The City of Devi: A Novel (34 page)

“Well, I’ve waited enough,” Karun says. “If you won’t tell Devi ma, I will.” Sidestepping Chitra, he strides towards the terrace. He dodges the guards and bursts out through the door, as Chitra, shouting for him to stop, gives chase. I follow as well, narrowly escaping the grasp of a Khaki who lunges my way.

The air outside smells of burning plastic—by the edge of the infinity pool lie the smoking remains of a beach chair. One of the potted trees is also on fire, which the attendants try to douse with water scooped out from the pool in a saucepan. Biscuits and pakodas and colorful orange laddoos float in the water, along with wooden trays, a plastic table, even an upturned throne bobbing amidst a swirl of red fabric. The terrace is littered with such a profusion of broken china that I wonder who could have supplied the Devi so many plates. At first I can’t locate her amidst the pandemonium of all the people running around. Then, behind a ring of devotees broken free from their guards, I spot the flash of a neck painted gold, the glimpse of a stunted arm.

We all run up to this human barricade, where Chitra tries to cajole the Devi out. The devotees chant and raise fists in response—the plates must be spent, because only a few odd pieces of cutlery come sailing out. A cry of pain shudders up from behind the cordon—through the shifting thicket of legs, I catch a glimpse of an attendant lying ashen-faced on the ground. Red stains the collar of his beige uniform. The Devi lies stretched atop him, her face buried deep into his neck, as if engaged in something carnal. The legs shift again, and now she looks up. Blood drips from her mouth, like from a feeding animal’s snout.

“Get them away,” Chitra shouts, and the guards get busy using their rifle butts to knock devotees down. But each time one falls, two more surge in, their passion so strong that first one, then another Khaki gets swallowed by the crowd. Somewhere in the melee, the supine attendant manages to crawl away, his neck awash in blood, as if punctured repeatedly by a fledgling vampire just learning to suck. I catch a glimpse of a woman disciple eagerly take his place—she unbuttons her blouse to bare her neck, a look of beatific anticipation on her face.

Eventually, though, the rifle butts prevail—the gauntlet is penetrated, the Devi exposed. Startled, she springs off her new and freshly bitten donor, landing cat-like, on her hands and feet, in a crouch. She hisses at the advancing guards, then rises to her full height and growls. “Careful,” Chitra cautions. “Remember that touching Devi ma is not allowed.”

“Yes, remember touching me is not allowed,” the girl mocks, lunging at the guards, forcing them to back away. She raises her good arms above her head, then flaps them up and down, as if chasing after birds or pretending to be a plane taking off. It’s a move I remember from
Superdevi
, used by the heroine each time she wanted to change herself into a particularly fearsome avatar. Nothing happens—the Devi girl remains untransformed. “Kneel down and touch your foreheads to the ground,” she commands, apparently undaunted by this deficiency in her transmogrification powers.

One by one, the guards and attendants obediently prostrate themselves, with the devotees (those not already knocked down) enthusiastically joining in as well. Chitra looks on tight-lipped as Devi ma steps on the nearest Khaki, mashing his face into the floor with her foot. She zigzags across the arrangement of backs as if playing a sprawling game of hopscotch. “Why are you still standing?” she demands, coming to a stop before us. She beats her arms vigorously—perhaps a last-ditch effort to give her metamorphosis a kick-start.

Chitra draws back a bit but Karun stands his ground. “Because I have something to tell you. I know where your Gaurav is.”

“Who are you?”

“His friend. The one he came to find. We were together when Bhim captured him.”

No sooner has Karun pointed the finger when Bhim himself walks through the terrace doors.

I
’
VE SEEN BHIM
in photographs and videos, but never in person, nor in full regalia. Locks cascade from under warrior headgear, gold breastplate and armguards gild him as splendidly as Devi ma, the fringe of his tunic billows in a brocaded swirl. He strides across the floor, decked out like an emperor of yore. Despite quibbles about appropriate heft and height for one so powerful, the awe he commands is palpable. Khakis and devotees alike jump back guiltily to their feet, as if caught playing games in class by a roving principal. And yet his manner, as he bends down level with the Devi’s face, is gentle. “Is something the matter?” he asks.

I expect her to curse or stomp or whir her arms, but instead, she calms right down. “Gaurav-ghoda. You took my Gaurav-ghoda. I want him back.” She bursts into sobs.

“Gaurav-ghoda? Who’s Gaurav-ghoda? Bhim kaka doesn’t have any Gaurav-ghoda.” He turns to Chitra. “What’s she talking about? Didn’t I tell you to keep her in a good mood at all costs?”

