Mahesh Rao - The Smoke is Rising

‘Definitely in a bad mood,’ he said.

‘ Amma said there were plates under the pots on the upstairs balcony that need to be cleaned,’ Uma said. The water sprayed halfway up her thin arms and wet the edges of her sari.

‘Can you get me another cup of coffee? Even in this heat, my stomach is feeling cold inside.’

Uma did not respond. She quickly rinsed the last of the steel tumblers, laid it out on a mat in the sunshine and hurried back inside the house, without giving him another look.

The sun was lower in the sky but the dry heat still bore away with the same intensity. Seated on the low wall, Mala looked for the hyperactive boys but they were nowhere in sight. Girish sat next to her, his arm slung across her shoulders like a sandbag. He occasionally clicked his fingers as if in time to some mysterious strain unfolding in his head. A few minutes later he stood up and stretched.

‘Time to go, Mala. We’ve got that journey back,’ he said, heading towards the parking area.

The square of shade in which the car had been parked had pivoted around to the right, leaving it fully exposed to the day’s fury. Its interior felt like a hot, fetid mouth and the seat began to brand Mala’s back and thighs. Girish reversed out of the parking area and slowly began the descent down to the rutted road.

The car was fairly new. Its purchase had been preceded by lengthy consultations with colleagues and relatives. Girish had pored over motoring magazines, scoured road user websites and posted detailed queries on car information forums. The Maruti dealer had come to their home three times and had fielded countless telephone calls. Finally, the loan was arranged, the EMIs fixed and the vehicle delivered on an auspicious day, before Rahu reared up to cause any chaos. Girish had driven the car carefully to the Venkateshwara temple in Sitanagar, a marigold and jasmine garland looped over the bonnet. As the priest reeled off the blessing, Girish stared at the new number plate. His intermittently professed rationalism had been given the day off. Girish was not a man who liked to take chances.

The thrill of ownership had faded rapidly. Three months after the purchase, the blue hatchback looked drab and niggardly, parked by a pile of macadam left in the lane beyond their front gate. With the surging price of fuel, the car had already become of incidental use: shopping excursions, day trips, weddings. Girish continued to wash and polish the car conscientiously, having read about the dangers of oxidation.

As Girish eased the car into second gear, he glanced at Mala next to him. She had lowered the sun visor and her head was turned towards the window on her side. The condition of the road seemed, at least to Girish, to have worsened inexplicably over the course of the day. The car shuddered and bounced as Girish weaved around pits and potholes. Here and there a darker smear of tar indicated a hurried patching up, maybe in anticipation of a VIP visit or a festival procession.

The car passed through a village, extinguished for the afternoon, and turned on to the wider trunk road at the next junction. Mala continued to stare at the deserted land. The monotony of the dry paddy fields on either side was oppressive. Diamonds of stubble and loam rolled past, at times broken up by a meagre windbreak. Girish slowed down as they approached a bridge. As the car moved across it, Mala looked through the white railings to see that the river below had shrunk drastically. The anarchy of rocks and exhausted channels on the river bed resembled a strange moonscape. She noticed that someone had abandoned a bundle of clothes on the wall of a culvert. It was the only sign of softness in that unforgiving scene.

‘Shall I open the windows? At least the breeze might help,’ said Mala.

‘No, too much dust. Just turn that vent more towards you.’

They were bearing down on a van that was cruising along in the middle of the road. Girish hooted impatiently and flashed his lights. The van seemed to begin moving into the left lane and then shifted again so it was squarely in the centre of the road.

‘Look at this idiot. Who gives licences to these bloody fools?’ Girish let out a series of sharp honks and flashed his lights again.

An arm emerged from the van, undulating in the air.

‘What is this idiot doing? What the hell is that supposed to mean?’ More hooting followed.

The arm continued to motion and then, a few seconds later, withdrew.

Girish moved to the extreme right of the road, his hand pressed down on the horn. There was no oncoming traffic but he still could not overtake.

‘Is this fool crazy or deaf? If he wanted me to pass, why doesn’t he move?’ Girish nosed as close to the van as he could without causing a collision. His hooting was now just an endless, insistent blast.

The van began to gain speed, still in the middle of the road, and pulled away from the blue hatchback.

‘Finally,’ muttered Girish, adjusting his seat belt.

In an instant the van swerved sideways into the middle of the road and stopped, blocking the road. Girish slammed his foot on the brake and the car jolted to a halt, tearing violently at the uneven surface of the road.

Girish had taken his hand off the horn and a foreign silence descended. Mala turned to look at him. He was staring straight ahead, expressionless. The van’s door opened on the driver’s side. There was no further movement.

Girish’s hands remained on the steering wheel, the veins fanning out like the talons of a bird of prey.

A man jumped out of the van. He was slight and athletic looking, dressed in jeans and a tight vest, his hair cropped short. He approached the car at a leisurely pace, swinging a length of cloth.

Mala whispered: ‘Oh God, Girish, please don’t say anything.’

The man knocked at Girish’s window and then pressed his palm against the glass, his flesh pale and turgid. He knocked again, this time harder.

Girish opened the window. The man leant down: ‘ Lo bhosdike, what’s the problem?’

Girish stared blankly at him. Mala pushed her handbag with her feet into the far corner.

‘I said, what’s the problem?’

‘There’s no problem.’

‘Really? You make a lot of noise for someone with no problems.’

‘There’s no problem.’

The man took a long look at Mala and then shrugged: ‘If you say so, boss. Too much tension. You need to relax.’

Girish was silent.

‘Okay boss, if you say no problem, then there really is no problem.’

The man took another look at Mala and then sauntered back to the van, still swinging the length of cloth. In a moment the van’s engine fired up and it sped off.

The man’s hand had left a greasy imprint on the window. Girish waited until the van was out of sight. He opened the door and spat into the road. Closing the door, he adjusted the mirror, restarted the ignition and began to move slowly forward.

Neither of them spoke for a few minutes until Girish looked sharply at Mala.

‘What do you think I would have said?’

‘What?’

‘You told me not to say anything. What do you think I was going to say?’

‘I don’t know. Nothing. I just didn’t want him to get angrier.’

‘Because I don’t know that much? That I should not make a crazy rowdy like him angry.’

‘I didn’t mean anything. I was just scared.’

They were approaching the bend in the road at Bannur. Billboards scudded past: models entwined in cords of gold, rows of premium quality rubber chappals and earnest invitations to MBA courses in Australia. A truck carrying wobbling stacks of timber lurched in front of them. On top of the planks sat a sallow-faced man, his dead eyes focused on some distant point.