Read Online The Smoke is Rising by Mahesh Rao - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mahesh Rao
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repeatedly inspected under the glow of first light, in the bleached dazzle of noon and by the beam of a smoky lantern. They remained unblemished and unbroken, a reminder that here lay an infant with barely a past and, seemingly, no future.
The creases that should have sealed her journey through life didnot make an appearance in the weeks that followed, perhaps in protest at the life they foresaw. There were only two ways of looking at this unnatural occurrence: as a curse brought down on the whole community or a sacred sign indicating the arrival of a superior being. Unfortunately the lines had failed to materialise on female palms, in the home of a low caste potter, in a village marooned on a bank of shale in a forgotten corner of the Velikonda Hills. There was only one way that this story could end.
So Bhargavi’s mother was not fated to join the ranks of glorious local miracles: the weeping marble deities; the babies emerging unscathed from cauldrons of hot oil; the temple domes sprouting out of forest earth. Branded a witch, as soon as puberty struck she was palmed off to a drunkard from a neighbouring village, thirty years her senior. Bhargavi was born four years later and, shortly after, mother and daughter left the Velikonda Hills to find the future they had been denied.
Bhargavi’s mother had a dynamic imagination and a flinty streak of resourcefulness, both more useful than all the palm lines in the world. She reinvented herself as a healer using some practical midwifery skills, a flair for astrological neologisms, an education in the properties of various herbs and a store of common sense. Where particularly thorny cases were concerned, she flashed her naked palms at her patrons, silencing their doubts and hastening the efficacy of their treatment. Mother and daughter travelled from town to town, sourcing new remedies and clients, rapidly establishing a daunting reputation, and then, with impeccable judgment, moving on.
Upon her mother’s death, Bhargavi had not taken on her work but had, in her own way, continued the therapeutic tradition. Lacking an education, she was locked into a narrow channel of options, but had decided that this would not prevent her from making common cause with others when the situation required it.She had ended up in Mysore, starting out as a tailor’s apprentice in exchange for a couple of meals a day. Later she had joined a garment factory that specialised in men’s shirts destined for a supermarket chain in Germany. Her attempts at organising trade union membership among the young women at the factory soon saw her ordered off the premises and blacklisted in various quarters of the industrial area. Bhargavi had not gone quietly. She had returned at the end of each day’s shift to talk to the women as they emerged from the cramped depot into the evening haze. Eventually, one of the security guards had warned her not to return, while standing on her toes, his carefully polished shoe enormous on top of her tiny feet. She had left the area but she was sure that she would return.
A week later she had found work at the Bhaskar house. Now Uma found herself the latest beneficiary of Bhargavi’s solid determination and, as she watched her hurry out of sight, she was not sure whether she ought to be grateful or not.
Susheela began the long journey around the house, shutting windows and drawing curtains. The early evenings were the most difficult time. The tasks of the day were complete but the entrenchment of night was yet to begin. The gate lights would flicker into life along the streets of Mahalakshmi Gardens and the mosquitoes would begin their crepuscular investigations. The fridge would register its boredom with a prolonged sigh and every planet would pause in its orbit for a fraction of a second. She tried to delay turning on the television for as long as she possibly could, since it was, in her mind, a clear admission of defeat. She would pick up her current novel, the last
The creases that should have sealed her journey through life didnot make an appearance in the weeks that followed, perhaps in protest at the life they foresaw. There were only two ways of looking at this unnatural occurrence: as a curse brought down on the whole community or a sacred sign indicating the arrival of a superior being. Unfortunately the lines had failed to materialise on female palms, in the home of a low caste potter, in a village marooned on a bank of shale in a forgotten corner of the Velikonda Hills. There was only one way that this story could end.
So Bhargavi’s mother was not fated to join the ranks of glorious local miracles: the weeping marble deities; the babies emerging unscathed from cauldrons of hot oil; the temple domes sprouting out of forest earth. Branded a witch, as soon as puberty struck she was palmed off to a drunkard from a neighbouring village, thirty years her senior. Bhargavi was born four years later and, shortly after, mother and daughter left the Velikonda Hills to find the future they had been denied.
Bhargavi’s mother had a dynamic imagination and a flinty streak of resourcefulness, both more useful than all the palm lines in the world. She reinvented herself as a healer using some practical midwifery skills, a flair for astrological neologisms, an education in the properties of various herbs and a store of common sense. Where particularly thorny cases were concerned, she flashed her naked palms at her patrons, silencing their doubts and hastening the efficacy of their treatment. Mother and daughter travelled from town to town, sourcing new remedies and clients, rapidly establishing a daunting reputation, and then, with impeccable judgment, moving on.
Upon her mother’s death, Bhargavi had not taken on her work but had, in her own way, continued the therapeutic tradition. Lacking an education, she was locked into a narrow channel of options, but had decided that this would not prevent her from making common cause with others when the situation required it.She had ended up in Mysore, starting out as a tailor’s apprentice in exchange for a couple of meals a day. Later she had joined a garment factory that specialised in men’s shirts destined for a supermarket chain in Germany. Her attempts at organising trade union membership among the young women at the factory soon saw her ordered off the premises and blacklisted in various quarters of the industrial area. Bhargavi had not gone quietly. She had returned at the end of each day’s shift to talk to the women as they emerged from the cramped depot into the evening haze. Eventually, one of the security guards had warned her not to return, while standing on her toes, his carefully polished shoe enormous on top of her tiny feet. She had left the area but she was sure that she would return.
A week later she had found work at the Bhaskar house. Now Uma found herself the latest beneficiary of Bhargavi’s solid determination and, as she watched her hurry out of sight, she was not sure whether she ought to be grateful or not.
Susheela began the long journey around the house, shutting windows and drawing curtains. The early evenings were the most difficult time. The tasks of the day were complete but the entrenchment of night was yet to begin. The gate lights would flicker into life along the streets of Mahalakshmi Gardens and the mosquitoes would begin their crepuscular investigations. The fridge would register its boredom with a prolonged sigh and every planet would pause in its orbit for a fraction of a second. She tried to delay turning on the television for as long as she possibly could, since it was, in her mind, a clear admission of defeat. She would pick up her current novel, the last
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