THE law courts of Mysore were housed in an Indo-Saracenic nugget opposite the faded green of Manuvana Park. The building had gained national prominence when a scene from a super-hit film song of the seventies had been filmed on its front lawn, between rows of flame-hued zinnias. These days the garden was bedraggled and contrite, its flower beds plagued by stray dogs who would collapse in the scanty shade of the frangipani trees like a set of errant commas. Justice, as envisioned by a Scottish sculptor in 1908, sat heavily on a plinth in the court complex. The downturned sword in her right hand looked like a walking aid and the expression on her face appeared to suggest immense relief at having been able to take the weight off her feet. If the artist had intended to create an impression of stately reason, safeguarding truth with a powerful gaze, his facility had failed him. In Mysore, justice took on the guise of an irritated matron who really did not wish to be harangued by the petty squabbles of an ungrateful rabble.
Behind the court car park, a number of shed-like structures housed the more prominent of the city’s tireless notaries. This was a prime location: some family feuds over the deserving occupant of a notarial seat here had spilled across generations. The longest serving functionary in this cloister was I P K Rangaraja, a man famed for his probity and his devotion to an ancient tweed suit, worn as a mark of contempt for the Mysore weather. Some years ago he had famously uncovered the participation of a number of his colleagues in a scam involving the submission of falsified land title documents. The unscrupulous notaries were soon attending court in a different capacity and Mr Rangaraja basked in the exaltation that came with successfully guarding a profession from disrepute.
Opposite the seat of the notaries’ operations, the shade of a large sampige tree acted as a billet for the squadrons of interested parties that gravitated towards any hub concerned with the dispensation of justice. Scribes carrying portable typewriters zealously guarded space on the wooden benches. Ambulance chasers mingled with hotel touts; students at the evening law college shared experiences with sympathetic conmen; journalists killed time by trying to tease out scandals from desperate petitioners. The vexatious litigants could always be identified by their plastic bags full of papers and the lust for substantive advantage that warped their backs.
One gentleman with close-cropped, greying hair in a crisp white kurta was a steadfast feature of this juridical bazaar. He arrived on foot every weekday morning at exactly ten o’clock, in his hands a thick folder and a basket containing his lunch dabba. His exemplary attendance meant that the scribes even offered him a place on one of the benches. The man spent his time looking through his papers and benignly taking in the day’s events. He never solicited conversation but always responded to questions politely, neither enlightening nor offending anyone.
In the past few weeks, security at the court building had been increased, not as a result of threats from terrorists or organised criminals, but due to the increasingly animated conduct of the members of the Mysore Law Congress. The genesis of the strife could be traced back to an incident six months ago when an advocate’s motorbike rammed into the back of a judge’s car outside the court. There were no casualties but a frenzied row had ensued with the use of vivid language on both sides. Official complaints were made, investigations pursued and the matter would have ended, reaching some forgettable stalemate, were it not for the fact that elections to the post of President of the Mysore Law Congress were imminent. The two main candidates, not confident that caste affiliations and their own distinguished professional histories would deliver victory, had dredged up the incident as a symbol of the disharmony that could disable the Congress’s future activities, without strong and dynamic leadership. A bilious brew of local gossip, procedural irregularities, vested interests, caste politics and tutored braggadocio meant that a strike of local lawyers was virtually inevitable. The Mysore Evening Sentinel called it an unforgivable perfidy that struck at the heart of the administration of justice. To the congregation under the sampige tree, it was simply another inconsequential distraction.
Beyond the parochial concerns of the courts in Mysore, the broader legal community was involved in an intense debate that now engaged many sections of civil society. The subject of the controversy was proposed legislation that could make the declaration of judicial assets mandatory and subject to public scrutiny. The majority of judges, of course, were entirely content that details of their wealth be submitted to the appropriate authorities. In fact, many of them were already providing this information to various bodies who could be trusted to treat it with responsibility and respect.
The contentious issue was whether the particulars ought to be released into the public domain. It was no secret that there were hostile elements who would seize the opportunity to ensnare the judiciary in frivolous litigation and media-fuelled imbroglios, a situation which would neither assist the upholding of fundamental freedoms nor enhance the efficacy of the courts. The Indian legal system had many unfulfilled requirements but a vaudeville centred on the bank balances of judges was certainly not one of them. Campaigners for transparency gave sermons on accountability, institutional integrity and, above all, public confidence. A certain section of the judiciary, however, wanted to emphasise that it too suffered from a lack of confidence in the intentions of the general public.
One pro-information rights commentator stated that what was at stake was the humanity of the judiciary. The response from the editor of a prominent daily was that judges had shown themselves to be all too human. In support of this contention, a former Supreme Court judge was quoted as estimating that twenty per cent of judges in the country were vulnerable to subornation and unlawful inducements. The venerable gentleman, caught between his duty to the nation and loyalty to his old colleagues, had chosen his words carefully, making judicial corruption sound like a highly communicable influenza rearing up in a delicate constituency. In spite of this incrimination, society at large remained optimistic. After all, the conclusion to be drawn was that an awe-inspiring eighty per cent of the judiciary could still be trusted to maintain the rule of law with a humbling display of integrity. In these times of rampant parliamentary and administrative skulduggery, that figure could only be cherished.
In the half-light of the early morning, the loudspeakers set up on the walls of the city’s Venkateshwara temple let out a ghostly crepitation. The city was beginning to wake: a rickshaw rolled past the main bus stand, a few labourers sipped their coffee seated on the pavement by Sriram Circle and street sweepers crossed the road towards the front of the temple. A trio of buses, sporting garlands of marigold and jasmine, pulled into the bus stand and eased themselves into a row. A man opened the door of the first bus and jumped down from its steps on to the hard earth below. Three other men followed, their descent a little more hesitant and cautious. They all knew that the slowly brightening day held in store a decisive pronouncement. As they stood uneasily in front of the buses, each light smudge in the sky refracted an ambiguous portent.