Chitra starts to apologize, to explain about Jaz, when Karun cuts in. “Don’t believe what he says, Devi ma—ask where he’s hidden Gaurav.”

“Ah, so you’re the one filling her head with this. The wife no longer quite satisfies your urges, I see—still pining for your
friend
.” He leans down again to the girl and holds out his open arms. “The man’s right, Dev ma, forgive Bhim kaka for having forgotten. I do have Gaurav-ghoda, all safe and sound, more special to me than any guest. We’ll go see him at once, right after your show is done.”

“He’s lying, Devi ma, listen to me—he’ll have your Gaurav-ghoda killed, he told me so himself. Go right now and save your friend, or you may never see him again.”

But the Devi girl has already allowed herself to be picked up in Bhim’s arms. She snuggles against his chest, her stunted right hand playing with his locks, the nubs on the left stroking his neck. “He gave me a present,” she says, producing the empty Marmite jar from a pocket and forlornly turning it over for Bhim to see. “The chutney inside was so tasty, I licked it clean.”

“And you didn’t save any for Bhim kaka? We’ll get some more, don’t worry.” He kisses her forehead. “As for your Gaurav, I promise not to touch a hair on his head.”

“Don’t trust him!” In desperation, Karun tries to clutch at the girl’s shoulder to get her attention. She screams as his fingers slip past and wrap around her malformed appendage instead.

“How dare you touch Devi ma! I’ll have you put to death. Guards, you heard what I said. Right now, this instant, in front of me. Slice off his head.”

The guards look at each other and I nervously draw closer to Karun. Bhim starts laughing. “Now, now, Devi ma—that’s quite a drastic punishment. Perhaps you can show some mercy, because I need him and his wife tomorrow, at breakfast.” He lifts her up on his shoulders so that she sits straddling his neck. “Bhim kaka has never seen you summon Kali quite like that before—he’s very impressed.”

The praise pleases the girl. She waves away the Khakis from atop her perch and makes a big show of granting Karun a pardon. “It’s almost time for your appearance,” Bhim reminds her, patting her leg. “Today’s the big night, isn’t it, to speak your lines yourself? Bhim kaka hasn’t forgotten—let’s go get the gold on your face touched up and fit a microphone around your neck.”

He carries her away, walking at first, and then, as the girl says “Bhim-ghoda,” breaking into a gallop.

THE CROWD ERUPTS
in euphoria the instant Bhim appears on the walkway with Devi ma. I now understand the ostentation in Bhim’s outfit—it connects him to the girl, echoing her golden splendor, conferring upon him the same supernatural aura: if she’s the anointed daughter, he must be the divine father. He deposits her atop the
Superdevi
machine and raises his arms high in the air to elicit even more roars from the beach. Then, taking off his helmet, he bows with folded hands for her formal endorsement. By now, the stand has risen just enough for her feet to be conveniently within reach without him having to stoop too inelegantly to touch them. The Devi bestows her blessing on his head, the transaction smooth and choreographed, except that as she straightens back up, the lotus in her right appendage pops out from its slot. The crowd doesn’t care—its cheering grows twice as loud, its exultation swells. Bhim basks in the adulation as long as he can, until behind him, the Devi starts levitating in earnest. As the spotlight leaves him, he hesitates, then makes his way back to where we stand.

“Welcome. I’m so gratified you have come to see me.”

The girl’s voice sounds a bit thin at first, her words shaky, but she quickly seems to gain confidence. Bhim nods in approval. “I knew, the moment I saw her in her slum at Dharavi, that she would be the one.” He shushes Karun, who’s now switched to earnest appeals to save Jaz. “Not now. I want to see if she delivers this part properly—it’s about the bomb.”

Like an anxious parent tracking a school play debut, Bhim mouths the words along. But his youngster doesn’t quite pull it off. “Come to me, and I will save you from the fire,” she says, then gets stuck. The seconds tick by, and Bhim gets increasingly fraught. He’s about to give the signal to switch to the canned version when she sputters back to life. “I will save you from the destruction of our city, I will save you from the bomb.”

Bhim claps at the end of the recitation, causing his entire entourage to burst into applause. Seizing the opportunity of Bhim’s genial mood, Karun pleads again on Jaz’s behalf. “Ah yes, your friend. Don’t worry, I hadn’t forgotten. But first, let me ask—this lady by your side—are you his lovely missus?” He bids me namaste and I instinctively fold my hands to respond. “Such an honor to meet you, so wonderful to unite you with your husband. But tell me, has he informed you about the secret Muslim hobby he’s developed?”

