The Smoke is Rising

by Mahesh Rao

  Mala found herself once again in the room she used to share with her sister. Time dislocated itself. The crystal vase stood in the same corner of the windowsill, still waiting for fresh flowers to grace its narrow mouth. There was still a checked sheet on the bed, yellow and blue, or red and blue, tucked severely under the hard pillows. Some of Mala’s old accounting textbooks were wrapped in plastic and laid on the bottom shelf of the cupboard. She had told her mother that she would not need them again but Rukmini had always been cautious. Time’s fragments rushed at Mala. The temptation was intense: to step back through the glass, to reclaim her place in those settled images, to regress into the girl of whom nothing much had been expected. But she now knew far too much to return.

  In the sitting room, the framed poster of Shakespearean quotes still hung above the television. She remembered the day the television had arrived. There had been countless adjustments of the antenna cable; even the polystyrene blocks had been discarded with the utmost care; in the first flush of ownership Rukmini had embroidered the letters ‘TV’ on the cloth that would keep the screen free of Konnapur’s redoubtable dust clouds. The television had continued to be given its due respect and, in return, it played its part in the maintenance of propriety in the house, remaining decorously hidden under the cloth until six every evening. Rukmini considered the watching of television during daylight hours a slovenly and reckless pursuit, the province of alcoholics and slatterns.

  In private, Rukmini and Babu turned Mala’s situation over in their heads until they fell back, exhausted with heartache.

  ‘We should tell the police,’ said Babu to Rukmini.

  ‘What is the point of telling the police now?’ she asked.

  ‘That bastard should be in jail.’

  ‘How will that help her? And who will put Anand’s brother in jail? Tell me that first of all.’

  ‘Why didn’t she tell us sooner? That is the thing I don’t understand.’

  ‘Me too. Something we did or said made her feel that she could not come to us. We can’t even ask her what.’

  Babu put his hand on her arm: ‘But she is here now.’

  Babu’s powerlessness in the face of his daughter’s experiences gradually ground down his spirit. He grew taciturn and his perennial ribbing of Rukmini ceased. He began to spend more and more time lying on his side in the bedroom, complaining of a series of aches. When he emerged from the room he would sometimes smile sadly at Mala, a plea for forgiveness perhaps.

  ‘Is it because I am here? A married daughter back in her parents’ house,’ she asked Rukmini.

  Rukmini raised her hand, a whisper away from her daughter’s shoulder.

  ‘No, it is because all this time we could not see your unhappiness. We were blind to what was happening to you. It’s not because you are here. He has been changing over the last few years anyway, nothing to do with you or me. Maybe just age.’

  Mala had noticed the change too. Babu had always been an instinctive raconteur, a man who could command an audience, who had a fine feeling for the pace and punch of his stories. Their veracity was irrelevant; the pleasure lay in their intoxicating rhythm as characters were cut down to size, myths expounded or absurdities laid bare. The chronicles seemed to have dried up now. The few traces that remained of his volubility centred on a very specific narrative: narrow, repetitive tales involving thwarted ambitions and intimate disappointments, a record of where his life had ended up. Mala could not help but be worried and looked to her mother for reassurance. Rukmini would merely sniff. She was not one to indulge such introspection; as far as she was concerned, he simply had too much time on his hands. The real worries were elsewhere.

  One morning Mala sat on the back steps again, as she had done so many times cramming resolutely for each set of examinations. Even the early mist in this town seemed to be imbued with dust, the drifting palls taking on a tincture of the packed earth. It was all out in the open now. Her words, baked hard by utterance, had freed her. What had seemed impossible was suddenly all around her, at her feet, in her core. She had been married, she had spent three years with her husband and she had returned home. It was still so surprising to her: the menace of chance, the intensity of misery, the velocity of collapse, the wonder of egress.

