Mahesh Rao - The Smoke is Rising

‘That will be revealed in the second half. Maybe that tycoon is secretly her tutor.’

At least half the balcony seats were empty but who knew what was happening in the rows below. There was certainly enough lewd whistling during the scenes involving the swimsuit competition.

‘Excuse me please, I need to visit the Gents,’ said Jaydev. ‘These days, it’s getting ridiculous, every couple of hours.’

Susheela smiled at the back of the seat in front of her.

‘Can I get you anything on my way back?’

‘No, thank you.’

A moment later she added: ‘Good luck,’ and then instantly wondered why she had said it.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘No, nothing.’

‘I thought you just wished me luck.’

‘Yes, I think I did. Well, you know the toilets are not always very clean.’

‘One must stiffen one’s resolve.’

‘You know, that is one of the saddest things about India.’

‘What is?’

‘The state of the toilets.’

A strange sound came from Jaydev, something between a snort and a sneeze. His legs grazed against her knees as he walked towards the aisle. Susheela was a little perplexed. She had been entirely serious.

When Uma got off the bus, a long line was slowly filing into the temple premises on the main road.

‘What’s happening?’ she asked a woman.

‘Free meals there twice a day for the next two weeks,’ she said. ‘Some big man has died and his family is making sure he does not rot in hell.’

There was no one she recognised in the queue so Uma stood there, watching the temple authorities maintain order.

The dead man had been widely respected for his philanthropic activities. Every year on Ganesha Habba he organised the distribution of plastic buckets to the needy and during Dasara a mass marriage for poor couples. His sons had chosen to mark his passing in a manner appropriate to his renown, and food was being distributed at a number of temples in the city during the two-week mourning period.

The deceased’s colleagues at the Society of Mysore Pawnbrokers had taken a half-page advertisement in the Mysore Evening Sentinel to highlight his professional achievements. These included formulating the Society’s code of practice and ensuring improved focus on customer service in all member establishments. A full list of his charitable works was also being produced and copies would be bound in his memory at Shivaswamy Printers. A large number of the late gentleman’s clients were unable to express much regret, occupied as they were in the daily moil of trying to reclaim their possessions from his shops. But the man’s sons were determined to continue the public-spirited traditions, regardless of nod or favour.

The queue was shrinking. A photographer from the Sentinel arrived at the temple with one of the man’s sons to document the event for the next day’s edition. Inside the temple grounds, a speech ended to much applause.

Uma began walking down the slope. The mud had dried, leaving hard ridges of earth that resisted and then cracked under each step. Suddenly she caught sight of Shankar on the main road. He was standing at the edge of the slope, smoking. She understood why he would not call out to her but why was he watching her? She turned and climbed up the slope, her eardrums pounding. As she approached the top, she realised it was not Shankar, not even a man who looked like him. She spun round quickly and hurried back down the hill, looking in both directions. The sun was setting and there were too many phantoms stalking the pitted hillside that evening.

As the car headed home through the centre of the city, there was a ferocious show of lightning. An avalanche of blue and silver gave Amba Vilas Palace a fantastical silhouette. Inside the car, the ride felt secure and comfortable. There may have been thunder but they could not hear it over the sounds of the sarod that came from the car’s speakers.

‘Is this okay for you? I thought you had trouble driving at night,’ said Susheela.

‘Sometimes. There’s hardly any traffic now in the opposite direction, so it’s fine. It’s the oncoming glare that can get difficult.’

None of the traffic lights were working. Jaydev came to a complete stop at each one and then slowly headed forward. This was the hour that the drunks and the reckless chose to take the air of Mysore.

They approached Mahalakshmi Gardens in silence. In front of them the park gates loomed solid and forbidding, locked against tramps and miscreants. The car would be turning into Susheela’s road in less than a couple of minutes.

‘He is taking me home,’ thought Susheela. ‘This man is taking me home.’

As if it was the most normal thing in the world.

Slowly Mala lifted her legs off the bed. As she pushed herself up, she prayed that the bed’s ancient boards would not creak. Her toes touched the cool floor and she stood up. Her tendons began to uncoil. Girish had shut the windows earlier and drawn the flimsy nylon curtains but the room was not in complete darkness. She made her way into the corridor, leaning against the wall, and crept towards the bathroom, her palm brushing against the fissures and boils in the plaster. Once inside the bathroom, lips pursed, she gently closed the door. Her hand groped for the bolt and gradually began to ease it into place. Without switching the light on, she moved to the washbasin and turned the cold water tap on. She turned to the tap in the wall and turned that on too.

A bruise had formed on her right upper arm like a map of an alien island. There was a clawing burn in her lower abdomen, thrusting up towards her lungs. She moved to the washbasin and rinsed out her mouth. She cupped her hands, repeatedly filled them with water and lowered her face into her palms. Leaving the water to drip down off her face on to her nightie, she switched on the dim light above the mirror but took care to avoid looking at her face.

She then poured water from a bucket into the toilet and brushed the sides of the bowl, making sure it was spotless. Then she flushed the toilet and switched off the light. She turned off the tap in the wall; the water shrank into a steady drip.

She moved to the bathroom door and leant against it. The windows were open and she could feel a breath of cooler air. Outside the cicadas were swallowing the night. She stood by the doors for some minutes. The drip from the tap in the wall was making a low, hollow sound like a distant knock. Beyond the window grill, inky slashes were swaying in the night air. She turned and began to unbolt the doors carefully. It was only then that she realised that her bottom lip was bleeding. She ran her tongue across the split, the metallic sting splicing its way to the back of her throat, wondering if it was Girish’s blood she could taste or her own.

She knew she was incapable of going back into the bedroom so she felt her way down the corridor and into the sitting room. Easing the doors shut, she cast about on the sofa for the remote control. She turned the television on, muting the sound.

It was time for a commercial break: sequinned cocktail dresses on long-limbed Eastern European models; salsa dancers striking poses on a yacht; acres of hot bubbling cheese; jet skis leaving a trail of iridescent surf in their wake; confetti raining down in casinos; breakdancing teenagers in fluorescent vests; skateboarders on a suspension bridge; shopping trolleys filled with sunglasses; cricket players brandishing mobile phones in limousines; an electric guitar at the bottom of an aquarium; motor racers on a podium spraying champagne in slow motion; exploding MP3 players; enormous yellow peppers cascading over granite kitchen surfaces; candy-coloured shopping bags gliding by on conveyor belts; rows of empty sunloungers; strings of sapphires poised over shimmering clavicles; pretty girls in belted trench coats stepping on to bullet-nosed trains; a four-wheel drive steadily making its way through a war zone; bolts of crimson silk being hurled off skyscrapers; high heels striding across a luxury hotel lobby; a helicopter landing on a high-rise; a python coiling through tangles of jewellery; polo players signalling to each other; a smiling girl holding up a seashell.