The City of Devi: A Novel (8 page)

As we pass case after empty case, I realize just how many fish are missing. Could Hrithik have eaten them all? Perhaps he reads my mind, because he starts talking about how easy it is for fish to fall sick, the lack of food and supplies, the pressure to sell the best specimens to foreign aquariums. “For a while, we were getting live carp and pomfret for the restaurant and storing them temporarily in these tanks, just so that the visitors had something to look at.”

We come to the central tank, illuminated by sunshine through a skylight above. A large ray floats by, exposing the various organs on its underside for me in a languorous display. Hrithik shakes his head subtly to indicate its lack of culinary quality. “Look, there,” he says, pointing at a shadowy shape circling further back. “Very good to eat. Only one left.”

“But it’s a shark.” I can tell by its triangular fin. A small shark, a baby perhaps, but a shark, nevertheless.

“It’s the tastiest one left. I’ve been trying to catch it for weeks, but he always escapes. Look.” He shows me a scar on his neck, and another one across his arm. “All over my body, especially on my chest. Once he even tried to bite off my leg.” He stares at the water with animus on his face. “It’s not possible to trap him—not by myself alone. But if there was another person—” He looks at me slyly.

“Something smaller would be better.”

We settle on a fish with a blunt head and speckled skin that is swimming alone in one of the tanks further on. The fish seems quite dazed and lethargic, and doesn’t flop around too much in the net when Hrithik scoops it out. “It would be dead in a day or two anyway,” he reassures me.

In the kitchen, Hrithik uses only a few stingy drops of oil in the pan, with the result that the fish comes out more burnt than fried. The flesh is mushy and unpleasant, and there are no spices to camouflage the bitter aftertaste. It’s nothing like the machi-fry I craved, but I eat as many of the pieces as I can stand. Hrithik wolfs down his share and whatever I leave of mine, acknowledging that the flavor is not good, and reminding me he recommended the shark.

The all-clear signal sounds as we finish. Pulling out the money for Hrithik, I notice the satiation on his face giving way to an inexperienced leer. “You don’t have to pay me the full amount,” he says. “Just stay awhile. It’s not so safe outside, and I have an extra sheet here.” He smirks.

I throw the notes at him. “I’ll take my chances. Maybe you should ask your mother for permission first before you make such an invitation again.”

His bravado crumbles immediately, and he doesn’t meet my eye. I am at the door when he calls out. “Come back tomorrow and help me with the shark. You can eat as much as you want for free.”

4

APSARAS FLITTED IN TO AWAKEN US WITH THE STRUMS OF THEIR
celestial instruments the morning after our wedding. We had barely noticed the images from the Ajanta caves decking the walls of our bridal suite the night before: Bodhisattvas contemplating lotuses, maidens comforting their swooning princesses, even the Buddha gazing down (perhaps a bit too ascetically) on the newly betrothed every evening. In light of how things had played out between Karun and me, I felt relieved we hadn’t booked the Khajuraho suite.

We breakfasted on the balcony. The décor took generous liberties with historical consistency: ornate Mughal chairs stationed around an Ashok chakra table from Mauryan times; railings, arches, and decorative flourishes that gleefully seesawed between north and south, old and new, Rajput and Dravidian. It hardly mattered—not with the sands sparkling up and down the coast, the waves rolling in with hushed booms, the sun falling on Karun as he selected fresh apricots from a platter and peeled them for me. Afterwards, we walked through the lobby, redolent with the fragrance of thousands of tuberoses this morning, to explore the exotic flowering plants in the outer courtyard, imported all the way from Hawaii.

We’d both brought our swimsuits, since this was our chance to finally experience the exclusive waters of the hotel swimming pool. The guard simply bowed us through without even checking the guest cards that now proved our legitimacy. The carved pillars and cascading steps cut into the long edge gave the pool a ceremonial air, like something one might come upon in an inner temple courtyard. How magical the water felt, how pure and vitalizing, like a baptism ushering us into married life. I wanted to reprise our first kiss, but felt too self-conscious and settled instead for a quick peck beneath the surface. We gave up on the idea of exploring the rest of the hotel, splashing and swimming almost until checkout.

UMA PICKED US UP
at one and drove us to Karun’s flat in Colaba. We had decided to defer our honeymoon by two months, when I would accompany Karun to a conference in Jaipur. “Carry her over the threshold,” Uma said, “like they do in foreign countries.” She giggled as Karun looked for a place to put me down, and helpfully suggested the bed.

I’d been to the apartment before, and instantly fallen in love with the view of the sea through the windows. Karun showed me the bedroom cupboard he’d emptied. “If you have more clothes, I can clear out some of my shirts as well.” On the bed, under the covers, he’d spread the new sheets he’d purchased. “Uma said you liked roses, but this sunflower pattern was all I could find. They’re still a bit stiff—I only had time to get them washed twice.”

