The Smoke is Rising

by Mahesh Rao

  Just as suddenly as Vasu’s efforts had collapsed, the rumours had sprouted and burst into the village’s every nook. There was talk that Vasu had always known that this would be the outcome; he was in the pay of the state authorities, the real estate developers, the land grabbers; his only intention had been to distract them while the merciless reality unfolded behind their backs. He had been seen having secret meetings; there had always been something shifty about him; how could they not all have known?

  There was other talk too. It was said that the victory at the High Court had only hardened the government’s position further. The minister in charge had been heard saying that he would ensure that the farmers would be punished for their intransigence and temerity. Bureaucratic obstacles would be put in place to make certain that they would never see even the small compensation that was owed to them. There were reports of other harassment. Funds that had already been earmarked for expenditure in these taluks would be diverted elsewhere and any future projects would bypass them entirely.

  There were specific examples so the conjecture had to be true. One farmer had it on good authority that the distribution of subsidised fertiliser to these areas was soon going to develop an inexplicable bottleneck. Another had heard that power load-shedding would increase dramatically in the coming months, paralysing pumps and delivering a string of hardships designed for debasement. Apparently local babus had been made to understand that complaints against them would not be referred to superior officers; police officials had heard that they were to have even more of a free rein in controlling any unacceptable law and order situations.

  At first Vasu had been moved to react angrily. He had demanded proof from his accusers; he had waved documents in their faces, the evidence of months of toil; he had stabbed his finger at his own stupidity for trying to give these ungrateful wretches a legitimate voice. But even his storm needed sustenance and the latent heat had simply dissipated.

  One evening he had walked into an informal meeting at the house of a village elder. His intention had been to admit his mistakes and appeal to the reason of the community. He had meant to wrap his anaemic confidence around the platitudes of the lawyers and present it to the men as a fresh start. Every road had obstacles; they could not say it was over until all options had been exhausted; they needed to have faith. The words had turned brittle and acrid even in his own mouth.

  When he had slipped off his chappals and walked into the house, a weary hostility had descended. Insects buzzed around a hurricane lamp placed at the centre of the group of men and the lotas of coffee scattered at their feet. Vasu had stood awkwardly at the door, not having been invited to sit. The men’s goodwill was as impenetrable as the fug of beedi smoke.

  ‘With what face have you come here?’ one man had asked, his voice deadened by failure.

  Vasu had looked at him and the others whose eyes held the same whetted flint. Without answering he had turned around and returned home. He did not know with what face he had gone there.

  Like every morning, Susheela slipped the key into the letter box on the gate and pulled open its door. Out of the chaos of restaurant menus, sari sale flyers and magazine subscription offers, Susheela pulled out the programme for the Mysore International Film Festival, the logos of its proud sponsors prominently displayed on the cover.

  On the inside page Jaydev had written: ‘What do you think? Warm regards, Jaydev.’

  It was the first time that she had seen his handwriting and it made her smile. What clues to his character lay in those finely pointed Ws and the vertical tails of the Ys? Susheela had once picked up a guide to handwriting analysis at Great Expectations. The one thing from the book that had stuck in her memory was that the greater the rightward slant of the writing, the more emotionally expressive the person. She smiled again, picturing Jaydev’s reaction to her confident assertions regarding his personality, based on the straight lines and sharp edges that dominated his seven-word missive.

  Mala sat on the corner of the bed, her mind registering and processing the morning’s sounds. It was before half past eight as the old man next door had not turned on his radio. The regular slap of wet sheets against stone by the tap outside meant that Gayathri had not finished the washing yet. In the bathroom, the drumming of water continued. Girish had not emerged. But he would soon and if she had not spoken to Gayathri by then, she would have to just let it go. It was important to Mala that she did not let it go.

