Weight loss was big business in Mysore and not simply as a consequence of the city’s many yoga schools. For Faiza Jaleel, it was oxygen. As sole occupant of the lifestyle desk at the Mysore Evening Sentinel, her articles drew on the wispiest of details and then puffed out information and advice, steeped in the earnest vernacular of slimming. New gyms seemed to be springing up in Mysore practically every day. Dieting clubs had begun to make inroads into suburban kitchens. The new Dhamaka health club in Mahalakshmi Gardens claimed to have a formidable waiting list. Boxercise and jazzercise groups were convening on roof terraces, first floors of office blocks and in community halls. The readers of the Mysore Evening Sentinel were assured that Faiza would catalogue every fad and fancy.
In one poignant interview, Mrs Jethmalani of Jayalakshmipuram explained the difficulties she faced.
‘It is true that these days temptations are very strong, but I think the real problem is in my genes,’ she confessed to Faiza.
‘In my genes and in my jeans,’ she giggled, a second later.
It was lucky that Mrs Jethmalani was of a jolly disposition. She had joined her local laughing club, having heard impressive accounts of its health benefits. The club founder had assured her that with a positive attitude and the strong abdominal muscles engendered by communal hilarity, the pounds would simply fall off. Faiza had nodded sympathetically, switched her recorder off and returned to work.
Carbohydrates continued to get a bad press and a pall of dejection settled over a city of rice-eaters. The coconut seller outside Sheethal Talkies had begun to sell body-building supplements along with hashish and pirated DVDs. In Kuvempunagar and Gokulam, the Keralite Ayurvedic centres were offering consultations and massages to counter disproportionate weight gain. The enterprising general manager of Sri Venkatesh Traders had managed to procure several consignments of grapefruit essential oil after hearing about its virtues as an appetite suppressant.
Guests at parties and wedding receptions collared Faiza, eager to discuss the merits of burdock root in increasing metabolism. Stealing a look at her plate as she circulated, they would outline the ingredients of the latest miracle remedy for corpulence and describe the craze for veil-dancing or Zumba-Natyam routines. Faiza serenely absorbed the new intelligence while noting the relative girth of prominent socialites; she had an idea for a column called ‘Society Snacking Secrets’.
At a diabetes fundraiser, Faiza had spotted Leena Lambha, a well-known item girl. Leena was currently the face and body of a company that manufactured plug-in belts guaranteeing a toned midriff through a patented thermodynamic system. Leena had been charming and candid. Nothing she had ever tried had been as successful as the toning belt.
Some of the seriously well-heeled had of course taken their cues from their intimates in Mumbai and Delhi, returning from foreign jaunts with a new litheness on show. Tummy tucks and gastric bands were expensive, especially when rates were converted into rupees; deluxe maintenance, however, always came at a price. Faiza had arranged to meet a dentist who was known to administer Botox injections, the only high-profile medical professional in the city to do so. Encouraging him to say anything interesting on the record was proving difficult but Faiza was indefatigable.
Nutritionist husband and wife team, Valmiki and Vanitha Govind, had seized the day. Their second book on the perfectly balanced Indian diet had hit the shelves. Radio interviews, a lecture tour, cooking demonstrations in shopping malls and a column in a women’s weekly had all followed. There was a rumour that the couple were in talks with both ETV and Suvarna, their televisual potential not having gone unnoticed. Not surprisingly, Faiza’s calls to their office no longer yielded a ready response.
Faiza did not take these matters to heart. There was more than enough vitality in Mysore’s cultural scene to prevent her dwelling on the inescapable injuries of a journalistic life. She had come to know that the authorities at St Catherine’s College had permitted the producers of a new reality show to use their Senate Hall for the Mysore round of the show’s auditions. An advertisement soon ran in the Mysore Evening Sentinel encouraging ‘bubbly, overweight ladies’ to take this unique opportunity to embark on a life-changing journey.
The show’s producers had taken inspiration from a variety of cultural leitmotifs to put together a concept involving the anguish of weight gain, the enchantment of celebrity, the allure of a distant island and the rapture of the human condition. Six celebrities and six non-celebrities, all female and all stout, would be transported to a Mexican island where they would be encouraged to find their inner and outer beauty, all under the strictest medical supervision. The participants would be assessed on their success at transforming themselves and discovering hidden truths about their personalities, with the invaluable assistance of telephone voting from viewers at home. The show’s publicist had already sent out communiqués heralding the identities of the high-octane judges: a former Miss Asia Pacific, celebrity nutritionists Valmiki and Vanitha Govind, a stuntman turned fight choreographer and the personal physician to a retired Chief Minister. There had been some concern that the reality format no longer held the pulling power of previous years. As a result, battalions of media monitors were dispatched, market researchers appointed and focus groups set up. The final conclusion, some months later, was inescapable. Moti Ya Mast would send the ratings into the stratosphere. Faiza, notebook in hand, would undoubtedly be watching.
For years, Susheela had been a fan of the tangy rather than the sweet. Her natural constituency was the lip-sucking sourness of limes, the quivering tartness of tamarind on her tongue and the acid sting of green mangoes. She had once made Sridhar drive back to his cousin’s home in Indore, when they were nearly halfway to Bhopal, in order to pick up a jar of gooseberry pickle that she had left behind on the dining table.
