The City of Devi: A Novel (36 page)

Perhaps Bhim doesn’t see what we can from our vantage point—the angry sweep of humanity below him curling along its edge like a carpet to climb up the turret wall. “Follow me, not her. I’m the one, not she, who will save you from the enemy bomb.” Each time he shakes her rag-doll body in the air to underscore the Devi’s helplessness, the crowd presses forward, more of its members scrambling atop or trampled under the rising surge. The edifice, however, proves too tall to scale—halfway up, the embankment of bodies comes toppling down.

But the mob has also discovered the balconies forming a grid up the wall closest to the terrace. As Bhim booms on about uniting against the enemy colony in Mahim, the first devotees shinny up carved poles and swing over Rajput railings to clamber onto the walkway ledge. Khakis around us promptly shoot them down. This, however, galvanizes the long-cordoned terrace disciples, who finally manage to overpower their guards. They stream down the walkway, hauling their beach compatriots up over the parapet. “Shoot them,” Bhim commands, but even with weapons dutifully fired, the surge is already too thick to staunch.

His escape cut off, Bhim backs away to the edge of the turret. He threatens to toss the girl over, waving her body in the air. Perhaps it’s the breeze from this motion that revives the Devi. “Welcome,” she says to her army of followers, then twists around to claw at Bhim’s face.

The next moment is a blur, with Bhim shouting, devotees charging, and the Devi woozily spurring them on with snatches of her speech (“Show them no mercy,” “Nourish the land with their blood”). Seconds later, both she and Bhim hurtle down towards a mosaic of shirts and saris held aloft (together with the odd devotee pulled along). The loudspeakers continue to chronicle Bhim’s fate even after his body is swallowed from view—his screams mingling with the frenzied cries of the hordes, followed by a subtle series of pops quite distinct from the static, like knuckles cracking or a stale baguette snapped in two. It takes me an instant to realize this might be the sound a body makes when pulled apart. I look at the eddies of activity swirling in the floodlights, and although I can’t be sure, I think I spot Bhim’s head bobbing away like a coconut.

The Devi, on the other hand, seems none too worse for her tumble. Dazed but intact, she rides the adulatory swells resting on her back for a while, then sits up to test-wave each of her three hands in turn. In short order, she is presiding over a group of people pulling up loudspeaker poles and lashing them together to cant against the hotel as climbing ramps. The last glimpse I have is of her leading the charge to reclaim her abode, the arms supporting her invisibly tucked under. An airborne presence, like Superdevi herself, gliding magically over the sea of her followers.

Now that the danger from Bhim has dissipated, Sarahan and his companions finally emerge from the emergency stairwell. I shout to Karun and Sarita to follow me—the last thing we want is to get caught in crossfire between competing factions. We swim against the tide of devotees, pouring in steadily now up the various flights of stairs. As we struggle down to the second-floor landing, Sarita comes to a stop. “Would you mind waiting here? I’ve left something in Guddi’s room I need to get.”

“You can’t be serious. Not again.”

“It will just take a second.”

In the end, we all go. While Sarita rummages around the cupboard for her pomegranate, I slip into the bathroom to retrieve the gun, with which I seem to be playing my own karmic game of lost and found.

Even the detour’s five extra minutes exact a price. By the time we get to the ground floor, the entire beach seems to have crushed its way into the hotel. As we watch, the wall behind the stage ruptures open, and more devotees burst in. “The elephants,” I shout to Sarita, and we push our way towards their stables.

Where, bless her little Bride of Ganesh heart, we find Guddi, who has somehow managed to install herself in the role of chief mahout. “Their supervisor was ill, so with all my experience in the village, it seemed only natural to help them through this fix. That’s why I couldn’t return to the annex, Bhaiyya—I hope you’re not too mad for leaving you like that.”

I assure Guddi all is forgiven, but we need Shyamu and her now to convey us to safety over the throngs. She frowns at the suggestion. “But I’m in charge here. I can’t just take off—it’s much too important a job. Just look how the noise has agitated the elephants. What if I leave and something goes wrong?” On cue, one of the animals trumpets, pulling with such force at his chain that he almost yanks the peg out.

But then another wall collapses and more people gush in. The mahouts inform Guddi that the only way to protect the animals is to ride them away to safety somewhere. They start mounting their charges and leaving, despite Guddi running around protesting that nobody should go until she decides what’s best. She gets very angry when I ask some of them if they will carry us along. “Didn’t you just say you wanted Shyamu and me to take you? Are we suddenly not good enough?”

