The Smoke is Rising (36 page)

To eyes hardened by the relentless images of the information age, the scene at the Promenade bore the banality of catastrophe. Armed guards stood at all the approach roads, the skeletons of destroyed cars framing the scene. The entire area was sealed off and a curfew in place. Shattered glass was strewn across the steps of buildings and over the wide pavement opposite the lake. Blood streaked the wall and railings that formed part of the flood defences. Hundreds of shoes and
chappals
covered the newly tarred road in both directions. Smouldering tyres blocked some of the side roads. Half a mile away, the shell of an incinerated bus directed its macabre gaze towards what was left of a giant hoarding for the Lake Utsava. The silver bunting had been torched and had drifted to the ground as fine, feathery ash.

The Tejasandra Galleria had not, as reported, been set ablaze. The smoke that had turned the sky above the lake into a dark, distended belly had come from the unprotected stocks of diesel, struck by a flaming missile. But the Galleria had not escaped unharmed. Every ground floor window was smashed; rubber bullets and tear gas canisters had found their way into the atrium and art gallery; a police barrier had been hurled at the glass lift; there was blood on the moulded pillars that soared towards the upper loggia. Fittings had been ripped from carefully papered walls and furniture smashed against the floor of the marble foyer. Merchandise was ruined, trailing in dirt or wrapped around marquee poles and lamp posts. Undressed mannequins had been flung over the lake wall: a few lay mutilated on the rocks, more floated in the water, arms raised towards the heavens, their humiliation complete.

The Museum of Folklore was shrouded in soot. Inside the Anuraag Kalakshetra, axes and machetes lay at the foot of the winding staircase. Debris covered the stage in the auditorium and the seats had been systematically slashed, their innards weeping onto the floor. Opposite the entrance to the building, the frame of the specially commissioned fountain was dented and shamed, its basin filled with rocks and broken bottles. Further along the Promenade, at the foot of the ramp designed for the vintage car display, there lay ten dead bodies, their necks impossibly twisted, a final tribute to the city’s special day.

Susheela’s thoughts had not strayed far from her conversation with Prema. It was definitely the right thing to do. She called Jaydev.

A strange voice answered the phone.

‘Is Mr Jaydev there?’

‘No madam, he has gone out of station.’

All of a sudden?’

‘He went yesterday only.’

‘And you are?’

‘Caretaker, madam.’

‘Can you tell me, where has he gone?’

‘To America, his son’s place, madam.’

There was a pause.

‘Madam?’

‘Do you have any idea when he will be back?’

‘He said he was going for about three months, madam. Maybe four, but he will phone to let me know.’

‘I see. Thank you.’

‘I can give you his son’s phone number in America, madam, if it is urgent.’

‘No, thank you, it is not urgent.’

‘Okay then, any other message madam?’

‘No, no message.’

Susheela hung up and tried to work out a few dates. But her mind did not seem to be functioning properly. She kept starting all over again on this simple calculation. The man had said that Jaydev would be back in three or four months. She supposed it could be longer than that. There really was no way of telling.

She turned and walked towards the windows. The shadows were lengthening across the lawn, long bodies with eerie heads stretching towards the house. The dahlias, stubbornly blooming beyond their season, seemed strange and forbidding in that half-light, their faces purple with venom. On the other side of the lawn, creatures seemed to be moving in the upper reaches of the jackfruit tree, alert to the workings of her mind. The world outside was united in judgment: the bougainvillea glowered at her through the kinks in its boughs; a dark nebula descended over the garden, angrily screening off the coral sky; the rose bushes looked bitter
and defeated. The windows were still open and the dusk’s chilly breath began to invade the room. Susheela continued to stand motionless, watching the night draw in completely. The shift did not take long. It was what she imagined the final vestiges of sight to be, as it faded into blindness.

Mala and Rukmini sat in front of the television, neither of them paying any attention to it. On screen the anchor for a talent show took off his jacket and began to dance in front of the judges, keen to show that despite his training at one of the country’s best drama schools, he was still grounded enough to participate in the rough and tumble of popular entertainment. Rukmini was in a state of near slumber, her head gently swaying and her glasses marooned over her forehead, stranded in the course of a half-performed intention to go to bed. Mala was putting together Babu’s medication for the next day, his tablets for hypertension, diabetes and cholesterol placed in rows on her lap. He was getting ready to go to bed, stating that he had a stomach ache.

‘It didn’t seem to affect your appetite at dinner,’ Rukmini commented, with a glance at Mala.

‘It won’t help my stomach if I starve to death,’ he responded crossly, before leaving the room. There the cupboard door was noisily opened and closed a couple of times and a pillow shaken against the mattress. This was followed by an overwrought coughing fit.

‘Every month he becomes more and more like a child,’ Rukmini said, with a sigh. ‘I thought after bringing you two up my work was done, but look, it’s started all over again.’

The bedroom door was now firmly closed. Mala looked at Rukmini and smiled. Her mother’s mouth had lolled open and her eyes were rolling back into her head. She now looked like an old souse, after a particularly lively night out.

Mala gently shook her awake.

‘You had better go to bed. You are starting to look like someone who has had too much
arrack
,’ she said.

‘
Chee
,’ said Rukmini, sliding her glasses back on to her nose.

The talent show had come to an end. A special programme began on the need for civilian activism on social and environmental issues. There was going to be a panel discussion on how communities could come together to ensure better urban governance, taking into account all strata of society. The panel guests were introduced: the state’s Minister for Law, Justice, Human Rights, Parliamentary Affairs, Municipal Strategy and Social Welfare; a spokesperson for the opposition; a renowned cultural commentator; an eminent print journalist and Mr G S Anand, CEO of Exospace Media Ltd and head of the recently formed Taskforce for Civic Harmony.

Anand’s face looked wider on television, his teeth whiter, his skin paler. He smiled with authority and ease, a man who dealt out charming sound bites like cards falling from the hands of a casino croupier. Rukmini threw an anxious glance at Mala who was looking at the screen, her face inscrutable. Suddenly Rukmini was struck by how very young she looked, in spite of everything.

‘You cannot stand in the way of progress and expect not to be crushed,’ said Anand, in response to a question from the show’s host. ‘The smart thing to do is to stop obstructing the vehicle and get on board.’

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.