Mahesh Rao - The Smoke is Rising

Janaki had met Shankar when he was still working on the industrial estate and she as a ladies’ underwear salesgirl at Padmaja’s Panty Palace in Vidyaranyapuram. Their first encounter had been at a Dasara exhibition a few years ago. Shankar had bumped into Janaki and her cousins, one of whom he had spoken to a few times at the local scooter repair shop. Janaki, a firm atheist, had been lured to the celebrations by the promise of unbeatable food stalls at the exhibition grounds. It was by the pani puri stand that Shankar had managed to get a proper look at her. Undoubtedly she had a special allure, with her eyes the colour of cloudy resin and her prominent cheekbones. Her looks collared the unworldly young man but it was her gritty self-possession that made her irresistible that afternoon. Over the course of the first couple of hours she had laid bare her unorthodox views on the festival, her evaluation of the snacks on offer and her plans to go to the evening computer classes run by the Tribhuvan Trust. Her preliminary interest in his life was something new too. Shankar was not in the habit of sharing details of his ambitions, but the confidences, imparted quietly amid the shouts of dancers and the crash of cymbals, seemed strangely apt.

Their relationship had proceeded tentatively at first. Shankar was unsure whether Janaki, even with her singularity, would appreciate his unsolicited attentions. He was, after all, a new and unendorsed acquaintance. A few weeks later, following Janaki’s words of encouragement, he soon found himself waiting for her at dawn under the gulmohar trees by Tejasandra Lake or, in the evenings, keeping a gallant distance from the alarming window display at her place of work. For her part, Janaki had plunged into Shankar as she threw herself into the business of living: with complete absorption. In spite of the nature of Shankar’s first gifts to Janaki — a tiger-print mobile phone case, a talking plastic heart and, once, a dozen eggs — within a few weeks they were spending most of their time off together. One Sunday afternoon Shankar took her to a secluded spot in Mysore Zoo, a stone in his throat, apprehension stinging his eyes. There he asked her to be his wife and she agreed, interrupted only by the irate shrieks from the gorilla enclosure.

The tag that now attached itself to Shankar was that of an adoring husband, still intoxicated by the heady balms given off by his beautiful wife. Neighbours and relatives observed with an affectionate wistfulness, or more often with self-righteous disdain, that Janaki was feted and indulged like a queen. Why was he spending so much money on a lavish send-off for his wife? Surely for a young couple like them a modest feast with only close family would have done. Didn’t he know that he should only stretch his legs as far as his pallet allowed? All this dhoom-dhaam show, inviting half the town and making such a spectacle; she must have insisted on it. It was plain to see in the way she marched around. Over the next few months she would be at her mother’s place but no doubt her writ would run large even from there.

Susheela stepped over a pile of magazines dumped at the entrance to the alley. She made her way slowly between the decaying walls on either side, streaked with ancient seepages and faded strips of film posters. Every few seconds she turned around to look back at the entrance to the alley, a rectangle of metallic light at the end of the desolate passage. The soles of her feet felt smooth and slippery, as if her sandals would slide off her feet at any moment. Small gaps between the buildings led to even narrower alleys. They were all empty. There was no sign of Ashok and even the stray dogs seemed to have disappeared from their haunts. She caught the acrid edges of the stench of burning rubber and looked up at the sky. A channel of brilliant blue wove its way above the upper stories of the shabby offices and warehouses on either side of the alley. Her eyes began to play tricks on her as the windows studding each floor began to vault and reel along the walls.

Susheela made her way back to the main road, once again stepping carefully over the stack of magazines. The heat was intense and she could now see smoke pluming over a nearby building. She leant back against a shaded section of the wall outside Great Expectations, her eyes shut, the windows now little blazing squares, swirling uncontrollably behind her eyelids. She was ready to believe the worst: that Ashok had abandoned her on this empty street, pulsing with unrealised violence and fully consummated fear. In Mahalakshmi Gardens a silent dread dragged its train over polished floors and stairs, through lush verandas, along driveways, past borders of coleus and lantana, under the pergola by the southern gate to the Gardens and into the latticed pavilion that gave on to the lotus pond. Now that dread had stalked Susheela into the centre of Mysore, trampling its veil on the hot asphalt.

‘Excuse me.’

Susheela’s heart lurched and she opened her eyes.

A man in his late sixties, or perhaps early seventies, stood before her, a look of concerned enquiry softening his brown eyes.

Susheela stared at the man, unable to comprehend this chain of events.

‘I’m sorry, but are you okay? You know about the trouble in the city?’

Susheela nodded but her throat was too dry to speak.

‘Please, it’s not safe to stay here.’

A moment later he added: ‘I’m sure we have met. If I’m not wrong, you’re a friend of Sunaina Kamath’s.’

Susheela nodded, although she was quite sure that she had never seen him before.

The man obviously decided that he needed to be a little more firm.

‘Are you waiting for someone? Because, believe me, you should not be here by yourself like this.’

Susheela was explaining her predicament to the man when Ashok returned, jumping neatly up the few steps to where they were standing.

‘So sorry, madam. I’m ready now. Shall we go?’

Susheela did not respond. Ashok continued to look at her sheepishly.

The man turned to him, his voice curt: ‘Thank you for the offer but I will see the lady home.’

Turning to Susheela, he said: ‘My car is in the basement of Prithvi House. If you don’t mind walking with me just till there, I can drop you home. I am sure the roads on our side will be clear.’

Susheela nodded again, still tightly clasping the bag of kaju pista rolls from Plaza Sweet Mart.

The trestle tables had been covered with floral paper, the steel plates and tumblers wiped dry and the first batch of guests were patiently waiting for the servers to bring the food around. Uma had left Janaki reapplying her make-up and stood at some distance from the guests under the canopy. Particularly distinguished relatives, the elderly and the children would eat first, and once they had vacated their places, the young married couples, Shankar’s business contacts and bachelor friends would take their seats. After their plates had been cleared, more distant family members and latecomers would be served before the final round of stragglers and community flotsam.

Janaki would have been appalled to see Uma alone, waiting out her turn in front of a pile of broken concrete slabs, a diffident and courteous half-smile fixed on her face. But Uma was not one to cultivate controversy by breaking established norms. She knew that she was already marked in the neighbourhood as someone requiring scrutiny, a woman living on her own with no apparent family ties. She had arrived at the row of tiny rooms with a history firmly laced up and stowed in some obscure compartment. Her guarded responses offered no clues and when the rumours began to uncoil around her, their frequency and intricacy were not surprising.