Once she was in her fifties, though, there appeared a new arrival that laid waste to her established palate. Sugar made a grand entrance in Susheela’s life. Of course in the past she had on occasion popped a festive laddoo into her mouth, a squidge of birthday cake or some steaming prasada after a Satyanarayan pooja. This new interest in sweet things, however, was unprecedented in range and depth. She remembered the first time that she had realised that something had changed beyond all doubt. It was at the wedding reception hosted by Cyril and Sanjana Fernandes for their daughter Maya. On a whim, Susheela had drifted past the dessert table and returned with a single scoop of fig and poppy seed ice cream in a scalloped silver bowl. The first mouthful had been an epiphany, an unclouded insight into the realms of other people’s pleasure. The jammy trails of fig had yielded at just the right moment, offering up their nutty grains. The swirls of poppy seed were engaged in a creamy conspiracy and Susheela had unlocked each of their dark secrets. The dessert had feathered her mouth and throat and left her with no option. She returned to the buffet and then had to summon all her willpower to resist a third visit.
Maya Fernandes’s marriage ended a year later with some unpleasant allegations on both sides but Susheela’s sensory stimulation had endured. Puddings, pastries and payasas had floated into her gaze like stunned fireflies in a searchlight’s sudden beam. The envelope of rich butter cream coddling the carrot cake from the coffee shop at the Mysore Regency; the tender resistance of plump raisins in a dollop of pongal cooked in hot ghee; the honeyed tang of freshly made jalebis, the sticky coil coming apart in her hands: Susheela’s surrender had been complete.
As the driver slowed down at the traffic lights on Narayan Shastry Road, she told him to make a quick stop at the Plaza Sweet Mart. It would not take long to pick up a small box of kaju pista rolls. The driver worked for her on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays, by arrangement with Shantha Prasad, fellow resident of Mahalakshmi Gardens. Neither of them required a full-time driver and they were both agreed that it would be an extravagance. So a mutually convenient arrangement had been struck, with Susheela offering to let Shantha have the driver during the latter half of the week, including Saturdays. It was a sacrifice that Susheela hoped would be acknowledged by a similar act of kindness. This never came.
She was surprised to see that there was hardly a soul at the Plaza Sweet Mart. She made her selection and then walked down the road to pop in to Great Expectations. Ashok the owner stood up as soon as he saw her.
‘Welcome madam, not been here for many days.’
‘How are you? I came one evening, I think your daughter was here. Nice girl.’
‘Thank you, madam. Looking for anything particular?’
‘Any books on Ayurveda? But properly written please, not by some fraud who makes up any old rubbish. There are plenty of those. Vata, pitta, kapha, alpha, beta, gamma … as if no one will notice.’
Ashok smiled sadly, apparently wounded by the depths of chicanery in the publishing business, and busied himself at a display, looking for books that would not affront Susheela.
A mulch of sweet wrappers and plastic bags lay at the entrance to the cyber café. The sliding door sat uneasily in its groove, threatening to crash to the ground at any moment. Girish could not tell whether or not the place was open for business. He knocked on the door and, a few muffled noises later, the door slid open by a few inches. He could just about make out the face of a girl with a red dupatta loosely covering her head. She raised her eyebrows once in quick enquiry.
‘Open?’ asked Girish, an edge of annoyance creeping into his voice.
The girl raised her eyebrows again and stepped slowly to one side, pushing the door open by a few more inches.
Girish stepped into the dim room, turning his shoulders away from the girl in disgust. What kind of a business were these people running? Probably a front for some terrorist cell, a mujahidin network having decided that Sitanagar in Mysore would be the perfect base for their activities. One just never knew these days.
Six partitioned surfaces holding computer monitors had been crammed into the tiny area. The room had no windows and the only light was the murky indigo flicker from the grimy screens. The woman pointed at a computer in the corner and returned to her own screen. Girish squeezed into the space indicated and began his circuit. He had an email from his credit card company, one from Indian Railways and one from a colleague sending on a tedious list of differences between ‘the smart Indian man’ and ‘the smart Indian woman’. He moved on to various news websites, barely absorbing the first few lines of a story before clicking on another link. Then he checked into a couple of motoring websites.
There was a knock on the door and the girl pushed her chair back with a screech. This time she had a hurried conversation with someone wearing a baseball cap and returned to the gloom of her station. A mosquito dived past his ear with its urgent whine. He once again resolved to buy a computer before the end of the following month. It was simply untenable that he should continue to come to this rank hole and pay money for the privilege.
Girish had profiles on three social networking sites, all featuring the same brief account. A couple of allusions to his seniority were buried in the short description of his career; there were half a dozen photographs taken during his honeymoon in Ooty; and he had added a list of interests which probably had contained elements of veracity at some point. He had no idea why he even logged on to these sites any more. They had brought neither stimulation to his social life nor favour in his career. As a creature of habit, he supposed that it was just something else that he had built into his routine. He did occasionally like to catch up on the current status of ex-colleagues and college mates. The truth was that he probably scrutinised their profiles a little more than occasionally; quite a bit more. But then wasn’t that what these websites were for? To present a palatable record of your own life and to gawk at the signposts planted by your peers?
According to Mohit Joshi’s profile he was now based in c, in charge of IT systems for a finance company. There he was posing in front of a fountain on Sentosa Island with his fat wife and lumpy kids. He had apparently decided that he was of American stock. His latest post began: ‘Hey wassup dudes! Howsit hanging?!’ This was from a man who had not left Firozabad until he was nineteen. Mohit’s friends on the website seemed to be similarly deluded simpletons, fleshy calves emerging from khaki shorts at various recreational locales.