The loudspeakers sputtered into the dawn a few more times before releasing the low strains of a devotional song. The singer welcomed the morning, praised the light for its benevolence and gave thanks for the end of night. The men looked down at the spidery trails of paan juice on the paved ground, silent and trying not to read any significance into the words of the song. Its sound probably rose up over the temple wall and towards the tops of the coconut trees every morning. There was nothing special about today.
A few minutes later another handful of men arrived at the bus stand, their faces sealed against surprises. They joined the first group, a taut diffidence descending. The men seemed to need a welcoming sign, an indication that they were not simply detritus blown here by an ill wind. One of the men suggested going across the road to the coffee stall and they agreed that it was a good idea. But no one moved.
The driver from one of the buses jumped down and headed towards the back wall of the bus stand compound. The men watched as he stopped by the wall, adjusting his trousers in front of the words ‘The Sword of Truth will Safeguard the Voice of Democracy’ spray-painted in red. He turned back towards the men and they all instantly looked away.
Just as one of the men pulled out his mobile phone to make a call, a van made its way in to the compound. The door slid open and another group joined those already waiting. As their numbers grew, a buoyant spirit descended over the men and the few women who had joined them. There were jokes, a playful headlock and some theatrical tutting. More people arrived. They came on scooters, by cart and crammed into rickshaws. Eight young men pulled up in a gasping Premier Padmini and three others on a bicycle. A couple in their seventies emerged from a tonga, rattled but cheerful. The young man who had first jumped off the bus began a headcount and then abandoned it. He divided the assembly into three sets, one for each bus. It was evident from his manner that from this point no further tomfoolery would be tolerated.
‘Vasu, what time are we leaving?’ a woman asked him.
‘In exactly twenty minutes, whether or not everyone is here,’ he said.
In just over three hours they would reach the outskirts of Bangalore and, depending on the traffic, it would be another half hour or so to the High Court. The judgment in the dispute over the government’s acquisition of land for the HeritageLand complex was due to be handed down before midday. It had taken years to get to this point and all the parties involved wore their bruises heavily.
The last protest by the theme park farmers in the centre of Mysore had led to a lathi charge at KR Circle, futile arrests, avoidable injuries and an abiding sense of failure. A group of community activists led by Vasu had become convinced that focusing on the legal process already underway was the only meaningful option. Rage and venom were easy to reap but the activists firmly held that only a well-placed belief in the legitimacy of their claim could sustain their campaign. It was the type of optimism that could part seas and arrest storms. The alternative was to collapse in the streets around KR Circle as smoke rose into the skies.
A local proverb said that a closed fist could not accommodate righteousness. Vasu said that angry men did not have the cool heads required for effective action. The activists had spent months explaining and reassuring, building up a deep swell that would break on the steps of the High Court, leaving a corpus secure in its ideology and vindicated in its stance.
Vasu’s family had lived on the same plot of land for generations, slowly watching the smoggy extremities of Mysore snake up from the horizon. Dowries, debts and disputes had whittled away at the property and now all that remained was an acre and a half of tenacity. When Vasu’s father first heard of the land acquisition, he had sensed an intrigue. Although illiterate, he was well informed and he knew that even the most nefarious land-grabbing schemes could come cloaked in official sanction, bearing bouquets of worthless enticements and desiccated promises. Vasu was the only member of the family who had passed his PUC and he was immediately put in charge of getting to the bottom of the rumours and speculation.
Over the last few years Vasu had gathered an abundance of information, made contact with NGOs all over the country, learnt from human rights experts, formed links with other farmers’ organisations, consulted environmentalists and visited every village in the affected agricultural belt. It felt like everything he had ever done had been leading up to this day.
Ignoring the acid rawness in his stomach, Vasu began his headcount again.
Behind one of the buses, Ramanna let the beedi drop out of his mouth and ground his heel on it until a small pit had formed in the red earth. He pressed at his knuckles languidly, coaxing out a dull crack from each one. He had not expected so many people to be here; certainly not enough to fill three buses. Facing away from most of the others, as usual, he made no attempt to engage anyone in conversation. He was here only because he knew that he had to safeguard his interests. There was little else now to bind him to these people.
Ramanna had no sentimental attachment to his land. In fact, the sight of the rutted path that led to his fields filled him with a stinging revulsion. The land only represented what it was worth in monetary terms: an opportunity to move away from the village and start life somewhere else. The money would perhaps allow him to learn a trade in Mysore. An acquaintance had started a business tending to some of the gardens in Jayalakshmipuram; maybe he could do that for a while. The land was nothing but his route away from the village and its ligatures of antipathy and malice. Ramanna and his family were not served at either of the village’s two provision shops. They were ignored at the bus stop and taunted at the post office. Excrement had been left in a torn plastic bag outside their door and broken glass sometimes glinted demonically on the approach to their house. Ramanna had married out of his caste and he had to live by that decision. The inhabitants of the village were well known for their hospitality and good cheer at festivals; what was less well known was the virulent hostility that many of them would direct towards transgressors of ancient codes.
There was nothing Ramanna wanted more than to sell his blighted holding. But he wanted the right price. He would not give up the one thing of any value that he owned for anything less than its proper worth. Now that determination saw him preparing to take a seat on a bus, his face blank, making common cause with some of the people who spat at his children in the street.
Vasu began his headcount for the third time.
The oldest person in the group was Kenchamma; at least, that was the general supposition. Neither she nor any of her female contemporaries knew their exact age. When asked, she would throw her head back and let out one of her soundless laughs, her jaw quivering delicately.
‘All the girls in my family grew up like weeds. Who knows the age of weeds?’ she would ask.
Kenchamma owned a small parcel of land that lay across the proposed site for one of the HeritageLand ring roads. She had spent the last fifteen years sitting in the doorway of her house, listening to the smack of her tongue against the roof of her mouth and looking out at the surrounding fields. Her constancy was as much a feature of the landscape as the crackling beds of dried sugar cane leaves or the kites that traced daring arcs with their frozen wings. Her two remaining sons worked the fields and it was their shifting forms that Kenchamma watched. She had lost five children in childbirth, two to measles and one son had been found hanging from a tree at the edge of their smallholding. She had lived on this land for over sixty years, arriving as a girl, already married three years. The land was bordered by a stony ravine, a line of wood-apple trees and the narrow lane that led to the nearest village. These markers traced the physical edges of her experience but their nearness had not blunted her intuition or her foresight. Today she had insisted on making the trip to Bangalore, as the stakes were as high for her as for anyone else.