  She walked to the back door and peered at Gayathri’s hunched form through the gap between the hinges. Her right leg was extended behind her at a curious angle, as if she were about to break into a run. Mala felt a tickle in her throat and retreated into the kitchen, her heart thumping. She could sense the blood flowing up through her neck, around her jaws and towards the sides of her head. She looked at her watch. It was half past eight. The old man turned his radio on.

  She returned to the bedroom. Girish’s clothes for the day were laid out on the bed, a familiar form that seemed to want to grab at her but lacked the flesh or bones to support its desire. The blue and white striped shirt with its collar stiff and primed, the navy trousers with their legs flowing off the edge of the bed, the tan belt laid across the waistband in a single loop, the white handkerchief placed to the right of the shirt, and the brown patterned socks folded into a careful peak. Where were the shoes? The blood surged back into her head as she tried to remember where she had put the shoes. She hurriedly opened the cupboard doors and looked inside. Then she knelt down on the floor to see if they had slipped under the bed. She rushed to the front door to see if Girish had left them outside. As she was hurrying back to the bedroom, she remembered that she had polished them the previous evening. So they had to be somewhere near the back door. In the kitchen, she unclenched her hand as she glimpsed them, gleaming at the top of the back steps.

  Gayathri was wringing out the sheets, cheerfully throttling the coils with her strong arms and then unwinding them to hang out to dry. It looked like she had nearly finished. Girish was still in the bathroom. Mala dared not think she had already succeeded but it was beginning to look like it was possible. She did not want to walk to the washing area to talk to Gayathri: the sounds of Girish coming out of the bathroom would not reach her there. She thought that at best she only had a few more minutes.

  There were about thirty hours left before they were due to catch the bus that would take them to the airport. A few hours later, they would be on a direct flight to Colombo. Before boarding, they would browse the duty-free shops and have a coffee at one of the cafés. On the plane, Girish might fall asleep, his head nudging Mala’s shoulder. He would probably engage the cabin crew in conversation. Mala would smile. They would land and then clear immigration. There would be urgent tasks, looking out for bags, changing money, checking vouchers. Girish would probe, explain and hurry. Or he would be silent and casual. They would be in Colombo at the start of two weeks of exoticism, the threat of tectonic displacement vibrating under her feet.

  She began to count the lies she had told to get her to this point. She had lied to Girish about booking her leave, paying all the bills before they left and setting aside the clothes she was packing. She had lied to her parents about when they were returning. She had lied to Ambika about the reason for the trip, a supposed promotion for Girish at work. She had lied to Lavanya and Anand about her excitement, trilling over the sights in store. She had lied to Mr Tanveer and Shiiprraa, not even having mentioned the trip. There was only so much enumeration that she could undertake before her predicament broke over her head like a breached dam. Her eyelids felt like massive weights had been placed on them. She went to the kitchen sink, splashed some water over her face and wiped it off with her hands.

  Gayathri walked into the kitchen, tucking a stray pleat in under her stomach.

  Mala said: ‘Come with me one second.’

  She led her into the sitting room. The bathroom door was still closed.

  ‘You remember, we will not be
here for two weeks from tomorrow?’ she asked, turning to Gayathri.

  ‘From tomorrow, is it? I knew but good thing you reminded me. My brain is turning into batter.’

  In the background there was a shift in the sounds coming from the old man’s radio. Perhaps he had switched stations.

  ‘Here, hold out your hand,’ said Mala.

  Gayathri looked at her suspiciously.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just do it.’

  Gayathri pushed her hand out and then, with a chuckle, shut her eyes too.

  When she felt the cold weight on her palm, she opened her eyes and took a step back.

  A gold chain lay coiled in hard mounds in her hand.

  ‘What is this for?’

  ‘It’s for you.’

  ‘For me? But why?’

  ‘Please, just take it.’

  ‘I can’t take something so expensive for no reason.’

  Gayathri stretched out her hand to give the chain back to Mala.

  It was Mala’s turn to take a step back.

  ‘It’s for you. So just take it.’

  ‘No no, I can’t do that.’

