The Smoke is Rising

by Mahesh Rao

  ‘No sir, what?’

  ‘He asked me who I am. He calls me and he asks me who I am. Can you believe?’

  ‘That man has no shame, sir.’

  ‘Who is he to phone me and demand to know who I am?’

  ‘His character is not at all good, sir. His background also.’

  ‘I recognised his voice at once.’

  ‘Did you tell him who you were, sir?’

  ‘No, why should I? He is the one who called me. He should tell me who he is first.’

  ‘Hundred per cent correct, sir.’

  ‘If he calls me again and asks me who I am, I will really let him have it. Kappalakke yeradu.’

  ‘No shame, sir. You can never teach such third-class people.’

  ‘Can you believe how much they have started charging here for extra rice?’

  ‘It’s fully looting, sir.’

  ‘Che.’

  ‘Sir, this HeritageLand? You think it will ever be built?’

  ‘Why not? Once those farmers shut their mouths, I have full faith in that project.’

  ‘It says in the paper today that the Mughal Waterworld will be one of the greatest examples of engineering ever seen.’

  ‘Very possible. We are the mother of invention, you know. Algebra, buttons, snakes and ladders, all invented here. Also, one rupee shampoo sachets and idli manchurian.’

  ‘Very true, sir.’

  ‘And let me tell you another thing, it will be a great opportunity for this city. I mean, who had heard of Florida before Disney World?’

  ‘Nobody, sir.’

  ‘What was there before?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  ‘Just swamps and a few crocodiles. Now look at it.’

  The junior bank official left the table to wash his hands and returned, wiping them with a neatly pressed handkerchief.

  ‘Sir, they say that inflation has gone into negative figures – deflation.’

  ‘My foot. They use some godforsaken measure that includes nothing useful that people buy. No food, no medical, no rent. I think it only counts made-in-China mobile phones, which are the only things coming down in price.’

  ‘Alwa, sir, seriously. You tell the aam aadmi that the government thinks prices are only falling, what will he say?’

  ‘Nothing. He will nod like a sheep and say, “No problem, sir; whatever you say, sir.” People in this country will just accept anything. The things that go on here, you think they could happen in any other country?’

  ‘No, sir. It is our cursed fate.’

  ‘For example, you have some gangster with twenty criminal cases pending in various courts. He decides to stand for election and knows he will win because he will bribe all the fools in his constituency to vote for him. Saris, TVs, cash, liquor, whatever rubbish you give them, they will happily accept and shut their mouths for a few days.’

  ‘This has really happened in Tamil Nadu, sir.’

  ‘It is happening everywhere. Then after he is elected, he can make sure none of his cases ever come to court. And if by chance some even bigger political gangster manages to send him to the lock-up, he will send his son or daughter-in-law or grandson’s donkey to take his place at the next election and the whole thing will go on like that.’

  ‘Every criminal politician says he has been framed by his political opponents.’

  ‘Of course. Are we all fools to believe that every single MP is spending his time doctoring video tapes and finding impersonators so that he can fake all the evidence? Even our movie writers can’t be as skilled at creating these stories as our netas.’

  ‘Nodi, sir, India Shining.’

  ‘India Whining.’

  ‘India Pining.’

  ‘Okay, enough. Get the bill.’

  The phone had hardly stopped ringing that afternoon. If it was not an irritating press officer trying to elicit a comment, it was an underling from the Superintending Engineer’s office seeking a definitive version of the morning’s events. Girish, in turn, had asked two members of his team to try to put together an accurate report but they appeared to be floundering in their usual inefficiency.

  The only objectively verifiable piece of information was that at about eleven o’clock that morning, a group of unidentified persons had descended on the electricity supply company office at Neelam Layout, an unfortunate South Mysore locality that had only been supplied with sixteen hours of power in the last four days. It was from this very point that accounts began to differ. A manager at the Neelam Layout office stated that an angry mob had torn into the building, smashed windows, ransacked a filing cabinet, damaged computer equipment and stolen the caretaker’s bicycle. A bystander, on the other hand, told a news channel that the protestors had simply stood outside the building, chanting and holding placards, until the security guards had begun to taunt and insult their mothers, prompting a lengthy scuffle. One of Girish’s colleagues reported that he had received a call from someone who was sure that there had been an attempt to burn down the building.