A woman walked to the front of one of the buses and cracked a coconut on the ground with a deadly swing. A few heads bowed in silent prayer. The elderly had already been allowed to board the buses and make themselves comfortable. Now Vasu began to direct the others towards the bus doors. Two buses had been borrowed from a milk cooperative’s local office and the third hired from a tour company. The arrangements had been made, then cancelled and then reconstituted. The angry charge that ran through the community had not helped Vasu in his attempts at planning this journey. But, in the end, he and his colleagues had managed to convince the majority of the importance of a solid presence at the High Court.
The buses moved out of the compound and made their way towards the Bangalore–Mysore highway. The woman who had cracked the coconut took a steel dabba out from under the folds of her pallu and began to pass around some prasada. Her morning prayers had been the culmination of twenty-one days of fasting and the sugary semolina would yield good luck. As the buses gained speed, Kenchamma’s reedy voice punctured the chill air. The message was clear. If a woman her age could sing all the way there, no one else had any excuse to brood.
Getting his hair cut had always made Jaydev nervous. Even as a child, every time the barber visited the house to administer to the men and boys in the family Jaydev would steal up the back stairs and seek asylum in one of the unoccupied rooms on the top floor. His elbows piked into his lap, he would endure an anxious spell in a rosewood cupboard that smelt of camphor or behind knobbly sacks of paddy, listening for the sounds of pursuit. All the while, as if in sympathy, a fretful rumble would descend from the pigeons settled in the ancient rafters. The pattern continued throughout his childhood in spite of his mother’s exasperated warnings, her fingers twisting his ear into a red ball of flame.
His adult years had meant an inevitable but uneasy accommodation with the monthly ritual. It was not vanity or sloth that brought the unsettling pall. Jaydev felt a disconcerting loss of control at delivering himself up to these silent, sullen men who manipulated his head with brusque gestures and appraised him unabashedly. Trussed in a towel, being goaded by an inconvenient reflection, a handful of waiting men watching his transformation, Jaydev endured his sessions in clenched abeyance. Over the years, habit had brought relief at a shop squeezed into a nook on 5th Cross, its owner as much a creature of routine as Jaydev. The slack hours were predictable, the service rapid and the lights relatively dim. But now, after thirty years, the barber had wound up his business and Jaydev suddenly found himself trying to identify a replacement.
It was not particularly urgent. He could probably go without a haircut for another week or so. But he had thought, in passing, that today might be a good day. It was a Tuesday afternoon and people tended to avoid Tuesdays for haircuts. He had spotted a place that looked passable and he had the time, as long as he could be home by four to have a shower. Susheela was expecting him to pick her up at about half past four. It was the first time he was taking her anywhere and it would not do to be late.
There were a couple of empty chairs outside the shop. Inside, no one was waiting and there was only one customer. He leant back in his chair, eyes closed as the barber dusted off his shoulders with a brush. The barber gestured to Jaydev to take a seat on the bench against the wall. An assistant stood at the end of the room, twisting a button on his shirt, his body popping with neglected energy.
Jaydev sat down, hoping it would not take too long. Seating with no back could turn into a problem. Above his head, a poster of beaming blond men had almost faded into the wall, the images teal with age. He picked up a film magazine and began to turn the pages. He stopped at a story setting out a top star’s plans to launch a website dedicated to tackling climate change. The star described in detail the moment he realised that urgent action was necessary during the filming of a chase scene in the jungles of Borneo.
The barber was showing the customer the back of his head in a mirror. Did any man do anything other than nod in buttoned-down approval at this point?
The customer’s head bobbed in contentment and he stood up. The barber bowed at Jaydev and indicated the vacant chair.
‘My name is Raju, sir. How can I help you today?’ he asked.
‘I think it needs a good trim. It feels heavy at the back. It might start curling up,’ explained Jaydev, sitting down.
‘Yes, sir. And the front?’
‘The front? Just do something that will go with the back.’
‘Not to worry, sir. First time here, sir?’
‘Yes, my first time. My usual man left town.’
Raju bowed again, as if in deference to that decision. When he tucked a towel into Jaydev’s collar, the skin on his fingers felt cool and grainy. With a flourish, he spread another towel over Jaydev, fussing over its edges. He smoothed out the creases over Jaydev’s arms and brushed imaginary fragments off its surface.
The assistant darted forward and asked Raju a question. As he replied, he rested his hands on Jaydev’s shoulders, like a friend in the playground making a declaration of solidarity. Jaydev waited for the haircut to begin. He stared at the counter in front of him, not wanting to look in the mirror. This type of lighting played tricks. It made his neck look like it had receded into a cavern and his eyes appear even more deep set, trying to catch the light from their submerged lair. Even Raju looked grey and pinched in the mirror. On the counter there stood small tubs of pomade, hair oils arranged by colour, from amber to mahogany, and muscular bottles of aftershave. An open razor loomed in a jar of milky solution, turning grooming into chemistry. The towel around his neck smelt of talcum powder, which always reminded him of his children, white specks mottling the rubber sheet whenever his wife changed them.
‘Sorry sir,’ said Raju, speaking louder than was necessary. ‘You have to tell these youngsters everything a hundred times.’
The assistant began to move a broom around the clean floor, delivering loud clacks as he manoeuvred it into the tight corners around the chairs.
Raju shot him a look of distaste and then squeezed Jaydev’s shoulders.
‘Sorry sir, I will start now.’
His hands swept up the nape of Jaydev’s neck, bunching the white locks for a quick assessment. He then placed a palm on either side of Jaydev’s head and contemplated his face. Satisfied, he picked up a spray and, placing his hand decorously over Jaydev’s eyes, he released clouds of fine mist into the air, all the while looking like someone who would really rather not have to intrude in this way.
He put the spray down.