  She waited for the shame but it did not come. Her only concern now was to make sure that her parents did not torment themselves. To that end, she was prepared to go to any length. She knew Rukmini had been watching her constantly. Even now, she felt her mother’s presence somewhere in the kitchen behind her. Mala would keep an eye on them too. She would step into any breach. She knew now that she could.

  She smelt coffee and stood up to go inside. It was warming up and she took off her cardigan.

  She would never see Girish again. It seemed incredible.

  Susheela walked over to the fence separating her garden from the Bhaskars’ side patio. Bhargavi was bent low with a broom in her hand, neat mounds of leaves swept up in various corners.

  ‘Bhargavi, can you come here one second?’ Susheela called over the fence.

  ‘Amma?’

  ‘This is the third day that Uma has not come to work. Do you know what has happened to her?’

  ‘No, amma. I only know as much as you. Maybe she is sick.’

  ‘But I have asked her to always phone, or ask one of the neighbours to phone, if something like that happens. And she has always done that in the past.’

  ‘I was going to go over to her place today anyway. I will find out.’

  ‘You know where she lives?’

  ‘Yes, I have been there before.’

  ‘Something must have happened. People don’t just disappear like that. I simply don’t understand it.’

  ‘Don’t worry, amma. I will find out today.’

  ‘Oh, one more thing. Can you come and do a couple of hours for me after lunch? I have spoken to Mrs Bhaskar and she does not mind. This is the third day Uma has not come, you see.’

  ‘Shall I check again inside?’

  ‘I have already spoken to her but you can if you want. Can you come at two?’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘What a relief. I have told the mali; he’ll let you in.’

  Susheela returned to the house through the back door and surveyed the scene in the kitchen. She had done what she could over the last couple of days but the place was looking decidedly distressed. These things always happened at the most inconvenient times. Jaydev was coming over for dinner that night, and no doubt would find her weeping and dishevelled, presiding over pandemonium.

  ‘Enough drama,’ she said to herself aloud and began to go over her mental checklist.

  The bone china crockery had not been used for a while so it would all have to be washed. The current whereabouts of the linen napkins was a mystery. She had most of the cooking still left to do and would have to go over her lists of ingredients again. Uma’s continued absence had mangled all Susheela’s systems.

  The fairly absurd thing was that the peripheral details had all been accomplished in good time. The boy from the dry-cleaners had come yesterday with the curtains and had put them up. A handyman had been summoned to fix a listing shelf in the kitchen. She had asked him also to polish all the woodwork and get someone to clean the downstairs windows. Then she had reorganised the photographs on the dresser and brought out a silver and coral Nepalese urn that had been languishing in the spare room. That morning she had cleared the magazine rack of weeks of detritus and replaced some of the cushion covers.

  As she surveyed the room on her way back to the kitchen, she was acutely aware that they had never been inside each other’s homes. He had no idea what hung on her walls, lined her shelves, lay on her coffee table. The idea that this evening would be one more modest step in their discovery of each other released a train of glee in her mind, a fact that would remain buried. There had been no sign of it when she had called Jaydev the day before to confirm the time and to enquire whether there was anything that he did not
eat. Apparently he did not care much for beetroot but everything else was fine.

  She had been brisk and businesslike: ‘That’s perfect then; see you tomorrow at eight.’

  ‘You sound like you are inviting me for an interview,’ he had responded.

  ‘Mr Jaydev, I cannot help how I sound. Now if you don’t mind, some of us have work to do.’

  What he had not been able to see was her giddy smile.

  As Susheela began to slice through some tomatoes, the doorbell rang.

  ‘Not today,’ Susheela muttered, walking to the door, her mind whipping through the possible identities of uninvited guests destined to introduce more turmoil into her day.

  She leant into the spyhole and sighed. The distorted countenance of Vaidehi Ramachandra stared back at her, its rippled surface hardened against any alibis.

  Susheela opened the door, easing a smile on to her face.

  ‘Vaidehi, come in. What a surprise.’