  Girish slammed the phone down, having just informed an officer at the Karnataka Electricity Regulatory Commission that he would revert to her as soon as he was able to ascertain the precise nature and magnitude of the morning’s incidents.

  ‘This kind of thing would only happen somewhere like Neelam Layout,’ he spat.

  ‘I heard that they were accusing us of purposely not providing them with electricity because it is a Muslim area,’ said his colleague Ganesh.

  ‘Such fools. As if we can just disconnect Muslim areas even if we wanted to.’

  ‘When people are angry, they will believe anything.’

  ‘Anyway, they get more than their fair share of electricity. Who asked them all to have four wives and twenty children? Always first to start complaining about anything.’

  Ganesh doubted that the consumption of electricity per household in Neelam Layout was higher than in any other fatigued and forsaken part of Mysore but was reluctant to feed Girish’s ill temper. It would only result in an afternoon of snide remarks and some petty retribution later in the week.

  The story was destined to make it to the front page of the Mysore Evening Sentinel. Some of its readers were relieved to note that the accompanying editorial had decided to present the incident as the natural consequence of bureaucratic incompetence and poor governance rather than a clash of divided communities.

  ‘Our state government, in connivance with our electricity companies, has only now decided to close the stable door, by stating it will try to purchase additional power from other states,’ lamented the piece. ‘Unfortunately for the public, not only has the horse bolted, it has been found, sold off secretly through the good offices of a series of corrupt middlemen and the funds transferred via hawala brokers to a benami Swiss bank account. Such is the nature of official planning and foresight in Karnataka today.’

  With that picturesque image, the editor of the Mysore Evening Sentinel managed to capture a number of societal ills in his forceful conclusion. The editorial did little to improve Girish’s humour that afternoon.

  ‘Susheelaji? It’s Jaydev calling here.’

  He always announced himself in a cautious way, as if still undecided as to whether he ought to be calling.

  ‘Hello, one minute, one minute … so how are you today?’

  ‘I’ve just come back from a long walk so feeling very relaxed and refreshed. And you?’

  ‘Oh fine, I’ve been meaning to visit an old friend for ages now but something keeps coming up. I was just wondering whether I should go today. It’s one of my days for the driver, you see.’

  ‘I’m sorry, am I delaying you?’

  ‘No no, not at all. It takes me an hour to get out of the house these days anyway. Making sure everything is locked, switched off, closed, bolted. It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Sometimes I do wonder. Maybe you have things to do and then I call and take up so much of your time.’

  ‘Please Jaydevji, I am not Sunaina, rush
ing off to meetings every five minutes. I really don’t know how she does it. Even the thought of it makes me tired.’

  ‘Well, she’s younger, but it’s true, so much energy. She reminds me of a person I used to know, my senior at my first job in Calcutta. He was also always running around from one committee to another, pushing bundles of paper into an old jhola he used to carry everywhere.’

  ‘This was in Calcutta?’

  ‘Yes, in the fifties. In fact, he even had the same hairstyle as Sunaina.’

  ‘Now you are just being rude.’

  ‘No, really, I promise you. Poor fellow, he must be no more, but if in those days he ever had a tendency to wear saris, he would have looked just like Sunaina. You know, us juniors always used to make fun of him. He had a habit of using long words even when he had no idea of the meaning. He must have just thought that it sounded impressive.’

  ‘I think that is a habit many of us Indians have. Also, why use one word when we can shower you with ten?’

