Mahesh Rao - The Smoke is Rising

‘So long to bring one small bill?’ asked Girish.

‘So long to drink one small coffee?’ asked the waiter, his face expressionless.

Girish dropped a few coins on the table and left the restaurant. As he reached Ashoka Road, there was a bang as a tyre burst. The darkness had completed its descent through the branches of the tamarind trees and over the drizzle-spattered shop fronts. Most of the crowds had thinned out but small groups remained outside KR Hospital and in front of the main entrance to Devaraja Market. Girish stepped into the road to avoid a glossy slick on the pavement. A steady stream of autorickshaws still honked their way down Irwin Road, leaving clouds of ugly fumes in their wake. Opposite Jyothi House a ragged figure was dragging a small Godrej wardrobe down a narrow alley that stank of urine.

Girish disappeared down Staircase B. A few minutes later he rode up the ramp from the basement, paused to nod at the watchman and then headed in the direction of Sitanagar. As he passed the approach road to Mysore Junction, he could hear the sound of an express train pulling in to Platform 2. In the distance, looming above his head, the clock on the tower near Sangam Talkies showed a quarter to two, a time it had proclaimed for at least three years.

SUSHEELA moved the Leaning Tower of Pisa so that it formed a straight line with the Eiffel Tower and the Taj Mahal. She noticed that the Pyramid of Giza seemed to have slid of its own accord below St Paul’s Cathedral. The thought crossed her mind that Uma kept rearranging the formation simply to annoy her. Each fridge magnet secured a vital piece of information and was positioned for ease of reference. Susheela detached a crumpled card advertising a furniture showroom. She ripped it into little shreds and clasped them in her hand. The manager of the showroom had turned out to be a complete buffoon. He had shown no understanding of his trade or her requirements. She would not be repeating that mistake.

She opened the fridge door. Mini cartons of juice were lined neatly along one shelf: apple, orange, grape and guava. Next to them a jug contained about a litre of freshly made lemonade, condensation flecking its rim. If anyone wanted badaam milk, the morning’s delivery would be boiled and cooled, the ground almonds stirred in, before being chilled in the freezer. As an emergency option there would always be yoghurt, thinned out and churned into a cold lassi , spiked with a dash of cumin.

Susheela remembered why she had come downstairs. It was this business with the missing sack of manure. She shut the fridge door; the manure was hardly likely to be there. The bag had invaded her thoughts just as she was beginning her morning exercises and the urge to carry out some form of investigation had been overwhelming. She had abandoned her stretches and come to the kitchen to see if the mali had arrived. In spite of his lengthy protestations, she was convinced that he knew something about its disappearance. The nursery owner had been quite clear that he had sent over the sack and she had no reason to suspect his motives.

She walked across to the dining room windows to see if the mali was anywhere on the front lawn. Currents of dry heat were already beginning to claw their way up through the room, even at this time of morning. She turned on the air-conditioning unit and it let out a sinister growl. It had not been serviced for a while and a reminder needed to be slipped under the Eiffel Tower. There was no sign of the mali . Whether or not he had pilfered the manure, he was definitely late. She wondered for a moment whether he and Uma could have planned something together. Susheela had not spotted any signs of collusion and she had a fine instinct for intrigue being conducted under her roof. Uma was too aloof and reserved to indulge in such treacherous behaviour. Even if the mali dropped dead, she would probably just carry on with her work, silently mopping the floor around him.

Susheela knew she should return to her room and complete those exercises but her irritation made her immobile. Behind her, squares of sunlight shimmered on the rosewood table, polished through its nineteen-year life with great dedication. She noticed that the cracks in the plasterwork above the mirror had lengthened, forming a long and lopsided arrow. In the garden there was no movement at all; only a shocking white glare that would become even more ferocious as the day progressed.

Susheela shook her head and disposed of the tattered card. She supposed there was little point in compromising her health over what was essentially a bag of goat waste. The mali would be here sooner or later and there would be ample opportunity to uncover the truth. She switched off the air-conditioning unit and went back upstairs.

The mali rode past the 42 bus stop where buses from the villages outside Mysore came to a shuddering, shrieking halt on their way into the city centre. He slowed down, half expecting to see Uma in the vicinity. He looked around. The morning’s pageant in this part of Mahalakshmi Gardens was playing itself out but there was no sign of Uma. He pedalled on, sweat running into his eyes.

At Bamboo Corner a group of rubbish collectors were having a meeting in the shade of the giant bamboo. Their blue jackets had been pulled over their saris and their carts stood parked in a neat line down 6 thMain Road. Also under the bamboo, a couple of elderly women were stooped over the parched sward, trying to pick long blades of grass for their pooja . The Nachappas’ dachshunds were out on their morning constitutional, their little legs plugging along inefficiently. Up and down the locality’s streets, newspapers were being lobbed over gates into verandas and balconies. The steady rasps of brooms sweeping out yards interrupted the demented chatter of bulbuls. The shutter of the provision store on 11 thCross Road was half raised; inside, the shop owner was deep in prayer before a sandalwood carving of Ganesh.

Opposite the main gates of the Gardens, the mali ran into the Bhaskars’ night watchman, squinting at the sun as he adjusted the clutch of plastic bags in his hands. The mali brought his bicycle to a halt, trailing his feet against the hot surface of the road.

‘Left your shift late again?’ he asked.

‘Yes, all because of that bastard,’ said the watchman, putting down some of his bags.

‘Which bastard?’

‘He is meant to relieve me at six but not even one day does he turn up on time. He is the purest type of bastard. The genuine article. One of these days I will bury him alive.’

The mali had heard details of the proposed interment numerous times and was keen to avoid a further account.

‘You are always wandering around with countless bags every time I see you. Like an old woman you are,’ he said with a laugh.

The watchman thought hard before responding.

‘Of course, make fun, big man. How many months have you been trying to get close to that tasty item inside the house? Seems like your Uma has no appreciation for a hero like you.’

‘These things take time.’

‘Don’t be simply buzzing for too long. The flower will droop and wilt.’

‘Go home, ajja .’

‘Eunuch.’

‘Bastard.’

They parted good-naturedly.

The last of the early walkers were completing their final circuits in the Gardens. A huddle of retirees could usually be found by the main gates, caught up in an intense exchange of news: all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. The last few years had seen an influx of iPod-clutching, midriff-baring, visor-wearing joggers, who had returned for good from Houston, Manchester or Auckland. The t’ai chi habitués were adrift in their practice in the southern corner of the Gardens. A relatively new phenomenon in Mysore, this still attracted the gaze of alarmed older gentlemen, their loose cotton pyjamas flapping as they strolled down the paths. An aggressive display in electric blue spandex was taking place on the monkey bars. The regulars were all there: the speed-walking couple with identical lacquered hairstyles; the man whose principal exertion appeared to be clapping at the neem trees; the three rotund, middle-aged brothers who spent their forty-minute amble discussing breakfast options; and the woman in the Yale T-shirt who ran backwards, regularly flicking her head back to avoid an ugly mishap.