A few weeks ago, Girish had been surprised to discover that Abhijit Dutta was now some big-shot television producer in Delhi. In fact, Girish had only thought of looking him up online when his name had flashed up on the credits of a programme on Star One. In a bored moment Girish had wanted confirmation, and Abhijit had popped up in at least twenty-five pages of Google hits. He had certainly moved on from the affable but nondescript entity he had been at university.
Girish’s recollections of his time at university always fixed him at the centre of a charismatic group with a keen sense of purpose. He had chosen to go to a well-regarded college, part of Delhi University, wanting to escape the reach of his provincial background. But once settled in his cheerless shared room in the men’s hostel, surges of panic had begun to break over him. Faced by the adamant indifference of college cliques, sequestered in an alien city, for the first time he had cause to question his assumed route to success.
Some months later, a more senior student had come to Girish’s rescue, spotting him at a debating society meeting. A final year mathematician, active in student politics, he had begun shepherding Girish to meetings and rallies, gabbling into his face every time a local party bigwig made an appearance on campus. At first Girish had gratefully tailed his new mentor, hugely relieved at this turn of events. The appearance of energetic activity that marked out the student politicians gave him an identity that he craved, in the face of the wealthier and more confident undergraduates who snaked around the campus. They were able to procure first day, first show balcony tickets at any cinema and tease out knowing laughter from girls in bright churidars at the local eateries. Girish had come to take his academic excellence for granted and needed some other insignia in that unfamiliar new world.
In time, he had become more actively involved in student politics, persuaded by his new circle that his contribution would be essential. He knew he could speak well (or, as he preferred, ‘orate’) and it was the admiration and exhortations of his associates, rather than any natural ambition or ideology, that was the impetus to his political activities. He began by absorbing the methods of the student union apparatchiks. The murky patterns of patronage and intimidation practised by the mainstream parties were reflected within the student union factions, abetting the rise of a number of muscular political personalities on campus. A student organisation affiliated to a major party would identify particular colleges where block votes could easily be delivered. It would then attempt to manipulate admissions procedures there to ensure that efficient student campaigners would gain entry to the college.
The political causes espoused at these colleges were becoming increasingly circumscribed: agitation for the reversal of college disciplinary sanctions against a student union official; a forced boycott of lectures following the announcement of inopportune union election dates; and protests demanding the release of an election candidate, arrested for unlawful possession of firearms. Girish quickly came to understand the nature of these operations but was untroubled by their complexion or by the alternate voices within the student community calling for a union clean up. The practice of politics was dirty and there was little to be gained from being blind to that fact. Girish was now speaking eloquently before appreciative audiences, was involved in strategy meetings and writing speeches for campus heavyweights. This was the real draw.
In Girish’s final year, rumblings began to sound that the government was finally going to implement the recommendations of the Mandal Commission: the introduction of quotas for ‘backward’ classes for recruitment to public sector jobs and admission to government universities. The proposed extension of the state’s affirmative action policies meant that almost half of all government jobs and university places were to be reserved for members of lower castes. It did not take long for the college student body’s position to become clear, dominated as it was by upper castes. The organisations on campus were, however, getting mixed signals from the major political parties, who were unsure where to nail their colours, still debating whether the proposals amounted only to inconsequential government bluster. In a change from the usual internal politicking, rival student organisations began to come together to protest against the Mandal recommendations, convinced that upper caste youth were being dispossessed of the opportunities that were available to them.
Girish suddenly found himself in a widening fissure, a situation that demanded action. His participation thus far had seemed almost abstract, his interests lying in the execution rather than in the achievement. Now as demonstrations and walk-outs began to gather momentum across North Indian universities, Girish and his peers were called upon to articulate a very specific opposition to this new wave of social reconstruction.
Girish had always known that as a Brahmin of limited means, he would have to be the product of his own diligence and resourcefulness. This had never been a concern as he was secure in his assessment of his academic abilities and had begun to believe in the mantra of merit and efficiency that would finally open doors in a secular, democratic India. Caste was not a factor that needed to feature in these calculations. Its natural habitat was the remote feudal dust plains and tribal thickets of a different modernity. For Girish, caste had become a personal matter, a private cultural identity bound up only with the desultory practice of rituals in the kitchen and the pooja room.
But the shifting configurations of state patronage meant that his caste identity had reared up in a public arena to make him feel that his future was under assault. High levels of caste-based reservations had existed for years in South India but his awareness of them had been dim. It was only now that his consciousness snagged on the jagged tip of the protests erupting all around him. The student agitation in a number of North Indian cities was becoming increasingly violent. In Delhi a group of students from Girish’s college had tried to barricade parts of Race Course Road and Kemal Ataturk Road, both points a short distance from the Prime Minister’s official residence. Another group had attacked a police station in Moti Bagh, reports of arrests of students and custodial brutality having made their way back to the campus. This new realm of action was a jurisdiction too far for Girish, the supercilious wordsmith: he had never conceived of a reality beyond his finely crafted speeches.
Not long after he had spoken at a debating society meeting, the publication of an image in newspapers and magazines sent a devastating charge through the arteries of the urban elite. In one horrifying instant, a young man in a pale blue T-shirt, his upper body consumed by flames, faced the camera’s lens with an ossified grimace. The student was a commerce undergraduate who had walked into a busy junction outside his South Delhi college, doused his body with kerosene and set himself on fire in protest at the government’s decision to implement the Mandal recommendations. A number of self-immolations followed in other cities, each appalling incident polarising positions further. The serial debater, however, became curiously silent, fading into the dim hallways of his student hostel. His absence was noted but not acted upon in the frenzy of those eventful days.