  Vaidehi wagged her finger. ‘You may have forgotten your friends but your friends have not forgotten you.’

  ‘Now, there’s no need for all that,’ said Susheela, wagging her finger back, desperately trying to predict how long this visit would last. The woman was too tiresome for words and the sight of her sari border, as always an unseemly two inches above her bloated ankles, only served to irritate Susheela further.

  ‘I was in the area visiting my sister-in-law and it occurred to me that it has been so long since I even caught sight of you,’ Vaidehi announced. She settled herself in the armchair, her gaze wandering about the room.

  ‘So lovely, your place,’ she said, with the tone of someone who had emerged after several years in a dank cave.

  Susheela stared modestly down at the carpet.

  ‘And how are you?’ Vaidehi continued, still smiling. ‘You seem well.’

  ‘I am well,’ said Susheela. ‘Nothing to complain about.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Vaidehi, a little too quickly it seemed to Susheela. ‘Well, if one can say that then what else does one need in life?’

  Susheela was already beginning to tire of the oblique pronouncements. She neither knew nor cared why Vaidehi was here, although she suspected that it had something to do with that ridiculous pamphlet from all those months ago. She needed to chivvy along the proceedings.

  ‘You’ll have some coffee?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll never say no to your coffee,’ said Vaidehi. Her eyebrows were raised in a delighted conspiracy.

  Susheela could not bring herself to smile. She stood up.

  ‘I’ll just be two minutes,’ she said, standing up and walking to the kitchen.

  Vaidehi immediately followed her.

  ‘Something smells delicious,’ she said. Her voice had turned into a poisonous cant with an obvious intention to provoke. Susheela did not respond, spooning coffee into the filter.

  Vaidehi walked over to the hob and peered into the pan.

  ‘Halwa,’ she crowed, as if a significant clue had fallen into her lap.

  Susheela reached into the fridge for the milk.

  ‘Special occasion?’ asked Vaidehi. ‘Sweets, all this preparation in the kitchen?’

  ‘I just decided to make some halwa. My neighbours love it so I’m going to send some over later,’ said Susheela, her voice tight with impatience. ‘Come, let’s go back and sit down. The coffee will be ready in a couple of minutes.’

  ‘That’s so thoughtful of you. I always say, we have to look out for each other because no one else will.’

  Susheela was not sure whom Vaidehi counted in her team of responsible protectors. Her thoughts drifted to the tasks she had to finish before Bhargavi was due to arrive to clean the kitchen.

  ‘So, I want to hear all your news,’ said Vaidehi.

  ‘Well, I don’t really have much news,’ said Susheela with a quick laugh. ‘Children are both fine, I am fine, everything is going well. I think the coffee is done.’

  Susheela went into the kitchen and emerged with one cup. In spite of her instincts for hospitality, she had decided not to risk cake or biscuits.

  ‘You’re not having any?’ Vaidehi asked.

  ‘No, I have just had some.’

  Vaidehi took the cup and carefully lowered her top lip into it.

  ‘Delicious, as always,’ she said, her mouth a dangerous pantomime.

  A silence settled over the pair. Vaidehi took another sip of coffee, still looking keenly at Susheela. Through the open windows they could hear the mid-morning birdsong nipping at the air.

  Vaidehi put her coffee down and leant forward.

  ‘The truth is, Susheela, I have come here to help you. To warn you.’

  Susheela dragged her gaze to Vaidehi’s merciless face.

  ‘I don’t understand. Warn me about what?’

  ‘First of all, you must promise me that you will not think badly of me. I have come here with only good intentions. It is not easy for me to talk about this either.’

  Susheela looked blank.

  ‘So do you promise?’

  Susheela nodded mechanically.

  ‘People are talking,’ said Vaidehi and leant back again, as if she did not intend to say anything more.

  ‘Talking about what?’

  Vaidehi lunged at the question.

