Mahesh Rao - The Smoke is Rising

The rest of the journey passed in silence.

Venky Gowda had only ever sustained one vision in his life: HeritageLand. He dreamed of a world where cutting-edge technology could harness the drama of the ancient epics and transport his compatriots to an alternate reality. When he slept, he twitched and kicked, mouthing his plans for a recreated Dandaka forest where the curious could follow in Lord Rama’s footsteps, battle the Lankan army in an elaborate flume, cut off Shurpanakha’s ears and nose with laser arrows, soar to the treetops in a mechanical Garuda. His cupboards were crammed with notes for a Kurukshetra War simulation involving luxury chariots and a buffet service. Napkins within his reach were covered with doodles of the Kailash Wonder Mountain and the Yamaraja Monorail.

Venky’s first attempts at obtaining finance for the project had been met with bloodcurdling laughter. Had he considered the problem of locating a site, the cost of construction and equipment, the logistical difficulties, the power shortages, the possibility that HeritageLand would only attract roadside Romeos feverish at the thought of witnessing the dishabille of a shapely Draupadi?

These were all legitimate points, but Venky Gowda only had one vision. And he was not the type of man to turn his back on it. After years of conspiring and toadying, endless feasibility studies and costs analyses, an MBA from Ohio State University, a rhinoplasty procedure and, finally, marriage into the family of a powerful political grandee, his phantom fantasy world faced the prospect of becoming real. Perhaps the gods had finally decided to bless Venky, themselves waking up to the fact that their universe would be incomplete without a representation of their fight against evil in the twists and turns of a water slide. And that representation would rise in Mysore, erstwhile land of maharajas, India’s second cleanest city and home of many talented snooker players.

Venture capitalists from Hong Kong were ready with finance, architects and engineers worked day and night on the park layout and, crucially, opinions had been canvassed among prominent Mysore residents. The editor of the Mysore Evening Sentinel gave the project a cautious welcome: it would be a good opportunity to showcase the country’s traditions and culture but historical and doctrinal accuracy would be essential. Ahmed Pasha, President of the Mysore Enterprise Forum, could see only benefits accruing from HeritageLand. He speculated at length on the growth in the city’s economy based on projected revenues from the theme park and also took the opportunity to publicise the fine merchandise in his own furniture showrooms. Priyadarshini Ramesh, proprietor of the Mysstiiqque chain of beauty salons, declared that she was not opposed to the plans on principle but her main concerns related to the park’s aesthetic impact on the city.

‘Class, not mass,’ she said, stamping her beautifully pedicured foot. ‘We don’t want the whole thing turning into a cheap circus full of low types.’

Professor M M Malikarjuna of the university’s linguistics department ignored the question entirely and instead renewed his appeal for better policing on the Manasagangotri campus in light of the number of youngsters openly canoodling there in broad daylight.

An overall impact assessment of HeritageLand resulted in the following conclusions: the theme park would bring enormous economic and cultural advantages to the city of Mysore, transforming it into a premier global tourist destination; any adverse environmental impact would be mitigated by the planting of trees on the park site and by the use of low-energy light bulbs; no obstacles could be envisaged in the grant of licences required for the park as all necessary inducements would be incorporated into its unofficial budget; the residents of Mysore, or in any case those who held any serious influence, would provide full support for the project as long as it was realised in the best possible taste.

A celebration party was held at the Mysore Regency Hotel where all the guests agreed that the head chef had outdone himself with his Hyderabadi chicken lollipops. The Secretary of the Mysore Regeneration Council made the mistake of bringing up the issue of the land yet to be acquired for the project site and was beaten down by several colleagues. There seemed little value in wringing their hands over a virtual fait accompli.

Susheela stood by the window peering at the hunched figure by the gate in the white vest and khaki shorts, a small basket in his right hand. She seldom allowed doubt to factor into her deductions, but this time she pursed her lips as she tried to make up her mind. Certainly he looked crude enough to signify someone with an uncouth mentality. She was sure it was him that she had seen on previous occasions.

The milky sky had begun to radiate a toast-like warmth and the smell of the Bhaskars’ breakfast drifted over the compound wall. Pulling her pallu over her shoulders, Susheela began to walk briskly towards the man, who was now standing gazing up at a frangipani tree in full blossom.

‘Excuse me, do you think this is acceptable?’

The man spun round, his reverie cut short by Susheela’s tone.

‘Every day I see you, helping yourself to flowers from my garden, as if this is some sort of free place for the public.’

‘Madam, these are for prayers. Not for selling in the market. What harm is there?’

‘The harm is that you are taking what is not yours. Every day you come here and just help yourself. Have you ever thought about whether I also need these flowers for my prayers?’

‘Madam, you should not deprive God of these small offerings, wherever they come from.’

‘God will be a lot happier with you if you keep your hands off my garden in the future.’

Susheela turned around, picked up a couple of dead leaves off the path and walked back into the house. The door shut with a sharp click.

Their lunches were packed. The pongal for their breakfast was ready. The coffee was dripping through the filter. Mala had paid the electricity bill the day before. She had washed the front steps first thing in the morning and drawn her standard rangoli : four diamonds intersecting in the middle of a large spiral. It was just after eight in the morning. Mala looked for a safety pin in the coin purse on the kitchen shelf and then glanced at her watch. Gayathri the maid was now ten minutes late. Girish liked her to be gone before he had his breakfast at a quarter to nine.

A couple of minutes later the gate bolt screeched across the stone floor and a shadow passed along one of the tiny front windows. Girish had said that they could afford a maid for an hour a day. Mala would have to get her to run a broom across the floor, mop all the rooms, wash the clothes hurriedly and clean the previous evening’s plates and utensils. The rest was for Mala to manage.

Gayathri gave Mala a practised smile as she walked to the bathroom. Nothing was said of the lateness. In fact, these days Mala said very little to Gayathri at all. When she had first started working there, Gayathri had tried to indulge in some banter. But Mala’s self-censorship had already begun to be a habit for her, one she was not going to break for the maid. Even though Mala knew that it was her place to assert herself, she felt uncomfortable in Gayathri’s all too corporeal presence. She could not stop herself looking at the audacious swell of the maid’s haunches when she crouched low to flick the wet rag under the dining table; her creamy brown belly that pushed through the thin fabric of her sari; her extravagant breasts scarcely contained by her sweat-stained blouse. How could she be so fat when she did physical work all day?