Girish put an end to all his political activities and distanced himself from anyone who was likely to seek an explanation for his desertion. Instead he focused his energies on his studies, reaping an impressive number of gold medals by the time he graduated the following year. His activist days were never to return. They left only a hard certainty, like a cyst under his skin, that the world into which he was about to launch himself was one where, at the stroke of a pen, the meritorious could be ousted and their rewards expropriated. Girish returned to Mysore, the gait of a martyr already assimilated.
A distant rumble grew into a more discernible pattern of shouts and hand-clapping. At first it sounded like crowd noises from a radio but it was soon clear that this was something quite different. Susheela looked up from the book that she was holding.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked.
At that moment Ashok’s mobile phone rang and he apologetically put his hand up to Susheela as he answered it. She watched him as he murmured into the phone. The clamour seemed to be getting louder.
‘Madam, that was my son. Seems there is some agitation in the city. Those theme park farmers.’
‘What theme park farmers?’
‘They are having a dharna in the city today and I think there has been some trouble.’
Ashok looked grave and walked towards the door, beyond which the street seemed unusually forsaken. His mobile phone rang again and he answered it standing in the doorway, looking in both directions.
Susheela put her book down and moved to the window. Through the gaps in the wooden shelving she could see only a few pedestrians, a trickle of two-wheelers grumbling past and no autorickshaws at all.
The theme park farmers. There had been something in the paper about them, but with the endless reporting on the progress of HeritageLand, Susheela found it difficult to recall exactly who was aggrieved and for what reason.
‘Madam, I think I am going to have to shut the shop. They have closed both sides of MG Road and I think there has been a lathi charge.’
Susheela reached into her handbag for her mobile phone. She looked in every compartment, a hot rush spreading over her neck and chest. Then she searched again through the bag, tearing at zips and plunging her hand into linty corners, and then looked up at Ashok. There was a ghostly lull in the street outside but layered with invisible waves of ferment, an upheaval that did not give many clues as to its complexion.
‘I don’t have my phone with me. I must have left it in the car. I don’t know how to reach the driver,’ said Susheela.
‘Where is your driver?’
‘I don’t know. If there is no parking, he normally just goes round the block a few times but today, I don’t know, he must be stuck somewhere on the other side. And I don’t have his number here.’
Ashok’s phone rang again and he began nodding as he walked back towards his desk.
A police siren began to sound a couple of streets away: a grudging, plaintive noise. Moments later another siren joined the first, the loops of discordant caution appearing to surround the shop. The sound of the protest rose and fell like the swash of a distant ocean. As Susheela listened, a roar went up, followed quickly by a blast of whistles.
Ashok looked up for a moment and then continued talking quietly into his phone. Susheela looked out into the street again but there was no further indication of events unfolding a few blocks away. She chewed on the inside of her mouth. She was furious with herself for having left her phone in the car, furious at the driver for not noticing and furious at this ridiculous predicament where law-abiding members of society could not go about their business because of a bunch of disaffected thugs looking to cause trouble.
The crash of a shutter coming down next door sounded much louder than it ought to have done.
Ashok finished his call.
‘They have burnt a bus near KR Circle. I think the police have sealed off most of the area.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘Madam, I’m very sorry but I have to close the shop. These goondas will start throwing stones through the windows any minute now. They don’t need an excuse.’
Susheela stared blankly at him.
‘Don’t worry, madam, I have my scooter here. I only live about twenty minutes away. You can come home with me and call someone to pick you up. My wife is at home. Please don’t worry, everything will be fine. I just don’t think we should stay here any longer, you know; anything can happen.’
‘You’re going to so much trouble. But you’re right, we can’t stay here. I think … thank you so much.’
Ashok took all the notes out of the cash register, snapped a rubber band around them and tucked them into his pocket. He locked the door to the stock room and switched the lights and fan off.
‘Okay madam, we can go now.’
They left the shop and Ashok locked the main door and quickly wound down and secured the shutter. More than half of the shops in the street were closed and no vehicles were moving. The trouble sounded more distinct now. A body of shouts, police whistles, a strange drumming and occasional loud bursts that sounded like fireworks. The empty pavement glistened in the noon glare.
‘Madam, one minute, madam. Don’t worry, I’m coming straight back.’
Susheela stared in horror as Ashok darted quickly down a side street and disappeared out of view.
The protest had begun with tractors parked all around KR Circle, blocking all the traffic going towards Devaraja Urs Road. The farmers had formed a human chain around the statue of Maharaja Krishnaraja Wodeyar mounted at the centre of the circle. Two groups had unfurled large banners where the assembled camera crews would be able to frame them with ease. Further down, a couple of trucks blocked the area around Gandhi Square. A number of speakers had stood up under the clock tower, each taking it in turns with the microphone rigged up to a small van on the other side of the square.
The ‘theme park farmers’, as they had come to be known, were not the prominent agriculturalists whose vast acreages had borne fruitful political connections and clout. They were the anxious custodians of small tracts, already divided up many times over successive generations, and destined for further apportionment. Their place in the new economic order was even more unclear than the intentions of the sympathetic-sounding surveyors, consultants and brokers who were now making weekly visits to their homes. In recent months, a network of community leaders and NGO representatives had also been making those same journeys, contradicting the reassuring statements of the previous visitors and firing up more speculation and hearsay.