  ‘You should never tell Lakshmi to go away. She may never return.’

  ‘But I don’t understand.’

  ‘You will.’

  Gayathri looked at Mala for a few seconds and then at the chain in her hand. Nodding, she tucked it deep into her blouse. She picked up a plastic bag that she had left on the table.

  ‘God bless you,’ she said softly.

  Mala managed a smile.

  At the door, without turning around, Gayathri said loudly: ‘So in two weeks is it then?’

  Mala nodded: ‘Yes, see you in two weeks.’

  The door shut, the gate bolt screeched across the paving stone in the yard and then Gayathri was gone.

  What happened could probably be blamed on the uncurling of a tiny fist. It was that single movement that wrenched Shankar’s heart out of place and set in motion a perfectly avoidable set of events. He had seen his infant son reach out hundreds of times before, pummelling the air and then pulling at invisible filaments in total absorption. A familiar dimple formed in the side of his fist and then creased into a fat fold of baby flesh. The outstretching of a helpless arm was nothing new. But this time, as his son slowly unfurled his fingers, Shankar felt the knowledge of his infidelity smash down on his chest.

  Staring at the coloured rings that hung over his son’s crib, he spoke.

  Janaki’s interrogation was forensic and emotionless. She desired as much detail as Shankar could be compelled to provide. She tried to pin occasions down to the nearest day; she followed up on instances, durations and locations; she demanded full descriptions, always repeating the same question in a voice like a thick blade until Shankar provided a response. She compiled the grim catalogue as if she had developed an addiction to that hot stab of revelation. At one point when the baby started to cry, she coddled him in the folds of her sari and, mechanically rocking his head against her knee, continued the questioning. Her need was avid and she scythed through Shankar’s shame till she had gathered up every last kernel of information. Then she put the baby back in his crib and left the room, shutting herself in the bedroom for an hour or so.

  Shankar sat at the table, glancing occasionally at the bedroom door but not daring to look at his sleeping son. Apart from the scales of traffic, rising and falling beyond the open windows, the afternoon was imbued with stillness, like grief, like death. The long period of questioning seemed to have removed all the oxygen from the air. Breathing now involved only stolen gasps of waste vapour, thin and foul.

  When Janaki emerged from the bedroom, she picked up the baby’s kit bag and methodically began to fill it: nappies, bottles, clothes, formula, a blanket, squeaky toys and a rattle. She checked the contents of her handbag. Briefly she stepped back into the bedroom and then returned, holding her phone charger and a purse. She picked up her own keys from the hook on the wall and also the keys to her mother’s house. Then, lifting the baby out of his crib, she settled his head into the soft dale of her neck. She picked up the bags with her free hand and let herself out of the house.

  Shankar watched her movements like a condemned man replaying in his head the pronouncement of his judgment. When she had gone, he put his forehead down on the table, the plastic surface sticky against his skin. He had imagined this scene many times over the last few weeks. The surprising thing was that her departure had unfolded exactly as he had visualised it, no better, no worse. He was left with the stinging thought that no matter how badly he had misjudged himself, he had judged Janaki perfectly.

  The lane outside the house had not woken from its afternoon slumber. It had been hours since the last vegetable vendor had rolled past, the shutters of the provision store on the corner were down and the toddlers at home were probably still napping. But clearly not everything was asleep. The smell of fresh dung rose into the air like a blast of scorched raisins.

  Mala closed the gate behind her, lips pursed, placing the latch back on its rest with precision. She walked as quickly as she could to the end of the lane, looking straight ahead, trying to ignore the way the strap of the bag was cutting into her shoulder. There were no rickshaws at the corner. She would have to walk to the main road. Or she could wait here for a few minutes. On any other day perhaps, but not like this, not today with her bags.

