Mahesh Rao - The Smoke is Rising

‘All that worry, unhappiness, shame, financial pressure, and on top of that, doing yoga in this heat, eating bad food and getting loose motion. What else will happen?’

‘It is strange how things change, sir. Here we are, two Indians eating big plate meals and wondering whether or not to have an extra sweet, and these poor foreigners trying so hard just to keep body and soul together.’

‘That is what you call the march of history.’

‘You are a poet, sir.’

‘No, I am a simple man.’

‘No sir, a poet.’

‘All right.’

As Girish emerged from Staircase B of Jyothi House, he quickly checked under his arms for any unsightly sweat patches. He had ridiculed junior colleagues often enough for looking like rotund housewives in tight blouses. It would not do to fall into the same trap. He checked the time and stood under the building’s main arch, determined not to return upstairs for at least an hour.

The adjacent picture framers had spilled out on to the pavement, spreading strips of plywood and pieces of card over a large tarpaulin sheet. Pictures, mainly of deities, were propped up against the front wall of the shop, in the tiny strip of shadow cast by the cracked eaves. Among the beatific blue faces, giant lotuses and gleaming crowns, there stood a monochrome image of Frank Zappa, patiently awaiting its turn. An officious young man appeared to be in charge, taking orders from waiting customers while also arguing into his mobile phone and shuffling sheets of carbon in a receipt book. A teenage boy squatted on the pavement, hammering nails into the back of a frame while keeping a watchful eye on his boss.

Girish thought about walking down a couple of blocks before getting a coffee but the heat was merciless and no one in his office would notice or care. He stepped into the restaurant across the road and it was only a matter of seconds before the milky confection arrived in a chipped glass. Girish sent the coffee back, asking for another glass, incurring the savage but silent wrath of the waiter.

The restaurant was relatively empty at this hour. An old film song played very softly: a solemn ode to the beauty of a country belle.

‘Of course, everyone is at their desks, shuffling important bits of paper, mentally composing crucial memos and notices,’ thought Girish.

He decided to make himself comfortable and looked around to see if any newspapers had been abandoned. The waiter returned with the coffee, this time in an intact but grimy glass.

Raised voices from across the street carried into the restaurant.

‘Look what they have done to my Krishna! Look at my Krishna. Look!’

From where he was seated Girish could see a wiry woman with a hoarse voice in a state of extreme agitation. The usual idlers, starved of entertainment, had quickly gathered around to provide counsel and succour. The woman pointed to an image lying flat on the tarpaulin. A series of sooty smudges had appeared on the picture like smoke rings blown from those perfectly shaped roseate lips.

‘Look there! At the mouth! Look!’

The young man had quickly ended his phone conversation and was now cuffing the back of the boy’s head every time the woman pointed out the mishap.

‘What are you hitting him for? He has not been anywhere near the picture. You have done this. Or else it was that donkey inside. Look at my Krishna!’ screamed the woman.

‘Please calm down,’ said the young man.

‘Criminal sule magga. Ninna mukhake benki hakka.’

‘We’ll fix it.’

‘Nachikedu, paapi mundemakkala . May burning hot coals rain down on your dick.’

‘ Che che , is that a mouth or a sewage pipe?’

‘May a stray dog fuck your wife from behind.’

‘She is not my wife yet. The marriage is in six months.’

Girish paid for his coffee and left the restaurant. That was all people could find to do these days: shout like a fishwife and cause a huge scene over a few dirty marks. He walked on the shady side of the pavement towards Kabir Road, stepping around the arrangements of cheap sunglasses and wallets laid out on dirty sheets. He thought of looking in on a friend who worked at a newspaper around the corner but then changed his mind. He was in no mood to hear about the daily miseries involved in being a third-rate journalist for a tenth-rate rag. He turned into Anegundi Road and headed towards the recently opened mall near the Farooqia College of Pharmacy. At least it would be cool and there would not be any howling harpies to give him a headache.

As he approached the mall he stopped and thought about paying Mala a visit at work. If he waited half an hour or so she would probably be ready to leave. Maybe they could go and have chaat somewhere and then go to an evening show. A vision of them sitting in a crowded snack bar, Mala playing with the chain around her neck, flashed through his mind. The thought depressed him instantly. There was nothing left in him to give to an evening of spontaneous recreation. In any case, going to pick up Mala would entail walking back to Jyothi House to pick up his motorbike and he had no intention of returning there at least until he had managed to speak to the Director of Customer Relations. He turned around again, crossed the road, walked quickly through the metal detectors and disappeared behind the mall’s dark sliding doors.

The towels had been hanging on the line all day and were baked crisp. Uma piled them into a brittle mound in a bucket and stashed the clothes pegs in the cubbyhole under the water tank. On the neighbouring roof terrace, Mr Bhaskar stomped from one end to the other, deep in thought. Uma could not understand why he chose to boomerang from one end of that small space to the other when there were at least half a dozen shady roads along which he could promenade; not to mention the neatly paved paths in the Gardens. She had overheard Susheela mention the same thing to one of her friends the other day. The friend’s response was that Mahalakshmi Gardens was a more agreeable place without the risk of running into Mr Bhaskar. A pleasant enquiry would inevitably lead to a long fulmination from the gentleman on the country’s decay.

‘Better that he just wears out his roof tiles than makes your ears drop off in desperation,’ the friend had observed.

Uma heard the neighbouring gate clank shut as Bhargavi left for the day. She looked down over the parapet and saw her half run towards the end of the road, obviously trying to catch the 42 bus before it rumbled off northwards. Bhargavi had only worked for the Bhaskar family for about three months but had established herself as quite a presence in this corner of Mahalakshmi Gardens. Within her first few weeks she had ensured she was on friendly terms with almost all the watchmen and malis . By the end of the second month she had managed to organise a boycott of a local coffee stall; the owner had gravely injured a boy who worked for him following some minor infraction. Recently she had arranged jobs in the locality for a distant cousin and her daughter, ensuring that they were aware that their conduct reflected closely on her reputation in the area as an efficient fixer.

One of Bhargavi’s new acolytes had declared: ‘ Akka has a big heart. She is a good woman, very decent, very clean.’

Not everyone was a fan: ‘What decent? What clean? Does she wash her kundi with Nirma?’

Bhargavi had cornered Uma by the dustcart one morning and introduced herself. Then, assuming a fiercely protective air, she probed into the circumstances of Uma’s employment. How much was she paid, did she get her day off every week without fail, how was she treated, were there any problems, what meals did she get, any bonus, any gifts, what did her duties entail, who lived in the house, was there anything else she ought to know? Uma stared at this creature, not quite five feet tall, with her tightly oiled braid and the glossy mole in the middle of her forehead, who seemed to want to gather her up in the pleats of her sari. Uma was attuned to demarcations and boundaries. Her steps were the gentle footfalls of the careful navigator. Now she was faced by this tornado of unsolicited concern. While Uma had always been aware of the malice in prying eyes, Bhargavi’s kind interest was exotic territory.