The Smoke is Rising

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Dusk was stealing into the city. The pitiless heat of the day was now only a memory as a light wind picked up, bringing with it grit and dust from the Bangalore — Mysore highway. The furrows in the sky turned an inky violet and the coconut trees loomed solid and grey. At the northern approach to Mysore, the acrid smell of burning firewood drifted across tin rooftops. By six o’clock, the constant commotion of car horns, autorickshaw engines and accelerating scooters had risen up a register. Trays of freshly baked buns and puffs were being laid out in the Iyengar bakeries, their smell disorienting school children in the streets.

In the centre of the city, the crumbling houses seemed to breathe a sigh as they released residents on to porches and pavements. Office workers stood around food carts, hungrily watching expert hands slicing, seasoning and ladling. A stream of anxious out-of-towners took a wrong turning and headed away from Mysore Junction, their holdalls swinging recklessly. On the corner of Lansdowne Building and Sayyaji Rao Road, several neon signs sparked into action.

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