The Smoke is Rising (15 page)

The first that Susheela had heard of this business was in an article in
Scope
, headed ‘Silver sweethearts: Second time round for seniors’. Apparently the trend was increasingly noticeable; or rather, had been noticed by one Vaishali Mehta, deputy features editor of the magazine. Older men and women were striking out again, refusing to disappear into their newspapers and knitting. If Ms Mehta were to be believed, most of the coffee shops in Delhi and Bangalore were occupied by septuagenarians on their third dates. The Internet, it seemed, had liberated an entire generation of metropolitan seniors who could now invite romance and marriage back into their lives. The article made it sound like no park bench was safe, no restaurant out of bounds and no theatre free from the triumphant cries of carousing pensioners.

Susheela had always assumed that dating and matrimonial websites were only for youngsters and perverts. Now her curiosity was piqued. A handful of online searches showed her that a fair number of seniors were locked in a lamentable bid to reclaim their youth. Apparently there was no humiliation that they would not endure in an attempt to turn back the clock. Susheela jammed her reading glasses further up the bridge of her nose: some of these characters were even older than her.

On one website a sixty-six-year-old individual who called himself Avinash stated that his wife Brinda had passed away three years ago. Surely these people would not use their real names? Avinash claimed to have a deep interest in philosophy and stressed that his family members were all highly educated professional people, living all over the globe. He also bore more than a passing resemblance to
the old Hindi film villain Pran. Avinash was seeking a well-educated wife or companion, slim or slender, between the ages of thirty-five and fifty. Susheela could only presume that none of Avinash’s erudite, internationally settled relatives had access to the Internet.

She clicked on another photo. Narendra, aged sixty-eight, from Bangalore, had felt the need to include a lengthy description of his career trajectory in the medical equipment manufacturing industry. He was divorced. His wife, he stated, had ‘indulged in some unruly behaviour at the express instigation of her family members and others,’ the consequences of which were fairly apparent. Narendra was looking for a Hindu wife who would be pleasant by nature, devoted and adaptable.

At what point had so many people taken leave of their senses? One man proclaimed with no shame that he was working in Afghanistan and wanted his future wife to accompany him there. As if it was not enough that the unfortunate woman would have all her husband’s details advertised across cyberspace, this man wanted to take her to a place where she would be mercilessly abused by the Taliban. Of course, there were a number of seemingly normal older men who looked perfectly well meaning. Yet some temporary mania had sent them all scurrying off to find wives when they could barely stand up unassisted.

Susheela turned her attention to the women. There seemed to be a number of Anglo-Indian women in their sixties seeking husbands, a fact which did not surprise her. One Bengali woman’s profile had been created by her daughter who claimed to be speaking on her behalf. Was the poor woman even aware of the existence of this website or would her daughter simply present her with a long line of geriatric suitors one day, a
swayamvar
for the superannuated? At least many of the women had seen fit to refrain from publishing their photos. Susheela did, however, spot one very decent-looking lady in a Kanjeevaram sari with a gentle smile. Meena lived in
Mumbai and stated that she was looking for a ‘second innings’ with a caring man who would respect her independence. How had her family allowed her to get involved in such things? Susheela heard the phone ring and quickly logged off, her thoughts still fixated on Meena. She really hoped she would not end up with that man in Afghanistan.

‘So what news in the world of power supply? More load-shedding? There will have to be since the rains are late this year,’ observed Anand, pouring himself a beer. ‘You’re sure you don’t want one?’

Girish shook his head.

‘Well, if the population goes on increasing and demand keeps going through the roof, what can anyone do? No increase in supply will be able to keep up,’ said Girish sourly.

‘What you people need to do is stop giving those farmers all that free electricity. At least you will improve your revenue streams and be able to invest in capacity.’

‘Not all farmers get free electricity.’

‘The ones who don’t just stick their line anywhere and steal it. And you people take no action, the police take no action, no one does anything. If it were up to me, I would have a few of their leaders thrown in jail and see how much power they can steal after that.’

‘It’s easy for people like you to talk. It’s not that easy to police the lines. Plus the rich farmers’ groups are very powerful in delivering votes. So they will always get what they want.’

Mala had followed Lavanya into the kitchen.

‘Where was the need to bring all these fruits? So formal you’ve become,’ said Lavanya. Then, turning to the maid: ‘Manju, put these fruits in the fridge. And that basket you can take. You might need it for something.’

In spite of the fact that Mala was married to the elder of
the brothers, her age, background and experience meant that a recalibration of familial norms had been necessary. Certainly, that much had become evident the first time she had met Lavanya, a week before her wedding.

‘You will not have any problems in Mysore,’ Lavanya had said, while adjusting Mala’s
pallu
. ‘Anand knows everyone.’