It was these community leaders who had organised the KR Circle protest. Their message was simple. The government was pulling at the loose thread of their livelihoods, rapidly unwinding them, turning a perfectly serviceable garment into a length of useless yarn that would not clothe their wives and children. Farmers who had already been tricked into selling their land for the new theme park and link roads had been given insulting levels of compensation. The weight of the state’s enforcement machinery was now being used to harass those farmers still refusing to sell their land.
All the concerned parties were becoming increasingly restive in anticipation of the High Court’s decision on the legality of the land acquisition notices and the calculation of compensation. But as far as the protestors were concerned, they had to keep shouting loudly. There was no need to think that the battle was drawing to an end as it was far from clear that the judges would side with the farmers. To make matters worse, there were also strong rumours that some of the land, instead of being used for the theme park, would be resold to developers at an eye-watering premium, who in turn would parcel off the land and dispose of it at exponentially inflated rates.
For its part, the government saw the matter with unimpeachable clarity. It had already provided – voluntarily, it wished to stress – vast quantities of indisputable evidence to demonstrate that the completion of HeritageLand was vital for the development of the region. Not only would it generate large amounts of wealth for all persons residing within the catchment area, it would add to the prestige and standing of the whole state. The government expressed unmitigated outrage at the suggestion that any land would be misappropriated by officials and sold on to developers. If such mean-spirited allegations were being levelled at the government, it demanded proof of the existence of these base intentions. The state had already guaranteed that the land acquisition would not take place for any unconscionable transactions, so it was unable to understand the nature of the farmers’ discontent. The government strongly suspected that the opposition was simply stirring up the emotions of these poor sons of the soil in order to make trouble in advance of the Assembly elections. If that were the case, the opposition had sunk to depths that the current legislators had never imagined possible. The government called upon all right-thinking members of the opposition to desist from this mischief as it was unethical, unconscionable and, most of all, un-Indian.
The assertions had gone back and forth during meetings, in newspapers, on television, at rallies and outside judges’ chambers. It was, however, an unfortunate but incontrovertible truth that even the most eloquently phrased arguments could be displaced by a rock hurled from behind a parked tractor or a lathi rammed into the sinews of a field hand from Nanjangud. It would probably never be known which came first, the rock or the lathi. But what followed was documented with great precision and made it into most Mysore sitting rooms in a couple of hours as hyperactive spates of breaking news.
A row had broken out at one end of the road, where a truck had tipped out a heap of sand, encroaching on the strip of tar next to some half laid pipes.
‘Oh, oh, is this your father’s road? Take your rubbish and dump it somewhere else.’
A man in his mid-twenties had come running up to the side of the truck, gesturing at the sand.
The truck driver stopped drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and looked at the man.
‘Take my father’s name again and see what I do,’ he said.
‘How can you just block the road like this? We are having a function at home and a hundred people are coming down this way. What will they think?’ asked the man, squinting up at the driver, his hand shading his eyes.
‘I don’t know anything about that. I am just doing what the building people told me. Go and speak to them inside,’ said the truck driver.
Shankar was about to challenge the driver further but then changed his mind. It was too hot, there were still so many things left to organise and he knew that the sand would never make its way back into the truck. He walked back home, his mobile phone pressed against his ear, calling a rickshaw driver to make sure that his wife’s grandparents would be picked up in an hour, and then calling a distant cousin whom he had forgotten to invite. Better to confess now than to have to deal with the consequences of not inviting him at all.
The area in front of his house was covered by a bright red canopy, nailed down on to wooden poles on either side of the road. Rows of trestle tables and folding chairs occupied the centre of the road, providing shelter to a number of opportunistic stray dogs that would be banished later. A number of his mother’s female relatives were standing in the doorway of his house and in its tiny front courtyard. A handful of Mysore silks crowded against some handloom cottons in the paltry shade cast by a tilting coconut tree; the talk was of the persecution effected by the school holidays. Shankar squeezed past the women and looked around for his wife, Janaki. He entered the house, walked down the dark corridor and knocked on the locked bedroom door. Janaki’s sister let him in and shut the door again. He smiled sheepishly at Janaki’s mother and Uma, who were sitting on a mat in the corner.
Janaki was lying on the bed, directly under the fan, its revolutions only sending down coils of feverish air. Her heavy green and gold sari seemed to weigh her down like a shroud and the sweat on her face had left her forehead spattered with pale patches where her powder had smeared.
‘What other tortures have you got planned for me? Huh?’ she asked, without opening her eyes.
‘Are you not well?’ asked Shankar.
Janaki did not respond. Shankar looked at Uma and Janaki’s mother for assistance.
‘Please Janaki, it’s only a few hours, then you know you’ll be going to your mother’s house for six months. Or however long you want. Please, just for today,’ he begged.
Janaki opened her eyes and the expression in them softened.
‘Okay, don’t be tense. I said I would do it, so I will. I just don’t want to go and sit out there among those women until the last minute. You don’t know what it’s like being seven months pregnant and having to dress up like a festival cow, that too in the middle of summer. Now go, even your breath is making this room hotter.’
It was commonly acknowledged in their circle that Janaki had been extremely lucky in marrying Shankar, a handsome young man who was doing very well and, it was surmised, would do even better. He had started out as the apprentice to a small-time carpenter but had quickly learnt his trade and sought work in the expanding industrial area south of Mysore. A loan from a government scheme for small-scale entrepreneurs had meant that he had soon been able to start his own workshop. He had recently opened a second unit, taken on extra staff and was now able to meet large orders for cabinets and fittings from a chain of sports equipment shops in the city.
