Mahesh Rao - The Smoke is Rising

Mala watched Anand’s hands fan out as he emphasised his key points. She was astounded that she was related to this man; she had been in the habit of visiting his house two or three times a month; she had listened to his wife talk about her household arrangements on scores of occasions; she knew what was in their dining room dresser, where their bread came from and how often they had back massages. It was through his good offices that she had secured a job and on his wife’s advice that she had begun to experiment with make-up. Tonight she was watching Anand interact with learned experts, as she sat on the cane sofa in her parents’ tiny house, a row of her father’s tablets still in her lap. At first, there may have been an altered cadence in one of the chambers of her heart; her head may have felt slightly lighter; she may have felt a hurried breath at the back of her neck. But there was nothing more than that now. She could concentrate again on what they were saying, as if she had spent the last few years watching the programme every week, seated here with her mother.

‘I would like Mr Anand to explain how he expects people to support policies that take away their livelihood in exchange for empty promises,’ said the opposition spokesman.

‘And I would like the honourable gentleman to explain why he supports criminal upheaval, wilful destruction of property and savage attacks on law-abiding citizens in the name of some romantic notion of rural idealism,’ shot back Anand, his face still comfortable, still charming.

He was gazing candidly at the camera now, directly at Mala, straight into the heart of her home. Looking into his eyes was like seeing a once familiar hillside denuded and devoured, transformed into a sweep of concrete and glass, bearing only a fleeting impression of what was once known.

‘I didn’t know he appears on TV,’ said Rukmini, still anxious.

‘I didn’t know either,’ said Mala.

Rukmini stole another look at her daughter.

‘Enough of this,’ she complained. ‘These people only know how to talk. As if braying on TV like a donkey will solve anything. Why don’t you change the channel?’

Mala switched to a nature programme that showed a boat gliding over the waters of a dark river, penetrating into the depths of a jungle.

‘Ambika told me that you had said that you were all going on a trip to Thailand, paid for by Anand,’ said Rukmini, her eyes on the boat as it coasted past dense undergrowth.

‘I just said that. It wasn’t true.’

‘I know.’

They turned to look at each other, both smiling.

‘She has been grumbling to me that you won’t talk to her about any of this,’ said Rukmini.

‘So what did you say?’

‘I said that she should stop pestering you and that you will talk about it when you want to.’

Mala did not respond. She put Babu’s pills into an envelope and placed it on the coffee table.

Rukmini leant forward and gripped Mala’s hand, covering it with both of hers: a hot, tight embrace that tried to seal off the past. Neither of them spoke.

As suddenly as Rukmini had taken her hand, she let it drop.

‘I must go to bed now,’ she said.

She stretched, yawning loudly.

‘Look at me, sitting here till God knows what time, as if I haven’t got to wake up in the morning. You’ll switch everything off?’

Mala nodded.

‘And don’t forget to lock the front door.’

Mala nodded again. Rukmini took off her glasses, gathered up the folds of her wayward sari and walked slowly to the bedroom. The door shut quietly.

Mala turned the volume down and continued to look at the screen. A man’s hand was holding up a tiny insect, its glossy shell like a precious stone cut out of the centre of the earth. Its spindly legs waved and glinted in the background, as it tried to climb up the man’s smooth palm.

Behind her a window banged against its pane, and a few seconds later, she thought she could hear rain. She turned off the television, walked to the front door and pulled it open. The gabbling in the darkness was layered over the silence of night in a small town. The temple’s tower rose up in the distance, its edges streaked with snatches of moonlight. Lifting her head towards the sky, she held out her arm. There were no actual droplets. She could make out the loamy smell of rain and hear its rush building somewhere over the trembling rooftops. The world twisted into the shape of a teardrop, its gasps seeming ever closer. But still nothing fell from the skies. Perhaps it was just the wind changing direction.

My thanks to the many friends and well-wishers who have been so generous with their support right from the start.

I am particularly grateful to Richard L MacDonald for reading the first draft and for support that goes back a very long time; to Jeri O’Donnell and Asha Rao who read and commented on an early draft; to Shashikiran Kolar for crucial website and photographic assistance; to Michael McMullen for unwavering encouragement; and to Arshia Sattar for many kindnesses, including her comments on parts of the manuscript.

I am grateful to Tara Gladden for her careful editing, Antony Gray for the typesetting, Jacqui Lewis for proofreading the text, Jon Gray for designing the perfect cover, Angela Martin for publicising the novel and Karen Maine at Daunt Books for all her editorial assistance.

All my thanks to my agent and friend Priya Doraswamy for her helpful advice and her faith in the book.

A special thank you to Natasha Lee for coming to the rescue when it was most required.

I am indebted to Laura Macaulay at Daunt Books for giving the book a home and for opening so many doors. Her careful work on the manuscript has been invaluable.

I owe an immeasurable debt to K J Orr for words, edits, counsel, insight, laughs and so much more.

And finally, my deep gratitude to my parents and my sister Mamta for a lifetime’s love and support.

Mahesh Rao was born and grew up in Nairobi, Kenya. His work has been shortlisted for the 2013 Bridport Prize, the 2012 Commonwealth Short Story Prize and the 2010 Zoetrope: All-Story Short Fiction Contest. He lives in Mysore, India. This is his first novel. www.maheshrao.info