We spent the afternoon listening to his collection of classical CDs. “The sarod you hear is by the maestro himself, Ustad Ali Akbar Khan,” Karun said, fitting me with headphones as he played one of his favorites. “It’s the
Chandranandan
raga, his most famous composition.” Afterwards, he talked about the first nanoseconds after the Big Bang when the primordial soup coalesced into protons and neutrons, then showed me a simulated film on his computer of gold ions colliding. “What this tracks is the condensation process in reverse—the particles blown apart into a plasma of gluons and quarks.”

The flat came with Karun’s job—in fact, the entire cluster of buildings was owned by his institute, an annex to the larger housing complex down the road where Uma and Anoop lived. “I didn’t realize I’d be surrounded by scientists,” I exclaimed.

He looked confused. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I’m joking. My sister’s married to a scientist—and now, so am I.”

Just as we hugged each other, the doorbell rang. Mr. Iyer, a South Indian colleague from two floors below, stood at the door with his wife. They handed us a tiffin box filled with food: dinner thoughtfully packed for our first night. We spread out the containers on the small dining table in the kitchen after they left—in addition to dosas, sambhar, and idli, Mrs. Iyer had even cooked up some sweet upma with cashews and jaggery. Karun poured us each a glass of champagne from a wedding present bottle, then carefully stowed away the remainder in the rear of the fridge. “I usually don’t drink, so I’m not good at knowing what one says.”

“To us,” I said, raising my glass. We each took a sip.

Kishmish
, my guilty-pleasure television serial, came on at eight, so we dined in front of the living room set, the dosas and champagne balanced in our laps. “I started watching it when I was fourteen, and haven’t been able to give it up since. I’d stay overnight with my friend Reena to study for our finals, and her mother would allow us this one break—she’d give us orange squash and potato chips.”

As I stood in the bathroom, it struck me how much I felt back at Reena’s. Karun and I had listened to music and talked about particle collisions instead of memorizing formulas and dates, but otherwise, it seemed the same. And yet, this was not some overnight visit. The doorbell would not ring tomorrow, my mother would not be standing there to take me back. I looked at my toothbrush leaning next to Karun’s in the cup, the soap dish he had wiped out for my bar of Lux, the color-coded red towel he’d hung for me next to his blue one on the rack, and felt a surge of affection. I was here to stay.

We again got no further than the previous night’s fondling. Perhaps the single glass of champagne really had incapacitated Karun, as he explained. He tucked us in amidst the sunflowers and went to sleep with my arm clasped against his chest.

All week, the aura of a sleepover lingered (especially once we took to wearing pajamas). Our lovemaking remained restricted to above the waist. Karun patted my thigh amiably each time I brushed it against his, kissed my hand whenever I let it stray. He offered frequent apologies (without specifying for what, exactly)—a fatiguing day at work, an unsolved equation rattling around in his head. “But you have no idea how much I’m enjoying sleeping together. It’s the best part of the day.”

One evening, on Uma’s prescription, I greeted Karun in high heels and a short black Western-style dress she lent me. But this vixen incarnation left him baffled, not aroused. “Isn’t it very uncomfortable to walk around in those shoes?” he asked, and I felt absurd enough to change.

“It can be difficult in the beginning,” Uma consoled. “Especially with someone who has as slow a fuse as Karun. Anoop suffered from it a bit too—do you remember how hard I had to work to pull him in, play Shakuntala to his Valmiki? It’s probably true of all these scientist types—always in need of polishing, always too distracted by their theories—they simply don’t spend enough time around women. Have you tried just talking about it?”

“It’s not exactly easy to bring up. Besides, he might freeze—I don’t want to confront him.”

“Then don’t talk, just act. Touch where needed. You have to do something before he convinces himself that cuddling is all you require of him.”

That night, as Karun lay shirtless by my side, I played with his trail of chest hair all the way down to his navel. I let my hand stray under the edge of the sheet across his waist. Slowly, I rolled back the sunflowers, then loosened his pajamas to uncover what nestled there. For a moment, I let him get accustomed to the sensation of being bare.

He kept his eyes closed, but shifted noticeably as my fingers began their exploration of his groin. His entire body tensed as I brushed against his manhood—the contact startled me as well. I waited a moment before trying a tentative stroke—this time, he emitted a truncated groan. I almost withdrew, but Uma’s voice urged me to continue. “One of the partners has to take an active role,” she said, “and in this relationship, it’s you.” Sliding my fingers around, I took Karun’s penis in my hand.

“Sarita,” he gasped, and I looked at him. His face was bloodless, his lips chalky, his eyes filled with panic. “Stop. I can’t,” he said, and instantly, I released him.

“I can’t,” he repeated, and pulling the sunflowers up to his neck, turned towards the edge of the bed.

EMERGING FROM THE
canteen stairwell, I notice a man on the aquarium steps, trying to peer into the lobby. Hearing the door shut behind me, he turns around. “There you are, thank goodness.” He comes down the steps towards me. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I reply warily. He speaks with a slight accent, which I can’t place. His features look keenly familiar—the short, impeccable hair, the hint of smolder in his eyes. I feel I should be able to recognize him—is he one of Karun’s work friends?