‘Sir, machine?’
‘No. No machine.’
Raju bowed again. He picked up a pair of scissors and began cutting, blade over fist, the same closeness of clicks that always made Jaydev grind his teeth and look down at his knees.
A man with two young sons walked into the shop and sat down on the bench.
‘But last time you said he would cut off my ears,’ wailed the smaller of the boys.
‘I said if you didn’t sit still, he would cut off your ears.’
The prospect of not moving seemed even more terrifying and the boy buried his bushy head in his father’s lap.
The assistant tried to engage the older boy in some play involving enthusiastic winking but was roundly ignored.
The white snips were falling like snow on to the floor. Once a glassy black with a noble wave in it, over the years Jaydev’s hair had turned into a more tentative sweep, threaded with strands of soft grey, and had eventually settled into a timid, feathery drop, like thoughts made of tulle. Still, at least he had held on to it at his age, more than enough to worry a comb.
Raju picked up a razor and, pulling taut the skin on Jaydev’s cheek, began to scrape at his sideburn. The rasping seemed to be coming from inside Jaydev’s head and was curiously satisfying, like itchy worries being scratched. The process was repeated on the other side. Jaydev’s eyes met his own in the mirror. Everything looked neater, strapped in, kempt. He looked like a boyish old man.
Raju leant forward and said, almost into his ear: ‘Sir, head massage?’
‘What?’
‘Head massage, sir?’
Jaydev had no idea what to say.
So he said: ‘Fine.’
He supposed it would be.
His usual barber liked to keep things uncomplicated. There had never been any doubts, ambiguities or massages. Undoubtedly the glitzy salons in town managed to muddy these waters. But Jaydev had never even stepped through their doors. This was why change in these matters was so unsettling.
Raju poured a liquid into his palm, something brown that smelt of forests. Slathering it over his palms, he smiled reassuringly at Jaydev. The fingers that had been like a strip of wet sand were now like warm wax, melding, easing and quelling. The skin on Jaydev’s head felt fluid, teeming with spores, as Raju’s palms slowly gave up their heat. Jaydev’s eyes were screwed shut, the rings and waves of Raju’s touch only palpable as an irresistible foreign manipulation. The fingers migrated to his temples, stole on to his crown and then dropped to the back of his head. At the base of his neck, they reasoned and resolved. They fled back up his head in jittery bursts, cool, then hot, then cool again, and spread out over the top of his forehead. It could have been a few minutes or a few hours in that soft-cornered darkness.
‘All done, sir.’
Raju ran a comb through Jaydev’s hair and smoothed it down with his hand. Silky bristles caressed the back of Jaydev’s neck and a cooling wad of cotton dabbed the skin behind his ears. Raju finished the process with a mysterious crack that brought Jaydev back to the grey light of the shop.
Jaydev put money down on the counter, nodded at Raju and the assistant and pushed open the door with more strength than it needed. Outside, he crumpled on to one of the empty chairs. His head and neck smarted from the recent contact. All of a sudden, a great galloping sob rose through him, convulsing his body and placing a chilly finger in the hollow of his throat. He slumped forward, crying tearlessly, long absent tremors billowing out, one after the next. He covered his face with his hands and sat bowed in the chair, until, just as suddenly, the ferment fell away, leaving only complete stillness. It felt like the first moment of the early morning. Slowly, he stood up and stepped off the shop’s porch. It had been exactly ten years since anyone had touched his temples, held his head or made much of his neck.
Vijaya Road was not the type of thoroughfare featured in brochures or advertisements. It held no interest for the executive board of the Mysore Tourism Authority and could not have been more distant from the frenetic conceptualisation of the organisers of the Lake Utsava. The road was a stubby continuation of the more respectable Acharya Road, squeezed into the concrete jumble behind Sheethal Talkies. A string of bars lined one side of the street with names like Agni, Sagarika and Prithvi, curiously allied to the robust appellations of India’s nuclear missiles. The entertainment provided by these establishments varied. At Agni Bar it was a little television, permanently turned on to a sports channel, where everything appeared filtered through orange gauze. At Sagarika Bar, a number of girls in flashy clothes were encouraged to circulate among the patrons, half of them adopting a challenging sauciness and the rest swinging their dupattas while staring at the floor. At Prithvi Bar the owner’s son, seated on a high stool behind the counter, sang tuneless dirges and was ignored by the clientele.
Opposite the bars stood the nondescript entrance to the Sangam Continental Lodge. In a previous incarnation the hotel had been the Apsara Lodge, but a police raid and the resulting adverse publicity had necessitated a change of management, a new front door and a different name. The Apsara Lodge had been found to be operating as a brothel, housing a number of Bangladeshi and Nepali girls, all illegal immigrants who were sent to the local women’s jail until further notice. The police had discovered a secret staircase leading from the hotel kitchen to a basement room, its entrance concealed behind piles of empty boxes. The room had served to hide evidence of unlawful activities during previous raids, the girls having been herded into the basement following an opportune call from a very obliging local sub-inspector. His eventual transfer meant the end of the Apsara’s time on Vijaya Road and what some sanguinely thought would be the break of a new morning.
A few weeks after the raid, the hotel was open for business again. The Sangam Continental Lodge was categorically not a brothel. The new management was either unwilling to shoulder the risks involved in such an enterprise or firmly resolved against the idea on moral grounds. But in death the Apsara succeeded in leaving more than a trace of her distinctive personality on her successor. Currents of wretched desperation continued to drift up the foul staircase and a profound contamination seeped through keyholes and air vents. The hotel guests shuffled past the reception desk in a hurry, seeking only the solace of a closed door. By day the reception desk was staffed by a threadbare woman with a hacking cough; by night a bearded goon sat in the doorway on a wooden crate that tried gamely to contain his colossal rump. Two straight-backed chairs with elaborately carved headrests stood at the bottom of the stairs but no one had ever been spotted sitting there. The kitchen was no longer operational, even as a conduit to a hidden cellar. In the rooms upstairs, a wan intimacy routed alienation for an hour or two before the space had to be vacated and the key returned.