Once I’ve soothed her feelings, she lines Shyamu up at the mounting stand so we can all get on. Clambering onto his head, she aims him towards a breach in the hotel wall through which the silvery sea is visible. She feeds him a small laddoo produced from somewhere under her sari. Then, unmindful of the screams of panicked devotees underfoot, Guddi steers us out towards the freedom of the sands.

SO IN THE END
, fate gives the Jazter a last-minute reprieve, another shot at the Karun sweepstakes. I would have preferred just the two of us on the elephant (or, since we’re fantasizing, on a boat to some safe and secluded island), but still. One thing that’s changed: Karun has told Sarita about us—I can tell from their silence, see it in their faces. Which is excellent news—best to have everything out in the open, should Sarita claim the moral high ground because they’re married, or Karun be tempted to choose duty over love again. The Jazter has outgrown his Mahatma phase—no longer will he cede or sacrifice, watch his love wrested away. Now that it’s down to the home stretch, he’s going to make sure this journey ends the way he wants it.

SARITA

17

AFTER THE EUPHORIA OF ESCAPE HAS SUBSIDED AND THE CLAMOR
of the crowds abated, after the moonlit beach has turned pristine and unpeopled again, I experience the strange sensation of being transported to another time, another place. Perhaps it is the rhythm of the elephant, the rocking cadence that pushes me back and forth against Karun, the soothing comfort I derive from the shoulder against which I brace myself. The stars shine down fondly on us, the breeze blows in coolly from the sea, and I feel secure, protected. Then I realize Karun is holding on to Jaz’s body just as I am holding on to his. Instantly, I find myself in the present again.

Too many thoughts flare up in my head, thoughts I haven’t been able to utter in Jaz’s presence. After the roller coaster of events, I no longer know where I’m headed, where I stand. With Jaz glomming onto us so resolutely, what odds of victory can I reasonably expect? Hasn’t Karun already tipped his hand by fleeing precisely such a situation in the past? The feelings he has let slip, the artless craving in his face I’ve glimpsed since. I watch the long white strands of waves ripple in silently, curl in on themselves with barely a splash. The brooding buildings that line the beach, the shuttered bungalows that sightlessly contemplate me back. The choice will be made tonight, there seems no way to avoid the contest. Already I can see the approaching showdown, its inky clouds billowing with portent.

The elephant lurches and the pomegranate, round and firm, presses against my thigh. Urging me to have faith in myself, reminding me I have not played the game yet. I think of all the times I’ve lost and recovered it—surely there must be a reason providence has intervened so often. What magic will the fruit work tonight, how will it showcase my strengths? The memories it conjures: the elixirs before bed, the flavors and scents, the lips tinted red—will Karun simply succumb to them? I close my hand over the fruit to charge me with energy, bolster my confidence. My secret weapon, my enchanted orb—if nothing else, it will reveal my standing in the contest.

Guddi interrupts my reverie. “Where exactly were you expecting me to take you?” she asks us. “This boat you said you’re trying to catch? Shyamu’s not used to carrying so much weight.”

“Madh Island. Where the ferry from Mahim stops—it’s up ahead.” Which is technically true, since it’s north along the beach, though hardly close as Jaz’s words suggest.

After that, Guddi starts muttering a stream of complaints. Shyamu doesn’t like walking in the dark, there’s nothing for him to eat or drink, he misses the other elephants. Although she’s happy we found my husband, this means Shyamu now has the three of us to carry, which as anyone knows, can ruin an elephant’s back. “What will I say if he’s crippled when we return? Devi ma will be very upset.”

Things come to a head when we reach the creek that cuts across the sand to mark the start of Versova Beach. The tide is low enough to safely wade across—however, the sluggish current renders the water stagnant, giving it the reek of a drainage channel. Guddi puts up a fuss about both the smell and the supposed danger involved. “Chhee! I’m not letting Shyamu wade into
that
. What if he gets stuck? What if he sinks?” No amount of cajoling seems to move her. Finally, Karun remembers the cell phone he’s carried, uselessly, through all his misadventures. “So many buttons!” Guddi exclaims, punching at the keys and pressing at the display, trying to coax it to light up. “Does it take pictures? I hope it’s not dead, like the rest of them.”

She’s dubious about Jaz’s explanation that she only needs to charge it with electricity at the hotel. But she’s already formed an attachment to the phone in the few minutes she’s held it in her palm. She ferries us across.

“Say goodbye, Shyamu. To Sarita didi and Gaurav bhaiyya and Mobile bhaiyya.” She waves, the phone in her hand glinting in the moonlight. Shyamu flaps his ears back, trumpets twice, then turns around and disappears splashing into the night.

