Mahesh Rao - The Smoke is Rising

To eyes hardened by the relentless images of the information age, the scene at the Promenade bore the banality of catastrophe. Armed guards stood at all the approach roads, the skeletons of destroyed cars framing the scene. The entire area was sealed off and a curfew in place. Shattered glass was strewn across the steps of buildings and over the wide pavement opposite the lake. Blood streaked the wall and railings that formed part of the flood defences. Hundreds of shoes and chappals covered the newly tarred road in both directions. Smouldering tyres blocked some of the side roads. Half a mile away, the shell of an incinerated bus directed its macabre gaze towards what was left of a giant hoarding for the Lake Utsava. The silver bunting had been torched and had drifted to the ground as fine, feathery ash.

The Tejasandra Galleria had not, as reported, been set ablaze. The smoke that had turned the sky above the lake into a dark, distended belly had come from the unprotected stocks of diesel, struck by a flaming missile. But the Galleria had not escaped unharmed. Every ground floor window was smashed; rubber bullets and tear gas canisters had found their way into the atrium and art gallery; a police barrier had been hurled at the glass lift; there was blood on the moulded pillars that soared towards the upper loggia. Fittings had been ripped from carefully papered walls and furniture smashed against the floor of the marble foyer. Merchandise was ruined, trailing in dirt or wrapped around marquee poles and lamp posts. Undressed mannequins had been flung over the lake wall: a few lay mutilated on the rocks, more floated in the water, arms raised towards the heavens, their humiliation complete.

The Museum of Folklore was shrouded in soot. Inside the Anuraag Kalakshetra, axes and machetes lay at the foot of the winding staircase. Debris covered the stage in the auditorium and the seats had been systematically slashed, their innards weeping onto the floor. Opposite the entrance to the building, the frame of the specially commissioned fountain was dented and shamed, its basin filled with rocks and broken bottles. Further along the Promenade, at the foot of the ramp designed for the vintage car display, there lay ten dead bodies, their necks impossibly twisted, a final tribute to the city’s special day.

Susheela’s thoughts had not strayed far from her conversation with Prema. It was definitely the right thing to do. She called Jaydev.

A strange voice answered the phone.

‘Is Mr Jaydev there?’

‘No madam, he has gone out of station.’

All of a sudden?’

‘He went yesterday only.’

‘And you are?’

‘Caretaker, madam.’

‘Can you tell me, where has he gone?’

‘To America, his son’s place, madam.’

There was a pause.

‘Madam?’

‘Do you have any idea when he will be back?’

‘He said he was going for about three months, madam. Maybe four, but he will phone to let me know.’

‘I see. Thank you.’

‘I can give you his son’s phone number in America, madam, if it is urgent.’

‘No, thank you, it is not urgent.’

‘Okay then, any other message madam?’

‘No, no message.’

Susheela hung up and tried to work out a few dates. But her mind did not seem to be functioning properly. She kept starting all over again on this simple calculation. The man had said that Jaydev would be back in three or four months. She supposed it could be longer than that. There really was no way of telling.

She turned and walked towards the windows. The shadows were lengthening across the lawn, long bodies with eerie heads stretching towards the house. The dahlias, stubbornly blooming beyond their season, seemed strange and forbidding in that half-light, their faces purple with venom. On the other side of the lawn, creatures seemed to be moving in the upper reaches of the jackfruit tree, alert to the workings of her mind. The world outside was united in judgment: the bougainvillea glowered at her through the kinks in its boughs; a dark nebula descended over the garden, angrily screening off the coral sky; the rose bushes looked bitter and defeated. The windows were still open and the dusk’s chilly breath began to invade the room. Susheela continued to stand motionless, watching the night draw in completely. The shift did not take long. It was what she imagined the final vestiges of sight to be, as it faded into blindness.

Mala and Rukmini sat in front of the television, neither of them paying any attention to it. On screen the anchor for a talent show took off his jacket and began to dance in front of the judges, keen to show that despite his training at one of the country’s best drama schools, he was still grounded enough to participate in the rough and tumble of popular entertainment. Rukmini was in a state of near slumber, her head gently swaying and her glasses marooned over her forehead, stranded in the course of a half-performed intention to go to bed. Mala was putting together Babu’s medication for the next day, his tablets for hypertension, diabetes and cholesterol placed in rows on her lap. He was getting ready to go to bed, stating that he had a stomach ache.

‘It didn’t seem to affect your appetite at dinner,’ Rukmini commented, with a glance at Mala.

‘It won’t help my stomach if I starve to death,’ he responded crossly, before leaving the room. There the cupboard door was noisily opened and closed a couple of times and a pillow shaken against the mattress. This was followed by an overwrought coughing fit.

‘Every month he becomes more and more like a child,’ Rukmini said, with a sigh. ‘I thought after bringing you two up my work was done, but look, it’s started all over again.’

The bedroom door was now firmly closed. Mala looked at Rukmini and smiled. Her mother’s mouth had lolled open and her eyes were rolling back into her head. She now looked like an old souse, after a particularly lively night out.

Mala gently shook her awake.

‘You had better go to bed. You are starting to look like someone who has had too much arrack ,’ she said.

‘ Chee ,’ said Rukmini, sliding her glasses back on to her nose.

The talent show had come to an end. A special programme began on the need for civilian activism on social and environmental issues. There was going to be a panel discussion on how communities could come together to ensure better urban governance, taking into account all strata of society. The panel guests were introduced: the state’s Minister for Law, Justice, Human Rights, Parliamentary Affairs, Municipal Strategy and Social Welfare; a spokesperson for the opposition; a renowned cultural commentator; an eminent print journalist and Mr G S Anand, CEO of Exospace Media Ltd and head of the recently formed Taskforce for Civic Harmony.

Anand’s face looked wider on television, his teeth whiter, his skin paler. He smiled with authority and ease, a man who dealt out charming sound bites like cards falling from the hands of a casino croupier. Rukmini threw an anxious glance at Mala who was looking at the screen, her face inscrutable. Suddenly Rukmini was struck by how very young she looked, in spite of everything.

‘You cannot stand in the way of progress and expect not to be crushed,’ said Anand, in response to a question from the show’s host. ‘The smart thing to do is to stop obstructing the vehicle and get on board.’