The Smoke is Rising (33 page)

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘a laughing stock.’

The editor of the
Mysore Evening Sentinel
was adding the finishing touches to his comment for the next day’s edition. When he completed an item that he found particularly insightful, his hooded eyes seemed to retreat further into his face. He read through the column one more time so that the conclusions would resound in his head as he drove home. The piece was intended as a wake-up call on climate change to the residents of Mysore. There was an urgent need to change lifestyles, adapt processes and harness new technologies. This would all take time, so in the interim readers were urged to purchase more eco-friendly products and reduce reliance on air conditioning when the weather began to change in a few weeks.

He emailed the final copy and prepared to leave the office. He would be home in time to have a rest, change into a smart suit and then make his way to the Anuraag Kalakshetra for the opening gala of the Mysore International Film Festival. Not only was it important for him to be seen at such events, this time he had a reserved second-row seat at the premiere. He had also just received news that one of the national dailies was looking for a deputy editor, a literary craftsman with a wealth of reporting experience and exposure to the frenetic tumult of major news stories. It had been a good year and, without a doubt, his time had come.

After Vaidehi had left, Susheela returned to the straight-backed chair where she had been sitting. The cup was where Vaidehi had left it, an ugly brown blot marking the side where it had made contact with her mouth.

She remained immobile for some time. At lunchtime the vegetable vendor went past, the familiar shout failing to penetrate her consciousness. Across the road, the Nachappa boy left the house on his motorbike and returned an hour later. The
mali
, sensing that he would not be found out, decided to take a nap in the shed.

The doorbell rang just as the downstairs clock struck three. Susheela knew it would be Bhargavi.

When she opened the door, she said, ‘Sorry Bhargavi, there has been a change. Can you come tomorrow instead? I’ll speak to Mrs Bhaskar later. Don’t worry, I’ll still pay you for today.’

‘No,
amma
, you don’t have to do that,’ said Bhargavi and walked back towards the gates.

Susheela returned to her chair and watched her leave, before sitting quietly as before. Her gaze seemed to be following the border of the carpet, parallel lines of gold and brown, dusted with motes.

Eventually she stood up and went to the kitchen. Reaching for two plastic bags in the pantry, she lined one with the other. She then lifted the heavy pan off the hob, biting her lip with the effort, and emptied its contents into the plastic bags. The
halwa
made a sad slithering noise as it slipped over the sides of the pan. Susheela meticulously scraped the pan clean before soaking it in the sink. Tying the bags up in a double knot, she opened the back door and walked to the outside bin. She lifted its lid and dropped the bags inside. The
halwa
hit the bottom with a muffled blow, bloodless and final.

‘Mr Jaydev? It’s Susheela.’

‘Yes, tell me.’

‘I am so sorry to tell you this but I will have to cancel for tonight.’

‘Oh no. Why, is everything all right?’

‘I am so sorry for the short notice.’

‘Has something happened?’

‘Nothing has happened exactly but I really need to cancel. I hope that you will not be offended. I am so sorry.’

‘But I am not following you, Susheelaji. I mean, all of a sudden?’

‘Jaydevji, I don’t know how to explain it to you but please try to understand. Sometimes events just overtake us and we have no control over such things. And then everything has to change.’

‘But
what
has happened? You are just talking in riddles now.’

‘Please Jaydevji.’

‘Are you not feeling well?’

‘You are not trying to understand me. Please, these matters are beyond our control. Surely you must be able to see that.’

A pause began to grow, the kind of dead air that could never be filled by breath or static.

‘Well, as long as you are all right and there is no bad news.’

‘No, there is no bad news.’

Another silence threatened to descend.

‘Goodbye.’

Susheela hung up.

