
‘It’s easy for people like you to laugh at us. But if we just sat at home, this place would turn into a slum like so many other parts of Mysore,’ said Susheela tartly.
‘I was being serious,’ protested Jaydev. ‘I have never been to a meeting like this. Where I live most people are always abroad at their children’s homes anyway.’
‘We have to take care of ourselves,’ said Susheela, her tone softening.
She looked around the room and then stood up.
‘I will take my leave, Mr Jaydev. Enjoy your dinner,’ she said.
‘Why don’t you join us?’
‘Oh no, I didn’t mean to ask for an invitation.’
‘Of course not, but it would be very nice if you could join us. It’s only Sunaina and Ramesh, whom you know.’
‘That’s very kind of you, but I should really get home.’
‘To read the Mokshvihar pamphlet?’
‘Yes, maybe. You have no idea what my spiritual needs are.’
‘I think your soul will be better nourished with a plate of delicious pasta than a lecture given by some mad guru.’
‘No please, I really don’t want to barge in on your evening like this.’
‘Fine, if you won’t listen to me, maybe you’ll listen to Sunaina. Here she is.’
Sunaina had found Ramesh playing billiards in another room and was now approaching Jaydev and Susheela, still fuelled by her post-meeting adrenalin.
‘Sush, I didn’t even see you and here you are in the front row,’ she said.
‘I have just been telling Susheelaji that she absolutely must come with us to La Whatever-it’s-called tonight,’ said Jaydev.
‘And I have been telling Mr Jaydev that I simply cannot charge in uninvited.’
‘You’re invited now, na? What do you need, Sush, an embossed card with tassels?’ asked Sunaina. ‘You’ll love this place. Last time I had the tiramisu, I swear, they had to carry me out of there.’
And with that, Susheela found herself being shepherded towards the Kamaths’ car.
‘Ramesh, if you try and have another peg here, I swear I’ll bury you in that flower bed,’ said Sunaina.
Susheela caught Jaydev’s eye and smiled. As they left the club, the manager bid them a curt good night. There was a chance he had heard the allusion to destruction of club property and, if so, had no doubt taken a dim view.
On the way out of the mall, Girish wanted to stop off in the electronics department for a few minutes. They walked through a crowd watching a demonstration for a new model of hotplate and reached the computer section. Girish immediately engaged one of the sales assistants in a conversation about laptops. Mala looked around for a seat but there was nothing in sight.
Across the aisle, a scene from a film played on a giant television screen. A disgruntled young man strode through the foyer of a hospital holding a machine gun as nurses and porters leapt away in terror. The man walked into the lift, shoving aside a squat, bejewelled man holding a briefcase, and stared bleakly at the floor indicator as he was taken to the fifth floor. The film’s background music pounded out of the television’s powerful speakers, each strike of the bass making Mala’s chest contract. She leant against a rack of DVDs and prayed that Girish would finish soon.
The hero of the film was now making his way down a corridor, swatting away security guards with just one arm, his pace not slowing. A brave doctor tried to lasso the hero with his stethoscope but was sent crashing into a gurney for his troubles. The hero then walked into a ward and violently pulled at a curtain behind which a hook-nosed man lay shivering in bed.
‘Bewarsi, halka nanna magane, ill bidhgondidhya ninnu?’
There followed a summary of the torment suffered by the hero’s family members at the hands of the man with the hook nose, delivered by the hero in an emotional address to those members of the hospital staff still present. The scene ended, in predictably gory fashion, with the patient being gunned down while trying to escape down the staff staircase.
Three college girls stood near the television screen, acutely conscious of a couple of young men pretending to look at a catalogue a few steps away. One of the girls shifted her weight from one leg to the other while flicking ambiguous glances at the men. Her tall friend was bolder and smiled in their direction. After some discussion the catalogue was discarded and the men approached the girls. There was a bold offer of a mint and a silvery laugh of acceptance. The group headed off, one of the men pausing to primp his hair as he caught sight of his reflection in a toaster.
Girish was still talking to the sales assistant and their heads bobbed in unison as they leant over a computer. At one point, with his hands outstretched, he mimed one car taking over another and they both laughed. The bright overhead lights gave the air a faint blue tinge and an almost metallic sheen to Girish’s hair. His posture was that of a serious buyer, knowledgeable but open to suggestion, a man in control.
Mala’s headache was now a seething, churning beast mauling her nerves and tissue. She decided to perch on the end of a wooden block that supported a mobile phone display. Instantly a member of staff appeared, eager to use this opportunity to put some training into practice.
‘Madam, sitting here is not allowed,’ she said primly.
‘I’m sorry. I got very giddy. I’m not feeling well.’
The woman’s expression changed: ‘Are you on your own, madam? Should I call someone?’
Mala stood up.
‘No, thank you. My husband is here. We are just leaving.’
Mala looked around for Girish but he was nowhere to be seen. At the food court she had hardly touched her dosa but Girish had insisted that she try some of his fried rice. The smell of the starchy steam and the dollop of ketchup’s artificial sweetness now began to repeat on her. She had a word with the sales assistant who had been talking to Girish but he shrugged and continued with some paperwork. A burst of applause from a group behind her made her turn around. The hotplate demonstration had come to an end and the audience was dispersing, the company representative thrilled with the success of his last joke.
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 on
ly 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.