Janaki had met Shankar when he was still working on the industrial estate and she as a ladies’ underwear salesgirl at Padmaja’s Panty Palace in Vidyaranyapuram. Their first encounter had been at a Dasara exhibition a few years ago. Shankar had bumped into Janaki and her cousins, one of whom he had spoken to a few times at the local scooter repair shop. Janaki, a firm atheist, had been lured to the celebrations by the promise of unbeatable food stalls at the exhibition grounds. It was by the pani puri stand that Shankar had managed to get a proper look at her. Undoubtedly she had a special allure, with her eyes the colour of cloudy resin and her prominent cheekbones. Her looks collared the unworldly young man but it was her gritty self-possession that made her irresistible that afternoon. Over the course of the first couple of hours she had laid bare her unorthodox views on the festival, her evaluation of the snacks on offer and her plans to go to the evening computer classes run by the Tribhuvan Trust. Her preliminary interest in his life was something new too. Shankar was not in the habit of sharing details of his ambitions, but the confidences, imparted quietly amid the shouts of dancers and the crash of cymbals, seemed strangely apt.
Their relationship had proceeded tentatively at first. Shankar was unsure whether Janaki, even with her singularity, would appreciate his unsolicited attentions. He was, after all, a new and unendorsed acquaintance. A few weeks later, following Janaki’s words of encouragement, he soon found himself waiting for her at dawn under the gulmohar trees by Tejasandra Lake or, in the evenings, keeping a gallant distance from the alarming window display at her place of work. For her part, Janaki had plunged into Shankar as she threw herself into the business of living: with complete absorption. In spite of the nature of Shankar’s first gifts to Janaki – a tiger-print mobile phone case, a talking plastic heart and, once, a dozen eggs – within a few weeks they were spending most of their time off together. One Sunday afternoon Shankar took her to a secluded spot in Mysore Zoo, a stone in his throat, apprehension stinging his eyes. There he asked her to be his wife and she agreed, interrupted only by the irate shrieks from the gorilla enclosure.
The tag that now attached itself to Shankar was that of an adoring husband, still intoxicated by the heady balms given off by his beautiful wife. Neighbours and relatives observed with an affectionate wistfulness, or more often with self-righteous disdain, that Janaki was feted and indulged like a queen. Why was he spending so much money on a lavish send-off for his wife? Surely for a young couple like them a modest feast with only close family would have done. Didn’t he know that he should only stretch his legs as far as his pallet allowed? All this dhoom-dhaam show, inviting half the town and making such a spectacle; she must have insisted on it. It was plain to see in the way she marched around. Over the next few months she would be at her mother’s place but no doubt her writ would run large even from there.
Susheela stepped over a pile of magazines dumped at the entrance to the alley. She made her way slowly between the decaying walls on either side, streaked with ancient seepages and faded strips of film posters. Every few seconds she turned around to look back at the entrance to the alley, a rectangle of metallic light at the end of the desolate passage. The soles of her feet felt smooth and slippery, as if her sandals would slide off her feet at any moment. Small gaps between the buildings led to even narrower alleys. They were all empty. There was no sign of Ashok and even the stray dogs seemed to have disappeared from their haunts. She caught the acrid edges of the stench of burning rubber and looked up at the sky. A channel of brilliant blue wove its way above the upper stories of the shabby offices and warehouses on either side of the alley. Her eyes began to play tricks on her as the windows studding each floor began to vault and reel along the walls.
Susheela made her way back to the main road, once again stepping carefully over the stack of magazines. The heat was intense and she could now see smoke pluming over a nearby building. She leant back against a shaded section of the wall outside Great Expectations, her eyes shut, the windows now little blazing squares, swirling uncontrollably behind her eyelids. She was ready to believe the worst: that Ashok had abandoned her on this empty street, pulsing with unrealised violence and fully consummated fear. In Mahalakshmi Gardens a silent dread dragged its train over polished floors and stairs, through lush verandas, along driveways, past borders of coleus and lantana, under the pergola by the southern gate to the Gardens and into the latticed pavilion that gave on to the lotus pond. Now that dread had stalked Susheela into the centre of Mysore, trampling its veil on the hot asphalt.
‘Excuse me.’
Susheela’s heart lurched and she opened her eyes.
A man in his late sixties, or perhaps early seventies, stood before her, a look of concerned enquiry softening his brown eyes.
Susheela stared at the man, unable to comprehend this chain of events.
‘I’m sorry, but are you okay? You know about the trouble in the city?’
Susheela nodded but her throat was too dry to speak.
‘Please, it’s not safe to stay here.’
A moment later he added: ‘I’m sure we have met. If I’m not wrong, you’re a friend of Sunaina Kamath’s.’
Susheela nodded, although she was quite sure that she had never seen him before.
The man obviously decided that he needed to be a little more firm.
‘Are you waiting for someone? Because, believe me, you should not be here by yourself like this.’
Susheela was explaining her predicament to the man when Ashok returned, jumping neatly up the few steps to where they were standing.
‘So sorry, madam. I’m ready now. Shall we go?’
Susheela did not respond. Ashok continued to look at her sheepishly.
The man turned to him, his voice curt: ‘Thank you for the offer but I will see the lady home.’
Turning to Susheela, he said: ‘My car is in the basement of Prithvi House. If you don’t mind walking with me just till there, I can drop you home. I am sure the roads on our side will be clear.’
Susheela nodded again, still tightly clasping the bag of kaju pista rolls from Plaza Sweet Mart.
