Mahesh Rao - The Smoke is Rising

Even though it was not a Sunday, the house was steeped in Sunday quiet. Susheela had told the driver not to come. Uma had asked for the day off because she had a wedding to attend. There was no mali , no chatter from the students on their way to their tuition classes, no commotion from the Nachappas’ garage doors. The morning had evaporated in the gentle heat of newspapers and phone calls, lunch had been perfunctory and now the early afternoon squared up to Susheela like a neighbourhood bully. There were still a couple of hours before Jaydev was due to pick her up. There was no point in having a nap; she did not want to look like someone who had been in bed all afternoon. She walked into the kitchen. Everything was in its place. A piece of netting covered a bowl of custard apples on the counter, beads weighing down its edges. In the pantry she saw that Uma had stacked the month’s newspapers and magazines and bound them with twine, ready for collection on Thursday morning. Through the window, she could see that there was nothing on the washing line.

She went back into the sitting room. Her heart lurched when she thought the clock showed a quarter past three but that was just her eyes; it was still a quarter past two. It was ridiculous. What was she doing to herself? It was as if the stiff progress of hands and pendulums in this house had been replaced by the erratic clashing of a monkey’s cymbals. She walked into the hallway where the telephone sat next to a vase of gerbera. The truth was that there was no one left to call.

She went upstairs. That morning she had picked out her sari. Nothing that looked too festive or celebratory; a cream chiffon overlaid with sober navy tendrils. Two bottles of perfume stood on her dressing table, almost full. In the drawer, there lay at least another ten bottles, still in their unopened boxes, covered in plastic, the accumulated debris of birthdays and anniversaries. Susheela had never understood these scents, floral gulps with cloying trails that lunged towards the senses. The only smell she really appreciated was the fragile balm of a string of jasmine, practically inferred. But she could hardly emerge from the house to greet Jaydev with long chains of jasmine wound into her hair. The poor man would reverse out of the gates and head straight back home.

She got dressed.

A couple of short hoots sounded. He was here. Susheela picked up her handbag, took a quick look inside and then opened the front door. Jaydev was turning the car around in the road. She locked the door and walked towards the gates. A cordon of dark clouds moved over the garden, momentarily turning the world monochrome. Jaydev stepped out of the car and raised his hand. He looked like he was trying to hail a taxi. Susheela waved back. She thought she must look like a six-year-old at the start of the first day of school. There was no one else in the road.

A strangeness seeped into the scene. They had not seen each other for more than two months but had spoken almost every other day, sometimes for hours. It was a little like listening to her own voice on the answering machine, a startled recognition mingled with a prickly discomfiture. Jaydev appeared a little thinner to Susheela, his face more defined, altogether a more compact person. She lifted the latch, pulled open the gate and then closed it behind her. Jaydev walked around to the passenger side of the car, opened the door and then, perhaps thinking this was too pointed a gesture, left it wide open and returned to the driver’s side.

‘Right on time,’ smiled Susheela, getting into the car quickly.

The inside of the car smelled like an after dinner mint.

‘You are looking well,’ said Jaydev.

‘Thank you; so are you.’

She shut the door, put her seat belt on and settled her handbag in her lap.

‘Ready?’ he asked, as if they were on a motorbike.

‘Ready,’ she replied, as if she had settled her arms around his waist.

The car moved silently down 7 thMain, the windows closed. At the junction, a stray dog barked at it long after it had gone.

Mini and Mohan Madhavan were celebrating their fifteenth wedding anniversary at the Mysore Regency Hotel. Mini’s younger sister Mony had taken charge as party planner and the guest list had spun itself into a healthy gathering of over two hundred and fifty.

‘Although in places like Mysore one can never be sure who else will suddenly show up,’ Mony had said to her friends in South Bombay.

There had been lengthy discussions about the choice of venue; everyone was agreed that the Regency was not what it used to be. Had anyone been to the Burra Peg on a Friday night recently? Most of the tables seemed to be occupied by men in groups that were a little too large, their laughter a little too loud, their accents a little too earthy. They never ordered gin or wine but managed to put away bottle after bottle of the most expensive imported whiskey. Sometimes they tried to involve you in their conversations about the cost per square foot in Siddhartha Layout or which kebabs to order next. Still, the Lotus Imperial would not be ready till next year and the Regency did have those beautiful gardens sweeping down from the old wing.

Crystal was of course the theme. Mony had outdone herself in sourcing original table centrepieces, seat covers, a dazzling ice sculpture and silk goody bags filled with charming mementos. Guests were encouraged to wear white but neither Mini nor Mohan wished to make it mandatory on the invitation. Mini, of all people, knew that white could be extremely unflattering on some figures.

There had been a little bit of thunder earlier in the evening but the sky seemed to have settled by the time Anand and Girish reached the hotel’s side pavilion, their wives a few steps behind. Moments later the power cut out. There was a collective cry from the guests and a nervous few seconds in the near total darkness before the generators swung into action.

The group joined the queue waiting to congratulate Mini and Mohan.

Mala was anxious. She knew that her performance tonight would be feeble, her craft strained and faltering. As she waited, she prayed that she would not see any of her front office colleagues on duty or any of the waiters who knew her by sight. She needed no further reminding that she did not belong here, just as she did not belong at work or at home.

‘But where has this tradition come from, recharging your vows?’ asked Anand, looking puzzled.

‘Renewing, not recharging. It’s not a battery,’ said Lavanya.

‘But what is the point of spending so much money on your wedding if you have to do it all again in a few years?’ he persisted.

There was no response. Anand would have to resolve these questions of nuptial husbandry on his own.

Mini looked lovely in a cream and gold sari. Mohan looked drowsy. There were hugs. Gifts exchanged hands. Girish made a witty comment about marriage. Mini seemed to wonder who he was. Lavanya flicked her hair back. Mala looked down. The photographer snapped away.

On the way to their table, there were several asides as Lavanya and Anand saw people that they knew. Mala smiled fiercely every time she was introduced and then stood behind Lavanya. Anand and Venky Gowda bear-hugged each other. Priyadarshini Ramesh, of the Mysstiiqque chain of beauty salons, blew kisses in their direction. The former chairman of the Mysore Regeneration Council galumphed over with a cocktail dhokla in each hand. Girish’s face gave nothing away but Mala knew he must be bored. She had no idea why he had thought it would be a good idea to come.