  ‘No, but poor old Mr Mukherjee was really something. He would walk up to you and say: “I have a small piece of work for you. Very interesting. I am sure you will find it highly obstreperous.” Or else: “Such terrible weather we are having. Truly sybaritic.” After we had lost our initial nervousness in that place, my friend Shailendra and I would keep going up to him and using our own ridiculous words in conversation. I feel bad now; he must have thought we were just two such friendly chaps.’

  ‘You should feel bad! Poor old Mr Mukherjee. And I can imagine you and your friend laughing like hyenas the moment his back was turned.’

  ‘I wish I could deny that. But that is exactly what we did.’

  ‘Well, I won’t tell Sunaina that she reminds you of some poor man that you all used to laugh at years ago. It reminds me of my uncle who also had a very particular way with words. He was a professor of history at Mysore University. If any of the women in the family had put on weight he would smile and say: “You are looking nice and robust, much better than the last time I saw you. Then you were looking very inadequate.” The thing was, he really meant it in a nice way.’

  ‘But he never said it to any of the men?’

  ‘No, but I think the men always looked more than adequate.’

  ‘No doubt. So, what time are you going to see your friend?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not even sure if she’s here or with her daughter. I need to phone and check. I feel very bad for her, you know. She has a very nasty daughter-in-law so she tries to spend as little time in Mysore as possible. But what to do? She has to come from time to time to see her son.’

  ‘The usual saas-bahu story?’

  ‘Who knows what exactly goes on? But the daughter-in-law seems to really hate her coming so goes out of her way to make things difficult. Jaya, my friend, doesn’t eat brinjal, and she was saying that the last time she stayed there, this girl was making brinjal day and night.’

  A swallowed gurgle from Jaydev stopped Susheela.

  ‘It may be funny for you because you are not the one being ill-treated. I hope your daughter-in-law treats you well.’

  ‘Actually, when I visit she is more considerate than my son, even. But anyway, please continue with your story.’

  ‘Jaya has to use a special foot cream. She used to keep it in the bathroom when she was staying with her son but she is convinced that her daughter-in-law kept hiding it.’

  ‘She was hiding the foot cream?’

  ‘Well, it kept disappearing and who else would take it? So now she has to keep it locked in her suitcase. I mean, is it right, that she has to hide her foot cream in her own son’s house?’

  ‘I think the best thing would be for you not to delay seeing her. She needs your support.’

  ‘It really is very upsetting for her. A while back her daughter-in-law dropped a wet grinder and it almost fell on Jaya’s foot. She is convinced that it was deliberate.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, she mentioned it again yesterday: “Susheela, do you remember when that girl tried to murder me with the wet grinder?”’

  ‘Do you think it was deliberate?’

  ‘Well, the girl is most insensitive but I don’t think she is a psychopath. Although I suppose it is difficult to tell with young women these days, they all seem so confident.’

  ‘Poor Jaya.’

  ‘Let me tell you one thing, Mr Jaydev: we should be pleased with what we have and not demand too much. My son-in-law may be messy and moody but at least he has never tried to kill me. Anyway, enough for today; I am going now. Just thank God for all your blessings.’

  A young doctor emerged from the front of SG Hospital, trailed by a group of nervous, pleading relatives hoping for a second’s reassurance before he disappeared behind a closed door again. The doctor walked quickly towards his motorbike and sped off through the gates, his face inscrutable. The hospital was located on a busy road near Tilak Nagar, a squat, desecrated building, once a soft pink, now the colour of wet ash. At the back of the hospital, a series of puddles held their daily consignments of used syringes and soiled bandages.

  The reception area was crammed with people. Every seat was taken, weary shapes leant against the walls or squatted on the floor, and a large crush surrounded the receptionists. The room smelt of close bodies, damp cloth and something sulphurous that was making its way in through the open doors. On the wall behind the receptionists, a picture of Mahatma Gandhi hung askew, his eyes decorously avoiding the scene below him.