The trestle tables had been covered with floral paper, the steel plates and tumblers wiped dry and the first batch of guests were patiently waiting for the servers to bring the food around. Uma had left Janaki reapplying her make-up and stood at some distance from the guests under the canopy. Particularly distinguished relatives, the elderly and the children would eat first, and once they had vacated their places, the young married couples, Shankar’s business contacts and bachelor friends would take their seats. After their plates had been cleared, more distant family members and latecomers would be served before the final round of stragglers and community flotsam.
Janaki would have been appalled to see Uma alone, waiting out her turn in front of a pile of broken concrete slabs, a diffident and courteous half-smile fixed on her face. But Uma was not one to cultivate controversy by breaking established norms. She knew that she was already marked in the neighbourhood as someone requiring scrutiny, a woman living on her own with no apparent family ties. She had arrived at the row of tiny rooms with a history firmly laced up and stowed in some obscure compartment. Her guarded responses offered no clues and when the rumours began to uncoil around her, their frequency and intricacy were not surprising.
According to some local gossipmongers, Uma had arrived in Mysore from one of Bangalore’s satellite towns where her lover had savaged her husband with a machete, most probably at her instigation. The lover was now said to be awaiting trial at Parappana Agrahara jail while Uma tried to create a new identity for herself elsewhere. Another account that had percolated through the narrow alleys was that Uma had been compelled to leave her husband’s house in disgrace after seducing her father-in-law. Her apparent attempts at wringing cash and property out of the old man had failed and led to her exile in this bleak corner, below the network of sidings at Mysore Junction. There were other stories too: narrations that elicited spiky comment and drawn-out deductions.
Uma kept her counsel. She woke early and left for Mahalakshmi Gardens six days a week, returning only after seven in the evening. On the days when she had no packet of leftovers, she would stop at the provision store on the main road and buy a quarter-litre packet of yoghurt and, on occasion, some greens from one of the carts. She spoke to no one on the short walk past the Muslim cemetery and the coin-operated telephone clamped to a pole on the corner. As she walked down her row, she kept her eyes lowered and only lifted them once she had closed and bolted the door of her room.
It was almost a miracle that she and Janaki had ever spoken. At the time, Janaki had just moved in to Shankar’s small house on the periphery of the squalid sprawl. Their paths had crossed a few times while Uma was looking for work and Janaki had taken a liking to Uma’s sedate poise. Janaki had never probed into Uma’s past but she felt duty-bound to support a lone woman who was refusing to choke in the neighbourhood’s hostile smog. Janaki herself had been the target of malevolent gossip from a young age and had seen the dirty edges of everything that it touched. She knew that it was up to her to make the effort; if not, Uma would probably allow herself to fade away, bleaching back into the dirt-streaked walls around her.
‘Uma, not eaten yet? Please go ahead, the next batch is just starting,’ said Shankar as he brushed past her, weighed down with a pail each of ghee rice and sambar.
‘I think I’ll wait for Janaki.’
‘No no, you better eat. She says she wants to eat inside later, away from the crowd. Actually what she said was a lot ruder than that,’ Shankar lowered his voice, before heading towards the tables.
Janaki emerged from the house, led by Shankar’s mother and aunt. A chair was quickly found for her and placed in the middle of the front courtyard. As she lowered herself into the chair, Janaki caught Uma’s eye and beckoned her over.
Uma made her way past the canopy, through the thronged courtyard and leant down towards Janaki.
‘What are you doing standing over there by yourself like a police constable? How was the food?’ asked Janaki.
‘It was very good.’
‘You should tell Shankar; he has hardly been able to sleep. He was sure the caterers would ruin everything today.’
‘So what time are you leaving for your mother’s house?’
Janaki’s voice became a throaty whisper: ‘No idea. They have to make sure the sun, moon and every single planet are in the right position before I am allowed to fart, let alone leave here for six months.’
‘They only want to make sure nothing goes wrong.’
‘So you have my mother’s address; make sure you come and see me next week or the week after. I will have nothing to do there but eat and sleep so plenty of time to talk. You’ll come, no?’
‘I’ll definitely come.’
‘Also, I’ve told Shankar to come and see you now and then. If you need any help for anything, you just ask him.’
‘What help will I need? Really, there’s no need to trouble him.’ Janaki’s face took on a picture of theatrical outrage: ‘After all the trouble he has given me? Look at me sitting here in this heat like a buffalo.’
Under the shade of the canopy, a teenager was pointing his camera at the servers, having assigned himself the role of official photographer of the event. Patches of sweat had made his white shirt translucent and an agonising concentration invaded his face. Among the seated guests, hair was hurriedly tamed, pallus were straightened and noses wiped: preparations the photographer chose to ignore as he made his way along the tables.
A mother said to her child: ‘Ai gube, channag smile maado. Face like a kumbalakai.’
In the washing area set up for the caterers, Shankar had just finished giving instructions to some young boys. He turned round and, seeing Janaki sitting in the courtyard, made an exaggerated bow in her direction, a saucy grin animating his features.
The car made its way out of the Prithvi House basement and sped along Sayyaji Rao Road where a couple of police barriers had been dragged to the side of the road and then abandoned. Angry discs of smoke wheeled up into the sky from a point behind the bazaar that lined one side of the street. A few cars were still on the road, all moving out of the city centre in the direction of Tejasandra Lake. A man lay on the ground in the shade of a mimosa tree at the Nelson Mandela Road junction. The position of his limbs gave no clue as to whether this was just respite from the heat or something more sinister.