Shankar closed the door of Room 7 on the first floor and walked downstairs. On the landing he nearly ran into a boy who was making a delivery, his arms clasped around six bottles of beer.
‘Watch where you’re going, sir,’ he said, practised and professional. A large patch covered the seat of his baggy shorts.
Shankar continued down the stairs. As he passed the reception desk, the woman called out to him.
‘Mister, the key,’ she rasped.
‘The lady’s still in the room. She has the key.’
‘What time is she coming down?’
‘Just now. Five minutes.’
The woman returned to the prayer book on her lap and Shankar escaped into the street.
Inside Room 7, Uma sat on the corner of the bed. In her hand she held the key, which was attached to a playing card with a hole punched through it: the seven of clubs. The key smelt like the counter at the medical shop, a combination of hot metal and floor cleaner. She turned to pull the sheet straight and then smoothed out the creases on the two thin pillows. There was no window, no picture, no calendar, nothing to look at in the room apart from the fluorescent light’s icy glare. A jasmine bud had broken free of her hair and lay on the sheet. She picked it up and ran its pursed nib along her cheek before flicking it into the air.
She skirted around the bed and sat down on Shankar’s side, picking at a dog-eared corner of the playing card with the side of her thumb. Someone pulled the chain in the toilet at the end of the corridor and a reluctant gargle made its way through the walls, over her head and down towards the belly of the building.
She guessed that it must be at least ten minutes since Shankar left. She had given him a present for the baby, a bib dotted with a collection of planets. The small square of brown paper lay on his side of the bed: he had either forgotten to take it or had chosen to leave it behind. She stood up and slid the present under one of the pillows. Switching off the light, she opened the door and walked towards the staircase, the key warm in her hand.
The court’s decision was handed down in the course of a short hearing. The judgment was unambiguous. There was no doubt that the ‘public purpose’ test required by the legislation had been clearly satisfied in this case. HeritageLand would provide vast economic benefits, employment opportunities and, with the expected surge in international tourism to Mysore, boost foreign exchange reserves. There could be no clearer formulation of a sound public purpose. It would be inequitable for the court to reject this purpose simply because the conduit for its delivery was private industry. The court was called upon to conduct a delicate balancing exercise and in such cases it was always important to consider the nature of the matter in the round.
Furthermore, the court did not agree with the petitioners’ contention that the public benefits brought by the theme park failed to make restitution for the gross inequity of depriving thousands of farmers of their livelihood and the communities in which many had lived for generations. The government had clearly demonstrated that huge developmental gains would be made and the advancement was for all to share. Farmers who owned land were being compensated for the loss of their property and they would have an undeniable stake in the progress of the city and its environs. The government had guaranteed that landless labourers in the area would also benefit from the fruits of the development.
The court further held that the evidence proffered by the petitioners did not decisively support their assertions that compensation had been miscalculated. There was no obvious unfairness. There was evidence to suggest that elements of irregularity had crept into some of the reports submitted by the state’s land surveyors and in the provision of notices. This was not, however, a sufficiently egregious violation to warrant the court declaring the entire undertaking perverse, irrational, illegitimate, disproportionate or unlawful for any other reason. The parties were urged to come together to iron out these small differences in the spirit of economic cooperation and national betterment.
The lawyer present at the hearing took Vasu to one side. He was sorry to have kept the group waiting but he had needed some time to look through the judgment. It was a completely unanticipated decision. While they had not expected to prevail on every point raised, the exhaustive rejection of their case was mystifying. But matters could not be allowed to end here. The lawyer and the rest of his team would carefully examine the court’s formulations and work out a strategy. Of course, they could not lose hope. There was the Supreme Court. It would take time, effort and money to get there, but it would be worth it in the end. It was precisely for this type of case that the Supreme Court existed.
The lawyer understood that the community would be gravely disappointed. He would come now and explain the decision to those present and, if necessary, would visit one or two of the villages in the next few days. They had to have faith in the legal system. It would be difficult but they would have to be determined and perseverant. They would obtain a stay order on any attempts at encroachment or construction on the land. They would approach the court as many times as was required. If any government or private contractors attempted to defy the orders, they would move the courts again. In the case of harassment or intimidation, the police would be able to assist them. Besides, such conduct would work against their opponents when it fell to judicial scrutiny at the next stage. The lawyer was aware that there had already been reports of the involvement of the Mysore land mafia in certain areas. The important thing was to bring all such incidents to the attention of the relevant authorities.
He could not say how long it might take for an appeal to be heard. He knew that Vasu had witnessed the delays in getting the case to the High Court and so had experience of the complexity of these matters. But the important thing was to emphasise to the community that the fight was not over. They just had to be patient.
Even though it was not a Sunday, the house was steeped in Sunday quiet. Susheela had told the driver not to come. Uma had asked for the day off because she had a wedding to attend. There was no mali, no chatter from the students on their way to their tuition classes, no commotion from the Nachappas’ garage doors. The morning had evaporated in the gentle heat of newspapers and phone calls, lunch had been perfunctory and now the early afternoon squared up to Susheela like a neighbourhood bully. There were still a couple of hours before Jaydev was due to pick her up. There was no point in having a nap; she did not want to look like someone who had been in bed all afternoon. She walked into the kitchen. Everything was in its place. A piece of netting covered a bowl of custard apples on the counter, beads weighing down its edges. In the pantry she saw that Uma had stacked the month’s newspapers and magazines and bound them with twine, ready for collection on Thursday morning. Through the window, she could see that there was nothing on the washing line.
She went back into the sitting room. Her heart lurched when she thought the clock showed a quarter past three but that was just her eyes; it was still a quarter past two. It was ridiculous. What was she doing to herself? It was as if the stiff progress of hands and pendulums in this house had been replaced by the erratic clashing of a monkey’s cymbals. She walked into the hallway where the telephone sat next to a vase of gerbera. The truth was that there was no one left to call.