  On the other side of the junction, the last few children were getting off a minibus impatient to leave, its engine growling urgently. Two teachers conducted a hasty count of the checked pinafores and the pairs of grey shorts. A moment later, two of the boys decided that the time was right to move on and ran across the road towards Mala. Before the teachers had time to react, the rest of the group began to follow them. In no time, Mala was buffeted by a surge of small heads, clammy palms pushing at elbows, all around her hot breaths and stifled yelps. One child’s chin ended up in Mala’s hand, both looking at each other in amazement at this sudden contact. In a solitary world, bereft of clear signs, the slightest irregularity had to be interpreted as a lodestar, bright with significance. So what did it mean that she found herself so trapped that she could not even make it across to the main road, stranded in a pool of chattering children?

  ‘Stop!’ shouted one teacher from the other side of the road. ‘Not another step!’

  She came running across, stumbling over her dupatta, furious and terrified. The children froze.

  The teacher grabbed hold of the arm of the first offender and smacked his leg.

  ‘What did I tell you? What have I been telling you all day? What is wrong with you? This is your last warning. Do you hear me? If you do anything like this again, I will tie you to a coconut tree and leave you there all night for the rats and scorpions,’ she shouted.

  The boy’s eyes grew marginally wider.

  ‘Say sorry to Auntie. All of you, say sorry now,’ she commanded.

  ‘Sorry Auntie …’ filled the air, dragged out into an undulating chorus.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Mala managed to mumble.

  ‘I am also very sorry, madam,’ said the teacher. ‘They are just impossible to control.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Truly, I am sorry. Do you know what the time is please? Because of one of these apes, I broke my watch yesterday.’

  ‘Yes, it’s nearly four.’

  The panic in Mala began to rise again.

  ‘Thank you, madam. Okay everyone, in a line, two by two. Now!’

  The children scrabbled to one side and began to order themselves.

  ‘One more day is over and I am still alive. What else is there to say?’ said the teacher as the group began to move off.

  A few moments after they had gone, Mala replied: ‘Nothing. Nothing more to say.’

  Perhaps that was the sign.

  She picked up her bags, crossed over towards the main road and hailed a passing rickshaw.

  At the bottom of the slope leading dow
n from Mysore Junction, a pipe had burst and water was spraying upwards, arcs of joy in the afterglow. A teenaged boy had wasted no time in taking advantage of this fortuitous state of events. As Janaki came down the slope, he stood with his back to her in his underwear, his hands soaping his back, lost in his lathery abstraction. There was something compelling about his insouciant pleasure that made her slow down to look at him as she walked past. He turned slightly and she could only just make out his face in the lilac light. His eyes were firmly shut and his cheeks sucked in as he let the jets hit his body, the soap running down into the ground in patchy streaks. Just as Janaki passed him, the boy opened his eyes. The expression in them changed. His lip curled up lewdly.

  ‘What are you staring at? Want to join me, Auntie?’ he asked.

  Janaki stopped walking, her face devoid of intent.

  ‘Yes, I’ll join you. And then I’ll cut your filthy tongue out of your mouth and put it in your hand.’

  The boy’s adolescent bravado shrivelled in the rime of Janaki’s flat tone. Suddenly he was just an almost naked boy in a puddle of waste water. He looked down at his wet feet and then, almost as an afterthought, turned his back to Janaki again.

  She continued walking and turned into the dense grid of tiny rooms. Curious glances bounced off her as she purposefully picked out her route. An occasional visitor to the area would not normally have been able to negotiate the rows with such ease. But Janaki’s fury provided her with an adrenalin-fuelled clarity that brought to mind all the markers she needed to find Uma’s room: the collapsed section of chain-link fence, the perennial stack of corrugated iron sheets and the yellow telephone box clamped to its pole.

  Curls of smoke rose through the gaps between the walls and the roofs of several rooms; there was the punch of curry leaves and wafts of kerosene; a girl walked past carrying two eggs. Janaki had timed her visit carefully. She was sure Uma would be home by now. In another life, this had been the fabric of her friendly conversations with Uma, questions about her routine, her work, her life.