Mahesh Rao - The Smoke is Rising

Twenty kilometres from the self-regarding bluster at Tejasandra Lake, the light was dim in Vasu’s house. Resting his back against the cool wall, he could just about make out the outline of the rolled up bedding on the floor and the bicycle leaning in the corner. The two windows were shut. A wispy curtain hung over the doorway leading outside, its uneven hem sighing in time with the breeze on the porch. Around the edges of the curtain, the day was a spotted gold, an ugly, grimy compound spreading over the sunlight itself. His father was in the inside room, lying down on the wooden bed whose boards screamed in rage every time they were disturbed. His sister had returned to her husband’s house. He had a good idea where his two brothers were. The whole morning they had spoken of fire and missiles, revolt and combat, action and engagement, damage and disorder. Then they had disappeared without saying a word to him.

The disappointment at the High Court had been overwhelming. There had been the long journey back to Mysore, the three buses caught in dense traffic most of the way. The recriminations had begun even before they had left Bangalore, accusations of manipulation and fraud levelled not only at the establishment but also at him and his colleagues. The meeting called by the gram panchayat the next day had turned into a jostling, snarling affair and had to be postponed. The next meeting fared no better. Those who had always maintained that the courts would never come to the villagers’ assistance paraded their furious affirmation from house to house in the dusty lanes.

Just as suddenly as Vasu’s efforts had collapsed, the rumours had sprouted and burst into the village’s every nook. There was talk that Vasu had always known that this would be the outcome; he was in the pay of the state authorities, the real estate developers, the land grabbers; his only intention had been to distract them while the merciless reality unfolded behind their backs. He had been seen having secret meetings; there had always been something shifty about him; how could they not all have known?

There was other talk too. It was said that the victory at the High Court had only hardened the government’s position further. The minister in charge had been heard saying that he would ensure that the farmers would be punished for their intransigence and temerity. Bureaucratic obstacles would be put in place to make certain that they would never see even the small compensation that was owed to them. There were reports of other harassment. Funds that had already been earmarked for expenditure in these taluks would be diverted elsewhere and any future projects would bypass them entirely.

There were specific examples so the conjecture had to be true. One farmer had it on good authority that the distribution of subsidised fertiliser to these areas was soon going to develop an inexplicable bottleneck. Another had heard that power load-shedding would increase dramatically in the coming months, paralysing pumps and delivering a string of hardships designed for debasement. Apparently local babus had been made to understand that complaints against them would not be referred to superior officers; police officials had heard that they were to have even more of a free rein in controlling any unacceptable law and order situations.

At first Vasu had been moved to react angrily. He had demanded proof from his accusers; he had waved documents in their faces, the evidence of months of toil; he had stabbed his finger at his own stupidity for trying to give these ungrateful wretches a legitimate voice. But even his storm needed sustenance and the latent heat had simply dissipated.

One evening he had walked into an informal meeting at the house of a village elder. His intention had been to admit his mistakes and appeal to the reason of the community. He had meant to wrap his anaemic confidence around the platitudes of the lawyers and present it to the men as a fresh start. Every road had obstacles; they could not say it was over until all options had been exhausted; they needed to have faith. The words had turned brittle and acrid even in his own mouth.

When he had slipped off his chappals and walked into the house, a weary hostility had descended. Insects buzzed around a hurricane lamp placed at the centre of the group of men and the lotas of coffee scattered at their feet. Vasu had stood awkwardly at the door, not having been invited to sit. The men’s goodwill was as impenetrable as the fug of beedi smoke.

‘With what face have you come here?’ one man had asked, his voice deadened by failure.

Vasu had looked at him and the others whose eyes held the same whetted flint. Without answering he had turned around and returned home. He did not know with what face he had gone there.

Like every morning, Susheela slipped the key into the letter box on the gate and pulled open its door. Out of the chaos of restaurant menus, sari sale flyers and magazine subscription offers, Susheela pulled out the programme for the Mysore International Film Festival, the logos of its proud sponsors prominently displayed on the cover.

On the inside page Jaydev had written: ‘What do you think? Warm regards, Jaydev.’

It was the first time that she had seen his handwriting and it made her smile. What clues to his character lay in those finely pointed Ws and the vertical tails of the Ys? Susheela had once picked up a guide to handwriting analysis at Great Expectations. The one thing from the book that had stuck in her memory was that the greater the rightward slant of the writing, the more emotionally expressive the person. She smiled again, picturing Jaydev’s reaction to her confident assertions regarding his personality, based on the straight lines and sharp edges that dominated his seven-word missive.

Mala sat on the corner of the bed, her mind registering and processing the morning’s sounds. It was before half past eight as the old man next door had not turned on his radio. The regular slap of wet sheets against stone by the tap outside meant that Gayathri had not finished the washing yet. In the bathroom, the drumming of water continued. Girish had not emerged. But he would soon and if she had not spoken to Gayathri by then, she would have to just let it go. It was important to Mala that she did not let it go.

She walked to the back door and peered at Gayathri’s hunched form through the gap between the hinges. Her right leg was extended behind her at a curious angle, as if she were about to break into a run. Mala felt a tickle in her throat and retreated into the kitchen, her heart thumping. She could sense the blood flowing up through her neck, around her jaws and towards the sides of her head. She looked at her watch. It was half past eight. The old man turned his radio on.

She returned to the bedroom. Girish’s clothes for the day were laid out on the bed, a familiar form that seemed to want to grab at her but lacked the flesh or bones to support its desire. The blue and white striped shirt with its collar stiff and primed, the navy trousers with their legs flowing off the edge of the bed, the tan belt laid across the waistband in a single loop, the white handkerchief placed to the right of the shirt, and the brown patterned socks folded into a careful peak. Where were the shoes? The blood surged back into her head as she tried to remember where she had put the shoes. She hurriedly opened the cupboard doors and looked inside. Then she knelt down on the floor to see if they had slipped under the bed. She rushed to the front door to see if Girish had left them outside. As she was hurrying back to the bedroom, she remembered that she had polished them the previous evening. So they had to be somewhere near the back door. In the kitchen, she unclenched her hand as she glimpsed them, gleaming at the top of the back steps.