She went upstairs. That morning she had picked out her sari. Nothing that looked too festive or celebratory; a cream chiffon overlaid with sober navy tendrils. Two bottles of perfume stood on her dressing table, almost full. In the drawer, there lay at least another ten bottles, still in their unopened boxes, covered in plastic, the accumulated debris of birthdays and anniversaries. Susheela had never understood these scents, floral gulps with cloying trails that lunged towards the senses. The only smell she really appreciated was the fragile balm of a string of jasmine, practically inferred. But she could hardly emerge from the house to greet Jaydev with long chains of jasmine wound into her hair. The poor man would reverse out of the gates and head straight back home.
She got dressed.
A couple of short hoots sounded. He was here. Susheela picked up her handbag, took a quick look inside and then opened the front door. Jaydev was turning the car around in the road. She locked the door and walked towards the gates. A cordon of dark clouds moved over the garden, momentarily turning the world monochrome. Jaydev stepped out of the car and raised his hand. He looked like he was trying to hail a taxi. Susheela waved back. She thought she must look like a six-year-old at the start of the first day of school. There was no one else in the road.
A strangeness seeped into the scene. They had not seen each other for more than two months but had spoken almost every other day, sometimes for hours. It was a little like listening to her own voice on the answering machine, a startled recognition mingled with a prickly discomfiture. Jaydev appeared a little thinner to Susheela, his face more defined, altogether a more compact person. She lifted the latch, pulled open the gate and then closed it behind her. Jaydev walked around to the passenger side of the car, opened the door and then, perhaps thinking this was too pointed a gesture, left it wide open and returned to the driver’s side.
‘Right on time,’ smiled Susheela, getting into the car quickly.
The inside of the car smelled like an after dinner mint.
‘You are looking well,’ said Jaydev.
‘Thank you; so are you.’
She shut the door, put her seat belt on and settled her handbag in her lap.
‘Ready?’ he asked, as if they were on a motorbike.
‘Ready,’ she replied, as if she had settled her arms around his waist.
The car moved silently down 7th Main, the windows closed. At the junction, a stray dog barked at it long after it had gone.
Mini and Mohan Madhavan were celebrating their fifteenth wedding anniversary at the Mysore Regency Hotel. Mini’s younger sister Mony had taken charge as party planner and the guest list had spun itself into a healthy gathering of over two hundred and fifty.
‘Although in places like Mysore one can never be sure who else will suddenly show up,’ Mony had said to her friends in South Bombay.
There had been lengthy discussions about the choice of venue; everyone was agreed that the Regency was not what it used to be. Had anyone been to the Burra Peg on a Friday night recently? Most of the tables seemed to be occupied by men in groups that were a little too large, their laughter a little too loud, their accents a little too earthy. They never ordered gin or wine but managed to put away bottle after bottle of the most expensive imported whiskey. Sometimes they tried to involve you in their conversations about the cost per square foot in Siddhartha Layout or which kebabs to order next. Still, the Lotus Imperial would not be ready till next year and the Regency did have those beautiful gardens sweeping down from the old wing.
Crystal was of course the theme. Mony had outdone herself in sourcing original table centrepieces, seat covers, a dazzling ice sculpture and silk goody bags filled with charming mementos. Guests were encouraged to wear white but neither Mini nor Mohan wished to make it mandatory on the invitation. Mini, of all people, knew that white could be extremely unflattering on some figures.
There had been a little bit of thunder earlier in the evening but the sky seemed to have settled by the time Anand and Girish reached the hotel’s side pavilion, their wives a few steps behind. Moments later the power cut out. There was a collective cry from the guests and a nervous few seconds in the near total darkness before the generators swung into action.
The group joined the queue waiting to congratulate Mini and Mohan.
Mala was anxious. She knew that her performance tonight would be feeble, her craft strained and faltering. As she waited, she prayed that she would not see any of her front office colleagues on duty or any of the waiters who knew her by sight. She needed no further reminding that she did not belong here, just as she did not belong at work or at home.
‘But where has this tradition come from, recharging your vows?’ asked Anand, looking puzzled.
‘Renewing, not recharging. It’s not a battery,’ said Lavanya.
‘But what is the point of spending so much money on your wedding if you have to do it all again in a few years?’ he persisted.
There was no response. Anand would have to resolve these questions of nuptial husbandry on his own.
Mini looked lovely in a cream and gold sari. Mohan looked drowsy. There were hugs. Gifts exchanged hands. Girish made a witty comment about marriage. Mini seemed to wonder who he was. Lavanya flicked her hair back. Mala looked down. The photographer snapped away.
On the way to their table, there were several asides as Lavanya and Anand saw people that they knew. Mala smiled fiercely every time she was introduced and then stood behind Lavanya. Anand and Venky Gowda bear-hugged each other. Priyadarshini Ramesh, of the Mysstiiqque chain of beauty salons, blew kisses in their direction. The former chairman of the Mysore Regeneration Council galumphed over with a cocktail dhokla in each hand. Girish’s face gave nothing away but Mala knew he must be bored. She had no idea why he had thought it would be a good idea to come.
A man in a white kaftan put his arm around Anand.
‘This man is too much,’ he said to Girish and Mala. ‘Too much.’
‘Mr Pasha, the theme was white. Not fancy dress,’ said Lavanya to him, pretending to look injured.
Ahmed Pasha wagged his finger at Lavanya in delight: ‘Naughty, naughty.’
A few minutes after they had sat down at their table, a column of silence settled over them, not heavy enough to spur action, but sufficient to lend a laboured awareness to the evening.
Waiters were handing single white roses to all the ladies under Mony’s anxious gaze.
‘We don’t even know them that well. God knows why they invited us,’ said Lavanya at last, clearly wondering why Girish and Mala had been invited.
Mala speculated as to whether she ought to ask about the plans for the new house. It could lead to all kinds of problems. Instead, she asked them when they were next going on holiday.
‘Ask this one,’ said Lavanya, jerking her head at Anand. ‘He is the one who has no time to even scratch his head.’
‘Our Thailand trip was not that long ago,’ said Anand.
‘Yes, and we may as well have stayed here since you spent all your time with your phone. Or looking for other Indians in Bangkok.’
‘What rubbish.’