The opening gala of the first Mysore International Film Festival was a sensation. The Promenade had been transformed into the cynosure of contemporary culture. Not only had representatives of the national press descended on Tejasandra Lake, the festival had managed to attract some international media attention too. The beacons that had turned the Anuraag Kalakshetra into a dazzling alcázar were matched only by the celebrity wattage on the red carpet. Beyond the organisers’ most outlandish prayers, stars from Bollywood, Tollywood, Kollywood, Mollywood and Sandalwood had made an appearance at the event, their respective entourages
managing to overwhelm the local dignitaries, press corps and gathered fans. There were enchanting vignettes of previous junkets to Mysore, passionate endorsements of the treasures of the Lake Utsava and a general adoration of the circumstances that had brought them all together at last.

The members of the festival jury appeared delighted to be in each other’s presence and were more than generous with their time and perspectives. The press were most keen to engage with the president of the jury, a director of heavy-handed comedies of errors who had been involved in a couple of infamous casting couch scandals in the eighties. Equally popular was his fellow judge, a cine queen of yesteryear who looked ravishing in an ivory lace confection. Her fans had eagerly followed her much publicised victory over an addiction to gin and prescription painkillers, and were now keen to see her in the flesh.

‘Madam, you are a vision of beauty and grace!’ shouted a photographer.

‘Young man, I hope your girlfriend is not here,’ she replied, her voice husky with her new medication.

The president of the jury made a charming speech on what could be achieved when disparate communities came together in an urban setting to build a cultural edifice that the rest of the world could only look on in envy. Faiza Jaleel emailed the first part of her report to the sub-editor in the office within minutes.

Representatives from the main sponsors were also keen to take advantage of the unique promotional opportunities. Their business cards were discreetly handed to photographers to ensure that their names and designations were noted correctly. As the constellations gazed benignly down on the lakeside proceedings, a number of quaint friendships were formed in the media glare: starlets and city corporation officials, minor socialites and the board members of the Mysore Tourism Authority, local captains of
industry and the Chief Officer of Mysore Central Jail, Nuclear Thimma and everyone.

With the frenzied distractions on the red carpet and the blitz of jubilation on the Promenade, it was hardly surprising that the merits of the film that was screened that evening remained something of a mystery. Indeed, reports appeared on a couple of news channels setting out observations on two entirely different features. The organisers of the film festival, however, had their own yardstick by which to measure the gala’s success, and by those norms, the opening was declared a triumph. It was the perfect launch pad for the inauguration of the Lake Utsava the following day.

Bhargavi looked at the string of mango leaves hanging across the door and the scattering of marigold petals on the ground. Someone else had definitely moved into the room. The door was padlocked.

She knocked on the neighbour’s open door. Parvathi emerged from the room, wiping her hands on the front of her sari.

‘Yes?’

‘I was looking for Uma, your neighbour.’

‘She has gone.’

‘You mean, she has left this place?’

‘Yes, gone completely. Some new couple is there now. They moved in yesterday.’

Parvathi turned to go back inside her room.

‘One minute, one minute,’ said Bhargavi. ‘Do you know where she went?’

‘Look, no one knows where she has gone. She just disappeared like a thief in the middle of the night. Didn’t even tell the landlord. He had to break open the lock the next day and then saw that most of her things weren’t there. What was left, I think he took.’

Parvathi’s eyes narrowed as she looked at Bhargavi.

‘Are you a relative?’

‘No, I just needed to speak to her about something.’

Parvathi laughed weakly.

‘Other women have been coming here to speak to her too.’

‘But why did she just disappear like that?’ asked Bhargavi. ‘It makes no sense.’

‘You really don’t know?’

‘No.’

A fight between children broke out in the room behind Parvathi.

‘Look, I can’t stand here and talk to you all day but ask anyone here and you will soon find out why.’

She disappeared into the darkness of the room.

Bhargavi looked again at the shreds of marigold lying on the damp earth, before moving away. She still walked with a slight limp even though it had been a few months since she had left hospital. It took her a few minutes to get to the next row where she knew some people. She had always been adept at soliciting information and this was an area where tales would be recounted all too readily.