Mahesh Rao - The Smoke is Rising

‘She has gone.’

‘You mean, she has left this place?’

‘Yes, gone completely. Some new couple is there now. They moved in yesterday.’

Parvathi turned to go back inside her room.

‘One minute, one minute,’ said Bhargavi. ‘Do you know where she went?’

‘Look, no one knows where she has gone. She just disappeared like a thief in the middle of the night. Didn’t even tell the landlord. He had to break open the lock the next day and then saw that most of her things weren’t there. What was left, I think he took.’

Parvathi’s eyes narrowed as she looked at Bhargavi.

‘Are you a relative?’

‘No, I just needed to speak to her about something.’

Parvathi laughed weakly.

‘Other women have been coming here to speak to her too.’

‘But why did she just disappear like that?’ asked Bhargavi. ‘It makes no sense.’

‘You really don’t know?’

‘No.’

A fight between children broke out in the room behind Parvathi.

‘Look, I can’t stand here and talk to you all day but ask anyone here and you will soon find out why.’

She disappeared into the darkness of the room.

Bhargavi looked again at the shreds of marigold lying on the damp earth, before moving away. She still walked with a slight limp even though it had been a few months since she had left hospital. It took her a few minutes to get to the next row where she knew some people. She had always been adept at soliciting information and this was an area where tales would be recounted all too readily.

Before long, she had to deal with a fairly full picture. There were accounts of endless trysts, numerous men visiting the room late at night, money that had changed hands, husbands lured to their ruin, furious wives hammering at the door, bottomless depravity, wrecked lives. Bhargavi knew that somewhere in the folds of the toxic hearsay there lay a seam of truth. It would take her one or two more days before she could run her fingers along its ragged joint.

The morning of the Lake Utsava saw a great deal of activity on the Promenade, even in the darkness of the early hours. Areas of scaffolding were removed at the last minute, some of the smaller stages were wheeled into place and loudspeaker systems were given a final test. Gate officials and festival stewards were instructed on the conduct of proceedings while sweepers moved around them in a prearranged formation. Lengths of cable maundered below stands and displays, eventually making their way towards banks of generators ranged in the roads that led off the Promenade. A few railings that had been forgotten were being painted in the dull glow of the streetlight above them.

The Lake Utsava was due to be formally opened by the Minister for Tourism at a short ceremony later that morning. The organisers had spent unconscionable hours poring over the precise seating arrangements in the inauguration marquee, anxiously appraising the relative importance of, among others, the Deputy Assistant Director of Mysore Zoo and the Acting Mayor’s daughters. Chains of chrysanthemums would shortly be wound around any offending utilitarian space. The red carpet that had endured the media’s coruscating affections the previous night had been moved to the VVIP section of the marquee. Venky Gowda’s seat had been specially brought in from Bangalore.

By the time the sun’s first beams began to lick at the waters of the lake, a sense of exhausted achievement had settled over the length of the Promenade. Authorised stallholders were now free to set up the expositions and the organisers were conducting their final checks in the festival zone. In a few hours the dignitaries would be garlanded, the ribbon cut, the plaque unveiled and eager arms raised in elation. The morning’s frosted light bounced off the steel and glass lattice that covered the Museum of Folklore and tumbled over the miles of silver bunting that stretched out in every direction. The scene was set for the city’s most high-profile public celebrations in recent memory.

They had run out of most of the daily specials at the Vishram Coffee House. The waiters, through habit, reeled off the lunchtime treats and stood by the tables, practically daring the patrons to attempt to order one of them. Even though the peak rush had come and gone, the din was intense. A table for two was quickly swabbed with a wet rag and the two bank officials sat down, both sighing heavily.

‘For what reason do they bother to tell you about these damn lunchtime specials if they never have them in the first place?’ complained the senior bank official.

His junior colleague was sympathetic.

‘It is typical behaviour, sir. That is why the country is in this state,’ he said sadly.

The two men put in their order and stared for a moment at the frenzied loops left on the table by the wet rag.

‘Sir, did you watch that programme last night?’ asked the junior official.

‘Which programme?’

‘About the Chinese.’

‘Which Chinese?’

‘Sir, it was a programme about these Chinese people in China. They are running schools where small, small children are learning Hindi. So nicely they were speaking, sir, even better than children here.’

‘Chinese children learning Hindi?’

‘I promise, sir, you will not believe. They were having conversations, so clear it was. Standing in a line, all smart and very good discipline. But one thing I could not follow, sir, for what reason Hindi? English, Spanish or German, I can understand. But Hindi, sir?’

‘It is because by the time they invade us, these children will have grown up and then they will be able to order us around in Hindi.’

‘Sir, they must know we don’t all speak Hindi, no?’

‘What difference does it make to clean their shoes, whether they tell us in Hindi or Chinese or Kannada?’

‘That is true, sir. We need to be very careful but our government is doing nothing about this danger. One day they will just walk across the border and we will all be sitting here waiting.’

‘As usual.’

‘Sir, you know, the Chinese language is called Mandarin.’

‘You duffer. The Chinese language is called Chinese. Mandarin is the capital of some province. In the south, I think.’

Their lunches arrived, the food so hot that the junior official’s glasses steamed up. Conversation was minimal while the two men ate, their concentration all-consuming. A beggar who had made his way into the restaurant was chased out and given a stern warning by the owner. At the adjacent table, a man let out a long, satisfied belch, his crash helmet still in his lap.

The bank officials had just finished eating when a tall man knocked against their table, on his way out. The senior bank official knew him so they exchanged a few pleasantries before the man left.

‘Sir, who was that?’

‘Just someone I know through my cousin. Can’t even remember his name. What is happening to my memory?’

‘Sir, I have always felt you have an excellent memory.’

‘Anyway, he is G S Anand’s brother.’

‘The advertising man?’

‘Yes.’

‘If he is G S Anand’s brother, why is he eating here, sir?’

‘How should I know? Do you think G S Anand has nothing better to do than to feed all his family members every day?’

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘This fellow, it’s a sad story. He is separated from his wife.’

‘Sir, this separation is becoming very common now, even in our culture.’