There’s nothing to do but look away, which prompts Bhim to emit a horrid little laugh. “So you know already. And what do you think? Should I release this Gaurav so you can be one happy family from now on? Or would you rather remain a twosome, prefer I remove this impediment once and for all?”

“If you think I want anyone killed, you’re crazy. Release him at once.”

“Bravo! Putting your husband’s interests over your own—spoken like Sita herself. The ground should part open any moment now to acknowledge such a noble sacrifice. But why do I feel our Sita’s not quite ready to be welcomed back into the earth’s fold just yet? That she wouldn’t mind if instead of her, the Muslim got swallowed instead?”

“That’s such a lie. I would never want—”

“No, of course not. You’d never want it on your conscience, I understand. How could you even face your husband afterwards if he’s so sad and hobby-less? But fear not. We won’t let your hands get dirty—we’ll leave that to Devi ma instead. Look, here comes her magic buffalo, in fact. I had them move it to the earlier show so we could all enjoy its sacrifice.”

I turn around to behold the airborne buffalo, bobbing just inside the parapet. The body looks plumper than yesterday, as if it’s been gorging all night to fatten itself. A line of green swastikas runs along its brow like dots adorning a bride’s forehead. “I am the demon Manisha,” it bellows through the speakers, and the Devi stands defiant against its threats.

“This part’s still prerecorded,” Bhim apologizes. “Devi ma hasn’t been able to memorize the lines yet.” He seems to know all the words—so well that I wonder if he’s composed the script himself.
“Repent, or I will cut your buffalo head and incinerate your sinful flesh,”
he booms at Karun, mimicking the metallic voice that blusters across the terrace. “But yes, as for your request. Watch carefully, because here comes the good part, the one that concerns your friend.”

Bhim grins impishly and I start to feel chilled. “I promised not to lay a finger on him,” he says, winking, as a trident appears in the girl’s hand. “This way I get to keep my word, and bestow a bit of happiness on Sita as well.”

“It couldn’t be,” I whisper, almost to myself. Last night’s image, of the spirit, as Chitra called it, flailing inside the buffalo frame, fills my mind. “He couldn’t be inside.”

“Excellent,” Bhim exclaims, his head eagerly cocked to catch everything I’ve said. “Even though you’ve spoiled my surprise, even though I was going to save it for after the show.” He beams as if we can’t help but be delighted at this twist he’s engineered for our entertainment. “Of course, with all the fireworks shooting off, you’ll barely catch a glimpse of your friend.”

“He’s inside,” I shout, clutching at Karun, who hasn’t quite understood. “Jaz is inside the buffalo—they’ll light it and set him aflame as well.” From her stand, the Devi waves her trident, hurling more threats at the buffalo, which floats in bloated obliviousness. “I saw it yesterday—someone burning alive—we only have a few seconds left.”

My words galvanize Karun. “Stop,” he shouts, waving his arms to catch the Devi’s attention. “Stop, Devi ma, stop, your Gaurav-ghoda is inside.” He charges off, sprinting halfway down the length of the pool before the guards catch up with him. “Stop,” he screams, struggling to break free from their grip.

Bhim shakes his head. “Tell your husband to relax and enjoy the show—there’s nothing he can do to help. Devi ma just imagines she’s doing the igniting—we light it by remote from up here.” As he speaks, a burst of laser-like rays sparks from the girl’s trident.

Karun is still screaming when a small flame pops alive on the buffalo’s skin. It climbs up the face and leaps onto the neck, burning along the nape like a fiery mane. Smoke wafts out of the nostrils, buds of orange sprout along the legs. As they burgeon and flower, people start cheering from the beach below.

With a luxurious whoosh, a cloak of flame enwraps the buffalo. Strings of firecrackers burst forth from the eyes, a volley of rockets zooms out of the mouth. Responding to the crowd’s acclamation, the Devi holds her trident victoriously aloft. The fire burns right through the posterior from tail to haunches, leaving the underlying frame exposed. I try to make out the grisly sight I know the interior imprisons, but already there is too much smoke.

A tremendous explosion rips the belly apart, generating a fireball large enough to swallow the entire animal. Bits of debris flame through the sky like meteor remnants, a shower of cinders drops sizzling into the infinity pool. The heat is so intense that the cable holding the frame melts right through, the remnants crash out of view below. Attendants rush down the terrace to douse the fronds of a palm set ablaze in its pot.