‘It’s true. The only things that moved him were the sounds of Indians in a public place or when he discovered some word in Thai that had a Sanskrit root. Then he got all excited and stopped looking at his emails for a few seconds.’
Anand smiled to say that it was true, she had just identified his most prominent but loveable weakness.
‘Actually, we will also be out of station soon,’ said Girish.
Mala looked at him. Something inside her darted out of position.
‘Oh? Where?’ asked Anand.
‘Two weeks in Sri Lanka. I booked it last week,’ said Girish, fixing his gaze on Mala.
She looked at his lips, from where the words had come.
‘Mala, you never told me,’ said Lavanya.
Mala was silent.
Then she said: ‘I didn’t know.’
‘Oh my God, Girish! A surprise holiday; how wonderful! Who would have suspected? You don’t really look like the romantic type,’ said Lavanya.
Girish, having sought an audience for his grand gesture, began to look embarrassed. He smiled awkwardly at Lavanya and then turned to Mala, perhaps to indicate that it was her turn to reveal the various manifestations of his whimsical nature. Mala looked away. At the next table a boy in a three-piece suit was trying to suck up the remains of his melted ice cream through a straw, puckering his lips and rolling his eyes in a frenzy. Next to him, a girl in pink pearls let out a series of staccato giggles. For the boy it was an early lesson in the addictive power of performance.
‘Look, she can’t even speak, she’s so surprised,’ said Lavanya, reaching out and giving Mala a squeeze on the arm.
Mala flinched, her napkin falling on to the grass.
The others all looked at her.
‘You’ve really booked it?’ she asked Girish.
‘All done,’ he announced. ‘Thirteen nights. We arrive in Colombo, then the next day we take the train to Galle. One night there, then some time in the jungle at Sinharaja and then they will take us to see some caves. Really ancient, with stalactites and stalagmites and fossils still visible in the cave walls.’
‘I think I have heard of this place,’ said Anand. ‘What is it called?’
‘Waulpane cave.’ Girish’s research had been comprehensive.
‘It’s meant to be an amazing sight, with a waterfall in the middle of the cave and bats flying all around. After that, we go to Ratnapura, where they have the gems, and then a hill station for two nights. Then to Kandy for another two nights I think, then on to a beach resort and then back.’
‘Sounds beautiful,’ said Anand. ‘Sri Lanka is on our list too, no?’
Lavanya agreed that it was on the list.
‘How sweet, he’s done all this secret planning. You had no idea?’ she asked.
Mala shook her head and smiled in Girish’s direction.
‘But I have not got my leave sanctioned. What if they refuse?’ she asked.
‘They can’t refuse,’ said Girish.
‘If you have any problems, let me know. You want me to talk to them?’ asked Anand.
‘No, please don’t do anything like that. Let me ask first. I’m sure it will be fine,’ said Mala.
‘Well, it is nice to see that romance is not just in the movies,’ said Lavanya, clinking her fork on a wine glass.
Anand refused to take the bait.
‘You don’t have that long to plan, Mala. Any idea what the weather’s going to be like there?’ Lavanya asked.
Mala did not respond. She stared at the golden orbs that surrounded the swimming pool, growing larger and fainter, as the bats from the Waulpane cave screeched around her head.
Jaydev had given the occasion some thought, while being very careful to appear as if he had done no such thing. The cinema that he suggested was an old single screen in Vishveshvaranagar, respectable enough to be safe, distant enough from Mahalakshmi Gardens to be fortuitous. They seemed to have done little else but talk, so going to the cinema would give them a chance just to be. Sometimes that much was enough. It was not the weekend and there had been a light drizzle every evening for the last few days: there was less of a chance of bumping into anyone they knew. Everything seemed in place.
Under the circumstances, the choice of film seemed almost irrelevant; or it did to him at any rate. Of course it would not do to end up trapped in front of something vulgar or depressing. Luckily the film showing at the Vishveshvaranagar cinema was neither of those things. Faiza Jaleel of the Mysore Evening Sentinel had given it three stars, praising the freshness of its young actors and the allure of the Brisbane locales where it had been shot.
The film bore the proofs of its creed. The female lead was a medical student in Brisbane, a firm ambassador of her parents’ immigrant values, combining resolute study with stunning expositions of Hindustani music and trays full of halwa. When not acting as a totem for multicultural conformity, the heroine would indulge in an afternoon of chaste conversation with an engineering student from Delhi, played with aplomb by the current teen heart-throb. Persuaded by her plain but jovial best friend, she entered the Miss Australia competition and won the title, precipitating a media frenzy and intense interest from a handsome but morally ambiguous Indian entertainment baron, also settled in Brisbane. The unexpected pageant victory also had the happy consequence of sparking an appetite for Punjabi culture across Australia. There followed scenes of bhangra classes outside the Sydney Opera House, emerald lehengas flaring across the outback and beers across New South Wales being replaced by Patiala pegs. By the interval, there were a number of indications that the engineering student would not give up the girl quietly and a showdown with the entertainment baron on the Story Bridge seemed unavoidable. With a dramatic escalation of strings and piano, the lights came on again.
Jaydev and Susheela turned to each other and smiled awkwardly, as if hating to admit that they were really rather enjoying the film.
‘If we can’t compete economically, at least on the beauty queen front we have no challengers,’ said Jaydev.
‘She looks about fourteen,’ said Susheela. ‘And how is she going to pass her final year exams with all those public appearances she seems to be making?’
‘That will be revealed in the second half. Maybe that tycoon is secretly her tutor.’
At least half the balcony seats were empty but who knew what was happening in the rows below. There was certainly enough lewd whistling during the scenes involving the swimsuit competition.
‘Excuse me please, I need to visit the Gents,’ said Jaydev. ‘These days, it’s getting ridiculous, every couple of hours.’
Susheela smiled at the back of the seat in front of her.
‘Can I get you anything on my way back?’
‘No, thank you.’
A moment later she added: ‘Good luck,’ and then instantly wondered why she had said it.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘I thought you just wished me luck.’
‘Yes, I think I did. Well, you know the toilets are not always very clean.’
‘One must stiffen one’s resolve.’