  Uma had not been able to speak to either of the receptionists. She asked a porter to point out the way to the ladies’ general wards and followed the direction of his disinterested thumb. The corridor light blinked on and off, sousing the walls with a pale green glow. Through the first open doorway Uma glimpsed the dingy ward, mysterious smears and streaks on the floor, filthy sheets trailing off the beds. A young girl seated at the entrance to the ward stared up at her with enormous eyes. She walked past the girl, looking at the inhabitants of the beds, seeking out Bhargavi. Torpid gazes, inert forms, sapped spirits: Uma took in the desolate parade of patients, trying to draw as little attention to herself as possible, a woman with good health and an upright bearing.

  She walked across to the next ward and saw more faces, degraded and decaying, but not the one she was seeking. At the end of the corridor a dark stairway led to the wards on the upper floors. A ghostly form brushed against her legs as she walked up the stairs, making her cry out. In the near darkness she could make out a family of skeletal cats that seemed to have colonised this part of the hospital. She hurried up the stairs, two at a time, not wanting to touch the banister.

  The second floor passage was in darkness too. Grimy rubber mats were strewn across the floor and a number of bodies huddled against the walls. Uma shut her eyes for a few seconds to try to accustom herself to the gloom. She turned into the next ward where, unexpectedly, all the fluorescent lights were working. As she stood uncomfortably between the rows of beds, someone grabbed her wrist.

  ‘Uma, isn’t it? How did you know she’s here?’

  It was the distant cousin for whom Bhargavi had found work in Mahalakshmi Gardens, days after starting there herself. Uma had only met her once and had forgotten her name.

  ‘She hasn’t been to work for three days and I found out from amma that there had been an accident and she was in hospital,’ said Uma.

  ‘Accident? Accident, my foot,’ said the cousin angrily, still holding on to Uma’s wrist. ‘Come see what those animals have done to her.’

  Uma let herself be pulled along the length of the ward. Bhargavi was in a bed near the far end, her leg in a cast. A bandage covered most of her head and her right eye was a shattered purple bulb.

  Uma gasped and covered her mouth with her hand.

  ‘What happened? How did this happen?’

  Bhargavi turned her head, her left eye blinking in recognition. She moved her swollen lips laboriously.

  ‘Come sit,’ she said,
patting the edge of the bed.

  Uma drew closer to the bed, her hand still locked over her mouth.

  Bhargavi’s cousin lowered her voice: ‘It was on Thursday night. She had gone to the factory to talk to those girls as usual and a few of them went with her to the bus stand. She spoke to them there for maybe fifteen, twenty minutes and then she walked down to the other stop where she gets her bus.’

  Uma listened while keeping her eyes on Bhargavi’s crushed face.

  The cousin continued: ‘Then some woman called out to her and asked her to come with her. She said she was having a problem with the factory owners. Bhargavi had never seen her before but she went with her anyway. You know what she’s like.’

  The cousin stopped speaking, her teeth biting down hard on her bottom lip. Uma took her hand in hers.

  The woman had led Bhargavi through a warren of twisting lanes into a four-storey building that appeared to house another garment factory on its ground floor. They had climbed the stairs, the woman all the while looking nervously behind her as she told Bhargavi that she was desperately in need of help. There was only one vast room on the top floor, empty except for a few crates and bolts of cloth propped up against one wall. A moment later, three men had appeared from one corner of the room, slammed the door shut and set upon Bhargavi. She dropped to the floor. The last thing she remembered before losing consciousness was the strange silence in the room, broken only by the sound of their kicks, like the muffled bounce of fruit falling on grass. A passer-by had heard Bhargavi’s groans in an alley later that night and found her under a pile of soggy cardboard boxes.

  Bhargavi’s left eye blinked again, as if to confirm the story. She tried to speak but winced instead.

  ‘I’ll give her this tablet for the pain. It’s been a few hours,’ said her cousin, reaching into a brown paper bag. ‘I have not seen even one doctor on this floor for two days. You have to do everything yourself. Yesterday I had to bribe a nurse thirty rupees to change the bandage.’

  ‘But who was that woman? And those men? Had you seen them before?’ asked Uma.