  ‘Talking about you. And your, I don’t know what to say, your friend Mr Jaydev. They are saying all kinds of things. You are going everywhere together, behaving like senseless youngsters, these are the kinds of things.’

  Susheela stared at Vaidehi.

  ‘Like I said, I have come here as a friend because I think you should know these things, what they are saying. I have tried to defend you but you know how people think. The thing no one can understand is this: why you of all people should stoop to such things.’

  Vaidehi paused as if she expected an answer but then continued.

  ‘See here, of course it is not easy being a widow, everyone knows that. But you are from a good family, your husband has left you comfortably off, you have children with good jobs, you don’t need to go chasing after a man with money. What will you do with more money?’

  Susheela had grown pale but stayed silent.

  ‘You have not gone mad, suddenly thinking you are eighteen again. So why should you be running around after an old man like this, making a fool of yourself? So what if he has that big Yadavagiri house? That is what everyone is asking, Susheela.’

  Vaidehi picked up her cup and noisily swallowed the rest of the coffee.

  ‘I am sorry to be the one to tell you this my dear, but you have become a laughing stock in this city.’

  Vaidehi put the cup down squarely on the coaster.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘a laughing stock.’

  The editor of the Mysore Evening Sentinel was adding the finishing touches to his comment for the next day’s edition. When he completed an item that he found particularly insightful, his hooded eyes seemed to retreat further into his face. He read through the column one more time so that the conclusions would resound in his head as he drove home. The piece was intended as a wake-up call on climate change to the residents of Mysore. There was an urgent need to change lifestyles, adapt processes and harness new technologies. This would all take time, so in the interim readers were urged to purchase more eco-friendly products and reduce reliance on air conditioning when the weather began to change in a few weeks.

  He emailed the final copy and prepared to leave the office. He would be home in time to have a rest, change into a smart suit and then make his way to the Anuraag Kalakshetra for the opening gala of the Mysore International Film Festival. Not only was it important for him to be seen at such events, this time he had a reserved second-row seat at the premiere. He had also just received news that one of the national dailies was looking for a deputy editor, a literary craftsman with a wealth of reporting experience and exposure to the frenetic tumult of major news stories. It had been a good year and, without a doubt, his time had come.
/>   After Vaidehi had left, Susheela returned to the straight-backed chair where she had been sitting. The cup was where Vaidehi had left it, an ugly brown blot marking the side where it had made contact with her mouth.

  She remained immobile for some time. At lunchtime the vegetable vendor went past, the familiar shout failing to penetrate her consciousness. Across the road, the Nachappa boy left the house on his motorbike and returned an hour later. The mali, sensing that he would not be found out, decided to take a nap in the shed.

  The doorbell rang just as the downstairs clock struck three. Susheela knew it would be Bhargavi.

  When she opened the door, she said, ‘Sorry Bhargavi, there has been a change. Can you come tomorrow instead? I’ll speak to Mrs Bhaskar later. Don’t worry, I’ll still pay you for today.’

  ‘No, amma, you don’t have to do that,’ said Bhargavi and walked back towards the gates.

  Susheela returned to her chair and watched her leave, before sitting quietly as before. Her gaze seemed to be following the border of the carpet, parallel lines of gold and brown, dusted with motes.

  Eventually she stood up and went to the kitchen. Reaching for two plastic bags in the pantry, she lined one with the other. She then lifted the heavy pan off the hob, biting her lip with the effort, and emptied its contents into the plastic bags. The halwa made a sad slithering noise as it slipped over the sides of the pan. Susheela meticulously scraped the pan clean before soaking it in the sink. Tying the bags up in a double knot, she opened the back door and walked to the outside bin. She lifted its lid and dropped the bags inside. The halwa hit the bottom with a muffled blow, bloodless and final.

  ‘Mr Jaydev? It’s Susheela.’

  ‘Yes, tell me.’

  ‘I am so sorry to tell you this but I will have to cancel for tonight.’

  ‘Oh no. Why, is everything all right?’