Susheela had managed to ascertain that Sunaina’s friend was called Jaydev and that he lived only fifteen minutes away from her in Yadavagiri. After that she had retreated into the air-conditioned chill of the car’s interior, her temples throbbing and her throat sore. Jaydev’s gaze moved from the mirror to the deserted road ahead and back. It was only when they were finally moving along the southern edge of the lake that he spoke.
‘There is some water on the back seat if you want.’
‘No, thank you.’
It occurred to Susheela that her response might have come across as brusque, so she added: ‘I am just so relieved to be nearly home.’
She thought her voice sounded strangely loud and high-pitched.
Jaydev shook his head: ‘Even Mysore can be a scary place these days.’
Susheela noticed that Jaydev’s leather watchstrap was loose and that the watch had slid a third of the way down his arm. His hands, settled firmly on the steering wheel, had a prominent network of veins that crowded their way into his knuckles. The cold air circulating in the car had made the silver hairs on his arms rise. All of a sudden Susheela became aware of the fact that this was the first time since Sridhar’s death that she had sat in the passenger seat of a car, being driven somewhere by a man. The car’s low croon weighed heavily on her as the forced intimacy of the moment began to make her feel restless. The car’s interior smelt of clean seats and a hint of jasmine. A CD of Carnatic violin music lay on the dashboard.
‘I must thank you once again. God knows how long I would have been stuck there or what would have happened,’ she said, needing to fill the space with words.
‘No, no, please. It’s just lucky I was passing. I actually got delayed waiting at my accountant’s office while he was stuck somewhere and couldn’t get into the city. Must be the same story everywhere. Anyway, at least we managed to escape from the mob. Just like in a movie.’
Jaydev turned to smile at Susheela.
She kept talking: ‘The trouble is these days there is no community spirit. If you are a farmer or whatever and you want to agitate for something, there is no concern for how your actions will affect everyone else. Your aim needs to be achieved at any cost and the rest can all go to hell.’
Jaydev looked like he was listening to her intently but did not respond.
‘I mean, especially for senior citizens, it is like we don’t exist. We can’t cross these crazy roads, we can’t barge into queues like youngsters, we can’t endlessly ask people to do things without going mad,’ said Susheela.
The car was approaching Mahalakshmi Gardens, silent at this time of the afternoon.
Susheela laughed. ‘I’m sorry. You have been kind enough to give me a lift and here I am, turning into one of those crazy raving people. It’s right at the end of this road.’
‘Not at all. I think speaking one’s mind is one of the privileges of getting old. Let’s face it, there aren’t too many others,’ said Jaydev.
Susheela smiled. The mali had come running to open the gate and the car pulled in to the driveway. Susheela got out of the car and noticed that the driver was still not back. She began to wonder whether something serious had happened.
She leant into the car and said, ‘I really don’t know how to thank you. Please come inside for some coffee?’
‘No, thank you. Maybe some other time. I also need to get home.’
Susheela stood in the doorway, waving as Jaydev reversed out of the gates. As she turned to go inside the house, her throat felt inflamed and her head still ached. All she wanted to do was wash the grime off her body and lie down until the night air brought some relief.
Girish could hear the rasp of drawers being pulled open in the bedroom. There was a clang as the door of the metal cupboard swung open and hit the corner of a chair. The room fell silent for a few moments before he heard the muffled sigh of something being lifted on to the bed. The cupboard door clicked back into place and the drawers were eased back with a jiggle. Mala emerged from the bedroom, a few loose strands of hair hanging limply by the sides of her face. Her forehead and nose glistened and a flush was forming on the skin between her collarbones, like a wet stain under a piece of muslin.
‘Some electricity man had come here to cut the supply. He said we hadn’t paid the bill,’ she said, leaning against the door.
‘I thought you said you had paid it.’
‘I did pay it. I told him that but I couldn’t find the receipt. That’s what I was looking for just now. He said he’s coming back later.’
‘That would be a great thing, no? The regional deputy chief of customer relations for electricity has not paid his own bill and so his current is cut.’
‘I told you, I have paid it. I just need to find the receipt. If they didn’t have such useless records, they would know that I have paid it.’
‘You better find it before he comes back.’
‘I know that.’
‘I am not going to bother calling someone up to sort all this out at the office, if that’s what you’re expecting.’
‘I was looking for it just now. I’ll find it.’
Mala sat down next to Girish and added as an afterthought: ‘If you are so worried about it all, maybe next time you should pay it yourself and not leave everything to me.’
Her hand lay on the waxy surface of the sofa, fingers curled upwards. Girish began to press down on them with his hand. He continued to look straight ahead; only a slight spasm in his jaw hinting at any effort. The heel of his hand crushed her fingers, a commanding force bearing down through the heft of his neck and shoulder.
‘No, stop it, please. That’s really hurting.’
Girish grabbed her hand and began to force it upwards. Mala’s fingers were trapped in a ridge of pain and her wrist began to tremble under the strain.
‘What are you doing? Stop it.’ Mala wrenched her hand away, pushing herself off the sofa.
Girish stood up.
The blow, when it came, was definitive. The impact of the slap loosened a tooth, rattled the glass cabinet doors, cracked the paving stones by the gate, split the trunk of an ancient tamarind tree in the lane outside, sent an alley dog skittering away in terror, collapsed the humpback bridge that led to the main road and caused a lone cold wave to begin rising over the surface of distant Tejasandra Lake.