Mala had quickly learnt that her role in her relationship with Lavanya was to be that of an eager pupil, curious and admiring in equal measure. For her part, Lavanya would by turn explain or advise, treating Mala with a complacent grace. Mala was sure that as long as she stuck to these parameters, she would be able to avoid any potential unpleasantness or conflict. She had the measure of the intricate difficulties in Girish’s relationship with his brother and sister-in-law and she now felt responsible for preventing any manifestations of his prickly discontentment in their presence. Her powers were circumscribed but she could certainly play the part she had been assigned with an earnest vigour.

Lavanya reached for a brochure that was resting on the microwave.

‘Look Mala, I want to show you something. But please, we haven’t told people so not a word to anyone, okay?’

Mala looked at the brochure’s thick sleeve: an aerial shot of an arc of glittering villas set in a landscape of palms and jewelled lawns. The name of this Shangri-La was Terra Blanca, ‘Mysore’s most exclusive lifestyle enclave’ according to the serpentine calligraphy on the first page. Mala began to turn the pages reverentially.

‘I didn’t even know they had such places in India,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ breathed Lavanya, as if Mala’s comment had buried within it a primal truth.

‘Are you thinking of moving here?’ asked Mala.

‘Not thinking! We have already booked one of the villas on the western side of the development,’ said Lavanya.

‘Really? I can’t believe it!’

‘Really, really, really!’

‘These houses, I mean villas, are amazing but this is also such a nice house in such a good area. Will you really sell it and leave?’

‘Mala, this place was good for us but our needs are also changing. The main thing is security. They have 24-hour armed guards and cameras at Terra Blanca and they are very careful about whom they let in. Shruthi can play outside with no problems. And you know, they are also very strict about who can buy a house there. We will be with other people like us.’

Mala’s face was a picture of elation.

‘And just look at the facilities. There’s an excellent school there, a shopping complex, a cinema and a mini-amphitheatre for weddings and other functions,’ continued Lavanya, seizing the brochure and jabbing at the relevant pages.

‘The swimming pools look so nice,’ said Mala.

‘Everything is nice! Look at the fitness centre and the spa. And it even has its own medical facility and fire department.’

Mala reached out for the brochure, like she would for an infant. As she thought up a few more questions to ask Lavanya, she allowed herself to be relieved that the conversation was taking place in the kitchen.

As Uma walked home, the wind grew stronger, filling the air with a fine sediment that lodged itself in the corners of her eyes and coated the roof of her mouth. It was Saturday evening and there was already a huddle of early drinkers trying to attract the attention of the man behind the counter at Raksha Wines. A woman sitting on the pavement had clearly given up the struggle for the time being. As Uma walked past her, she looked up, her eyes raw with need. Uma glanced at her and kept walking.

Emerging from the chaos outside Raksha Wines, a man in his thirties, with a face like a pair of pincers, called out to Uma.

‘Eh, don’t pretend you can’t hear me,’ he yelled at her receding form.

The man was a local fixer. In the greasy world of municipal graft, his was one of a number of names that could prove useful in ensuring a desired outcome. Providing all due funds were made available on time, his areas of expertise were legion: a speedy landline connection, multiple SIM cards without proof of address, an expedited income certificate from the
tahsildar’s
office, domestic gas cylinders without delay and the prompt registration of land title documents. His weekend swagger was not one produced by large quantities of local whiskey, but instead by the sense of distinction that came from providing a public service in a mutilated system.

Uma needed nothing from that world and had no reason to stop to see what the man wanted. She paused outside an unassuming temple, tucked into a small courtyard next to a printing press. The temple was frequented exclusively by the low caste inhabitants of the surrounding sprawl. Others preferred to worship at the two temples on the main road, where presumably the deities were better equipped to deal with the ordinary concerns of members of the upper castes. It was time for the evening
aarthi
and a long but orderly queue stretched out of the temple entrance. Uma decided not to join the queue. Instead she slipped off her
chappals
in the road, folded her palms and bowed her head in prayer.

A few minutes later she was making her way down the row to her room. A number of children nearly crashed into her on the narrow path as they raced towards the hill leading up to Mysore Junction; there were rumours of fireworks. The white belt of one of the girls’ dresses had come undone and fallen into a pool of dirty water outside the door of Uma’s room. She picked it up and laid it flat across the top of a tyre that had been left leaning against the wall.

Uma’s room was in darkness. The power cut had already lasted over two hours and it was entirely possible that it would continue through the night. The monsoons had still not arrived and the water levels remained low in all the hydroelectric dams that served the state. Uma lit a candle below the picture of Shiva. She picked up a cloth hanging on a hook, dipped it into a bucket of water and dabbed at her upper arms. She lifted her hair up and swabbed the back of her neck, her upper chest and her face. She then moved to the washing area and poured a judicious amount of water on to her feet, massaging her arches and running a finger deep into the crevices between her toes. Picking up a towel, she wiped her feet dry and then lay on the mattress.