The moon has climbed high enough to light our path, so we walk on. The sea forms a constant presence on our left, a vast and endless plain, the waves so muted they seem to stand still, like barely visible furrows. No signs of life break the horizon—no ferries or fleeing ships, no dhows with picturesque white sails. The sands are equally deserted—even the crabs seem to be in hiding.

It occurs to me that this is the first time Karun, Jaz, and I have been alone. So alone, in fact, that we could be the last three people on the planet. Didn’t Karun always maintain three was the basic configuration of the universe? That triples governed everything from space to quarks? The geometry we lived in, the primary colors we saw, the particles pulsing around in our atoms, the stars in their celestial triads above. Except not all trinities are as natural or sustainable as he claimed. For instance, this triangle in which we find ourselves unwillingly conjoined.

We try the doors of a series of bungalows along a lane branching off from the beach, but none are unlocked. Jaz even smashes open a few windowpanes, but the jagged shards in the frames prove too difficult to pull out. In truth, I’m glad we don’t find a place to stop. My chest contracts at the prospect of the reckoning to come. We have scrupulously refrained from all but the blandest of interactions. No talk about shared futures, no expressions of affection. Not even a touch, for fear of setting off simmering jealousies. The longer we continue walking, the further we postpone a face-off.

Just past a thicket of coconut palms, we come across a shed with a bamboo door that swings open readily when tried. Most of the shed’s roof is missing, making the shelter it offers over camping out on the sand rather illusory. But Jaz points out that the beach has been shrinking steadily, and narrows even more drastically up ahead, making it too treacherous to negotiate in the dark. Karun also wants to spend the night there, so I go along with the idea. “At least the inside is well-lit,” I say, pointing to the patterns on the wooden slats formed by moon rays slanting in. In one corner, we even find some rolled-up reed mats, as if someone anticipated our sleep-in.

Jaz starts dusting the mats out and announcing how tired he feels. I’m instantly on high alert—is this all a strategy? Getting us to spend the night, controlling how the mats are laid out, pulling some physical ploy with Karun once we turn in? I need to have some time alone first, play my trump card of the pomegranate. “Could I talk to you alone for a few minutes?” I ask Karun.

Before he can answer, Jaz cuts in. “There’s nothing you can’t say in front of me. I think we’re all adults, we all know what the situation is.”

“I was talking to my husband. It doesn’t concern you.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Karun intervenes, whisking Jaz away. I can hear their voices outside, talking in excited whispers. Finally, Karun returns. “I’m sorry. Jaz apologizes as well. He’s promised to wait by the palm trees until I come get him.”

I’m at a loss on how to respond. The naked competition, the open hostility, has unnerved me. I pick up the mat Jaz was dusting and unroll it with a snap in the air. But then I can’t decide where to set it down. How should our bodies be aligned? What would be acceptable, what would be
fair
, what would avert the accusation of wresting too much advantage for myself? The question feels outrageous. Aren’t Karun and I married? Do I need to get permission now, haggle for special dispensation just to arrange our beds?

“Are you all right?” Karun comes over to where I stand immobilized and takes the mat unfurling limply from my hands.

“I’m not sure. I’m not sure where we go from here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t tell what’s on your mind. All this guardedness, all this tension, ever since we left the hotel. I don’t want to be a third wheel.”

“You’re not a third wheel. You’re my wife.”

He says and does all the right things—telling me how much he loves me, how much he treasures me, stroking my hair, kissing my forehead and my lips. His palms press tenderly on my back, until I feel that familiar melting, that incipient helplessness, that makes me long for him, long for his body, long for a return to our bed, our marriage, our life. And yet, he makes no mention of all that lurks unsaid, all the questions the night brings, the figure skulking alone in the shadows of the trees. I am afraid to look into his face—will I see love in his eyes, or mere understanding? Or worse, evasion. Even worse, pity?

But then I remember my advantage. The secret that bulges at my side. Music and candles would accompany the ideal unveiling—I lead him instead to where the moonlight is most intense. “You won’t believe the trouble I took to get this for you.” I cup my palm around the pomegranate and extend it to him, giving it a quick rub first with the edge of my sari. A part of me shrinks as usual at investing in such a flimsy chance, but I remind myself I have little to lose, little alternative.

He picks it from my hand and holds it up—the skin is lustrous in the lunar rays, the crown sharply etched. I look for signs of nostalgia or entrancement, but he appears curious more than anything else. “A pomegranate. Where did you find it? I haven’t had one in such a long time.”