‘You know, that is one of the saddest things about India.’
‘What is?’
‘The state of the toilets.’
A strange sound came from Jaydev, something between a snort and a sneeze. His legs grazed against her knees as he walked towards the aisle. Susheela was a little perplexed. She had been entirely serious.
When Uma got off the bus, a long line was slowly filing into the temple premises on the main road.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked a woman.
‘Free meals there twice a day for the next two weeks,’ she said. ‘Some big man has died and his family is making sure he does not rot in hell.’
There was no one she recognised in the queue so Uma stood there, watching the temple authorities maintain order.
The dead man had been widely respected for his philanthropic activities. Every year on Ganesha Habba he organised the distribution of plastic buckets to the needy and during Dasara a mass marriage for poor couples. His sons had chosen to mark his passing in a manner appropriate to his renown, and food was being distributed at a number of temples in the city during the two-week mourning period.
The deceased’s colleagues at the Society of Mysore Pawnbrokers had taken a half-page advertisement in the Mysore Evening Sentinel to highlight his professional achievements. These included formulating the Society’s code of practice and ensuring improved focus on customer service in all member establishments. A full list of his charitable works was also being produced and copies would be bound in his memory at Shivaswamy Printers. A large number of the late gentleman’s clients were unable to express much regret, occupied as they were in the daily moil of trying to reclaim their possessions from his shops. But the man’s sons were determined to continue the public-spirited traditions, regardless of nod or favour.
The queue was shrinking. A photographer from the Sentinel arrived at the temple with one of the man’s sons to document the event for the next day’s edition. Inside the temple grounds, a speech ended to much applause.
Uma began walking down the slope. The mud had dried, leaving hard ridges of earth that resisted and then cracked under each step. Suddenly she caught sight of Shankar on the main road. He was standing at the edge of the slope, smoking. She understood why he would not call out to her but why was he watching her? She turned and climbed up the slope, her eardrums pounding. As she approached the top, she realised it was not Shankar, not even a man who looked like him. She spun round quickly and hurried back down the hill, looking in both directions. The sun was setting and there were too many phantoms stalking the pitted hillside that evening.
As the car headed home through the centre of the city, there was a ferocious show of lightning. An avalanche of blue and silver gave Amba Vilas Palace a fantastical silhouette. Inside the car, the ride felt secure and comfortable. There may have been thunder but they could not hear it over the sounds of the sarod that came from the car’s speakers.
‘Is this okay for you? I thought you had trouble driving at night,’ said Susheela.
‘Sometimes. There’s hardly any traffic now in the opposite direction, so it’s fine. It’s the oncoming glare that can get difficult.’
None of the traffic lights were working. Jaydev came to a complete stop at each one and then slowly headed forward. This was the hour that the drunks and the reckless chose to take the air of Mysore.
They approached Mahalakshmi Gardens in silence. In front of them the park gates loomed solid and forbidding, locked against tramps and miscreants. The car would be turning into Susheela’s road in less than a couple of minutes.
‘He is taking me home,’ thought Susheela. ‘This man is taking me home.’
As if it was the most normal thing in the world.
Slowly Mala lifted her legs off the bed. As she pushed herself up, she prayed that the bed’s ancient boards would not creak. Her toes touched the cool floor and she stood up. Her tendons began to uncoil. Girish had shut the windows earlier and drawn the flimsy nylon curtains but the room was not in complete darkness. She made her way into the corridor, leaning against the wall, and crept towards the bathroom, her palm brushing against the fissures and boils in the plaster. Once inside the bathroom, lips pursed, she gently closed the door. Her hand groped for the bolt and gradually began to ease it into place. Without switching the light on, she moved to the washbasin and turned the cold water tap on. She turned to the tap in the wall and turned that on too.
A bruise had formed on her right upper arm like a map of an alien island. There was a clawing burn in her lower abdomen, thrusting up towards her lungs. She moved to the washbasin and rinsed out her mouth. She cupped her hands, repeatedly filled them with water and lowered her face into her palms. Leaving the water to drip down off her face on to her nightie, she switched on the dim light above the mirror but took care to avoid looking at her face.
She then poured water from a bucket into the toilet and brushed the sides of the bowl, making sure it was spotless. Then she flushed the toilet and switched off the light. She turned off the tap in the wall; the water shrank into a steady drip.
She moved to the bathroom door and leant against it. The windows were open and she could feel a breath of cooler air. Outside the cicadas were swallowing the night. She stood by the doors for some minutes. The drip from the tap in the wall was making a low, hollow sound like a distant knock. Beyond the window grill, inky slashes were swaying in the night air. She turned and began to unbolt the doors carefully. It was only then that she realised that her bottom lip was bleeding. She ran her tongue across the split, the metallic sting splicing its way to the back of her throat, wondering if it was Girish’s blood she could taste or her own.
She knew she was incapable of going back into the bedroom so she felt her way down the corridor and into the sitting room. Easing the doors shut, she cast about on the sofa for the remote control. She turned the television on, muting the sound.
It was time for a commercial break: sequinned cocktail dresses on long-limbed Eastern European models; salsa dancers striking poses on a yacht; acres of hot bubbling cheese; jet skis leaving a trail of iridescent surf in their wake; confetti raining down in casinos; breakdancing teenagers in fluorescent vests; skateboarders on a suspension bridge; shopping trolleys filled with sunglasses; cricket players brandishing mobile phones in limousines; an electric guitar at the bottom of an aquarium; motor racers on a podium spraying champagne in slow motion; exploding MP3 players; enormous yellow peppers cascading over granite kitchen surfaces; candy-coloured shopping bags gliding by on conveyor belts; rows of empty sunloungers; strings of sapphires poised over shimmering clavicles; pretty girls in belted trench coats stepping on to bullet-nosed trains; a four-wheel drive steadily making its way through a war zone; bolts of crimson silk being hurled off skyscrapers; high heels striding across a luxury hotel lobby; a helicopter landing on a high-rise; a python coiling through tangles of jewellery; polo players signalling to each other; a smiling girl holding up a seashell.