“I lost you. When the guns started firing, you ran too fast. I walked all the way to the overhead bridge near Chowpatty, then thought you might have ducked in here and came back. I’m so glad.” He pauses. “You don’t recognize me, do you? I’m Gaurav, from the hospital. The one you saved? I know it was dark.”

“Gaurav?”

“Yes, please call me that. I thought I’d repay you somehow.”

“You’ve been following me?” The idea makes me feel vulnerable, exposed. Should I try to run back up the canteen steps? Which presents the greater danger: this man’s stalking or Hrithik’s adolescent fantasies?

“I just wanted to make sure you weren’t attacked. All the hoodlums around in khaki—it’s the least I could do, I said to myself. I tried to ask you before in the hospital where you were going, but you misunderstood, perhaps. I overheard you inquire about trains from those dressed-up people and just wanted to say I was headed to the suburbs as well.”

His explanation sounds plausible enough—perhaps I’ve been overwrought in my assessment. He doesn’t come across as a sexual predator, even if I can’t be absolutely certain he’s not lying. “You saved my life,” he continues. “Let me do this to reciprocate. Ensure you get to your destination, accompany you for safety’s sake.”

I’m taken aback. War or no war, he’s still a stranger, his offer plainly presumptuous. “I’m fine, thanks. I don’t need an escort.”

“I would consider it my privilege, my duty—”

“No, really. The duty was mine, to save you—you don’t need to repay me. I’ve lived in Mumbai so long—believe me, I can take care of myself.”

Before taking my leave, I make sure he understands he is not to follow. I look back a few times to check if he obeys, but cannot spot him through all the people around. I am struck by the throng—the all-clear sounded barely ten minutes ago, and already Marine Drive is swarming, as if the stadium at the other end has just let out after a cricket match. Wasn’t the city supposed to have emptied out?—where have all these people been hiding? A multitude of heads stretches all the way to Chowpatty, like pixels packed in a photograph.

I immerse myself amidst these pixels, their flow carries me along. Smiles and laughs abound—people wave flags like on Independence Day, blow paper horns. Perhaps their jubilance marks the just-survived attack. In the distance, the footbridge Gaurav mentioned rises high above the road and adjoining tracks.
THE NATION IS ON THE MOVE
, a billboard across it for Nike footwear proclaims, in giant letters the colors of the national flag.

Ahead, the crowd bunches up to detour around another crack in the ground. Jets of water shoot spectacularly towards the sky as the sea tries to squeeze in. As I round the tip, a boy comes running up to hurl himself over the chasm. A wave crashes against him in midair, but his momentum carries him across. He lands and raises his wet arms in triumph—the onlookers applaud. A giggling young lady follows, her sari puffing up under her as she leaps through the air.

At the swim club, a crush of humanity forms a knot at the gate. I think of all the evenings spent there taking lessons from Karun. This is hardly the time for a swim—why are all these people trying to get in? Then I realize they’re attracted by the vantage of the diving tower. Masses cluster precariously on the platforms, a thick line winds up the stairway. I watch to see if anyone will jump like Karun and me, but the clumps remain intact.

I near the footbridge, teeming with people as well. Hands and arms stick out through the gaps around the billboard and lob objects into the crowd below. A bottle explodes on the pavement nearby. A rock hits a woman who collapses to the ground, holding her bleeding head. I manage to pass under, unharmed.

Curiously, no projectiles fall on the other side of the bridge. A row of people crowds up high behind a second Nike billboard, faces craning towards the Chowpatty sands. I forge ahead through the crush on the ground, wondering what makes the aerial spectators so spellbound. I begin to see loudspeakers tied to lampposts—the sound of chanting fills the air.

A large cloth sign announces a yagna, a great holy fire ceremony. “Rise, O great Mumbadevi, to save your city,” it proclaims. The list of sponsors underneath includes several temples and religious groups, but not the HRM. In fact, I can spot no Khakis in our midst. The men blowing whistles to direct the crowd wear no uniforms, no saffron bands adorn their necks.

And yet, saffron is everywhere: flags fluttering from poles, kiosks sprouting from the sand, a banner that has come loose and undulates in the wind—the beach has been inundated by a saffron wave. Behind the kiosks and a bank of generators lies the stage. It rises thirty feet into the air, supported by a cluster of bamboo legs, like a giant cricket hovering over the multitudes below. Stairways spiral up the legs—as I watch, men clad in loincloths ascend and seat themselves in orderly rows on the platform. The sun reflects off something—perhaps the white Brahmin’s threads across their chests.

The scene reminds me of the Olympics—I wait for an athlete to go running up and light a flame. But the prayers commence and I realize the fire must already be consecrated. I have witnessed yagnas before, but on a much smaller scale. Mentally, I trace the actions of the priests as they consign camphor and ghee and saffron into the holy flame.

Musicians sit on either side of the platform, the tearful sighs of their shehnais rising to the heavens with the invisible smoke and the prayers. Will these offerings prevail upon Devi to take our side and vanquish the enemy planes? Or will she send in the sea to swallow the city—water exploding up through fissures like the ones already cracking the Marine Drive pavement?