“This one’s from the hotel. Someone brought it for the Devi, I think. You’ll have to use your hands—I don’t have a knife.”

He works a thumb into the crown to pry it open. The skin makes a tearing sound as he splits it apart. A few of the arils spill onto his palm as he holds out the halves. I push his hand towards him, saying he must consume it all. But he swings it back. “Not without sharing, I won’t.”

The fruit is a bit overripe, but very fleshy and sweet. Its heady aroma envelops us. Even in the limited illumination, I can see the juice darken his teeth. Perhaps he notices my gaze, because he closes his mouth self-consciously. More light glances off his upper lip than his lower, bringing the familiar line into focus. I watch it part in anticipation, ever so slightly—when we kiss, it tastes, unsurprisingly, of pomegranate.

Standing in that hut with the moon spilling in, I feel the future fill with possibility again. Surely it’s the fruit working its magic, focusing Karun’s attention on me, making the distractions loitering outside fade. I pull back to look at his face, am heartened by the encouragement I see in it. Would it be too forward to roll out the mat? Lie there and let the night waft us away?

My gaze falls to his hand, to the quarter of the fruit he still cradles. The white of the pith gleams in the moonlight, stark against the fleshy darkness of the arils. “Would you like me to take the seeds out for you?” I’m ready to crush them between my fingers for juice if he wants, ready to indulge any whim.

“You don’t have to do that.” Although it’s too dark to see, I can tell he blushes when he says it. Perhaps the same sultry memories have welled up in his mind, the same desire to reenact past nights, and he doesn’t quite know why. Perhaps I should confess the connection, spill out all the cures prescribed by Uma, the love potions, the aphrodisiacs, the Kama Sutra myths. As we scoff and giggle at the fantastic claims together, I can coyly point to their validation, at least in our case. What refutation will his scientist mind come up with? How will he feel about my long-drawn-out campaign to mesmerize him?

“Actually,” he says, continuing in his shy tone, and I lean over to kiss him again. It’s worth it, I want to assure him, all the losing and recovery, all the hunting and games, whether or not Uma and her coven of old wives are correct in their tales. All I need is for him to forget what lies outside the shed even for a moment, and I will feel vindicated, relief will pour in. The pomegranate will have delivered its answer, fulfilled its long-heralded promise, reassured me about where I stand with him. I wait for the words that will bind just the two of us, wait as they emerge even now from his lips.

“Actually, Jaz might like some, too. I thought I’d save this piece for him.”

WE ARRANGE THE
mats side by side to form one big rectangle. I feel uncomfortable sleeping together with Jaz like this, but it’s the only way to defend my interests—lying apart would leave Karun completely exposed to his wiles. Karun has already parried my hints that Jaz remain outside—claiming it’s too open, too sandy, too unsafe. “All I can think of is how amazing it is that we’re all alive, that we all escaped. Let’s just concentrate on sleep tonight, celebrate that way. Leave any problems for tomorrow—we’ve endured enough for one day.”

The mats are very thin, each reed presses separately into my skin. Jaz finds pieces of gunnysack in a corner to fold into pillows for our heads. Neither he nor I say much—we repose on either side of Karun, the status quo configuration inherited from the elephant. I want to be close to Karun, feel my body tingle against his. But I refrain even from putting my arms around, for fear of touching Jaz, or worse, provoking more aggressive maneuvers by him.

Even with the sea so close and the roof so compromised, the air inside the shed feels hot and still. I lie on my back and try to make out the mosquitoes I can hear swarming above my head. Karun curls his hand around mine and rubs it, more in reassurance, I believe, than anything else. Is he also rubbing Jaz’s hand the same way?

I must doze off, because I have the sudden sensation of waking. The moon is lower now, its rays so oblique they now form a patch on the wall. The mosquitoes circle and hum as before. Perhaps the heat has roused me—sweat drips down my neck, soaks through the layers of my sari. I notice Karun has removed his shirt, so I unwrap the fold of material covering my blouse. This doesn’t cool me much, so I decide to rid myself of the entire sari. Slowly, quietly, I ease out the pleats tucked into the waistband of my petticoat.

Despite my efforts at soundlessness, Karun stirs. He reaches out to squeeze my fingertips, then draws closer to snuggle against my chest. Perhaps my blouse is too moist with perspiration, because almost immediately, he lifts his head off. I stiffen as he starts undoing the hooks—after all, Jaz reposes only inches beyond. Karun kisses the space between my breasts once he frees them from the cloth. “Your petticoat is damp too,” he whispers.