The City of Devi

by Manil Suri

  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?

  “I come to you with a message of peace,” the voice taking over from the priests on the loudspeaker announces. “We have gathered to end this war, to heal the differences between us, to appeal to you, O great Devi ma.” A coalition of temples has organized this event, the speaker explains, to counteract all the divisive forces at play in the city and the country. “We are your true followers—come before us and reveal your wisdom, your mercy.”

  I have no time to stop and listen—my goal is to cross the street and be on my way. The Nike footbridge is too far behind, so I start inching towards the aerial overpass ahead. Sweat soaks through shirts and saris and rubs off on my skin. A child clutches at my hand, and I instinctively check to make sure the pomegranate is still in my pocket.

  It takes me thirty minutes to reach the foot of the overpass, and another fifteen to push through the spectators and climb up halfway. How can the bridge withstand the weight of so many people? They listen raptly as the speaker exhorts them not to pay attention to rumors. “The real Devi ma has not yet descended. She is nothing like what you might have seen in the movies. She can only appear at a proper temple, not a godforsaken spot on a beach as some claim.”

  The first shouts over the loudspeakers are faint, and seem to emerge from just within range of the microphone. I notice the smoke is now visible—a thin black plume rising from the stage. For an instant, it strikes me that this could be part of the ceremony—perhaps the platform itself is to be burnt down in the finale. Then figures begin to leap off, while others try to scramble down the bamboo framework. The tarpaulin border hoisted over the edge starts smoking, then catches fire with a speaker-amplified pop. I spot flames—small bursts at first, leached of color by the sunlight, and then large sheets that roll around canvas and leap ambitiously into the air. Within seconds, the platform is engulfed. Bamboo, tarpaulin, steps, and priests all vanish behind a curtain of orange—the stage becomes a giant seaside funeral pyre.

  From where I stand, the ensuing horror unfolds like a carnage scene from a movie epic. The crowd surges away in waves as debris rains down flaming from the platform. Fueling the panic are the loudspeakers, which continue functioning longer than they should, broadcasting the grisly fate of those trapped on stage. By the time the fire finally cuts off their screams, an enormous stampede has been generated. I now hear the cries of people on the ground being trampled under the feet of the roiling mob. The surge is so strong that its edges push up the bridge. A few onlookers pitch over the sides, but I manage to hold on.

  Finally, the panic abates. Mangled corpses litter the beach, a smoking hulk remains where the platform stood. People start dazedly making their way down. I almost stagger along with them before remembering I’m trying to cross over. More bodies lie twisted on the other side of the bridge—my knees feel weak as I pick my way across the sidewalk. I pass the New Yorker restaurant, where Karun and I sometimes had coffee after our swim. The Statue of Liberty cutout still stands intact, though blood spatters its ice cream cone torch.

  I search for the alley leading to the railway corridor. After what I have witnessed, I’m too unnerved to continue on the roads—since the trains aren’t running, it makes more sense to walk along the tracks. I turn at the Barista coffee shop and look for an entry along the line of buildings. At the very end, I find a narrow gap in the wall, through which I pull myself. The tracks are as deserted as before. I begin the long trek in the direction of the Mumbai suburbs.

  THE NIGHT HE TURNED away from me, Karun’s reaction left me so shocked that at first, I had trouble processing his words. “It’s too soon,” he may have said. “I need more time.” I couldn’t think of how to respond. Did he not find me attractive? If so, why had he married me?

  “I was nervous even before the wedding. Not being used to any of this, not having had any experience. You can’t realize how much pressure it’s been.”

  “I haven’t exactly been out practicing with other men either.”

  “No, please don’t take me wrong—it’s entirely my fault. I’ve always been very reticent about such things. I thought it was just shyness, but it’s more than that—perhaps I need to know you better. Or perhaps you need to know me. I’m not explaining this very well—I’m sorry. If you could be patient, that’s all I’m asking.”

  He wanted to continue sleeping together, continue cuddling. His contriteness seemed genuine, his proposal innocuous enough, so I agreed.

  For the next several nights, we just slept. I had resolved to act stern and unaccommodating, but Karun was so solicitous, so apologetic, that I found my anger dissolving. I allowed him to wrap my arms around his body while going to sleep, to press his back into my bosom the way he liked. Sometimes he turned around to gaze at me, like an artist studying the fine points of a subject to paint it from memory. I reciprocated on these occasions, trying to absorb his essence through this shared experience of silent communing. Who was Karun? What did he feel? Beyond the atoms and molecules of which he was so knowledgeable, what constituted his being?

  Once it ignited within me, I tried to subsume my physical longing in this curiosity. Each day when Karun left for work, I went through the flat, familiarizin
g myself intimately with his things. I buried my face in his shirts to see if I could discern a scent lingering from his body. I examined the pattern on each necktie to intuit what he found appealing. I noticed how he carefully folded each handkerchief, how he stored his socks rolled in pairs, how he stacked his underwear in orderly piles. Even the worn shoes he no longer used rested tidily in their original boxes.

  I discovered Karun’s past under the bed, just as neatly organized. An old suitcase held toys and games, including miniatures of racing cars and jumbo jets and three boxes containing Lego pieces. A small attaché, the type used by schoolchildren, contained report cards all the way from kindergarten, chronologically arranged. I felt a curious kinship well up within as I leafed through a stack of prize citations similar to mine—science, mathematics, geography, and the inevitable “moral instruction” (which I also unfailingly earned every year). At the very bottom lay a bound copy of his Ph.D. thesis, “Non-Abelian evolution of chromo-Weibel instabilities based on hadronic spectra observables.” The fact that I found the title unintelligible (as he probably would my M.A. thesis on Fellegi-Holt models) made me smile.

  In the last suitcase, behind two cartons of scientific books, a shock awaited me. I stared at the saris packed within, the dupattas and blouses, the salwaar kameez outfit. A small plastic container held earrings and bangles, inside another lay two necklaces and a ring. Had I just uncovered evidence of a past liaison? Did Karun have a romantic history he had failed to reveal?

  Then I smelled the mothballs, noticed the men’s suits with the old-fashioned lapels and the heavy brocaded saris. The clothes, I realized, had to be his parents’—Karun must have saved them in remembrance. Packed in under the outfits lay a photo album. The first picture, of his parents, was identical to the one above the dining table—his father looking out jauntily at the camera, his mother gazing dreamily past, as if in the distance, she could see the panorama of the rest of her life. Karun appeared as a newborn on the next page, then as a toddler with a shock of black hair. I followed him over the years—posing in a rabbit costume with a carrot in his mouth, accepting a trophy for best Cub Scout, sitting with his parents in a plywood Mercedes prop at a photographer’s stall. I imagined myself in each photo, sharing each instant as he grew, insinuating myself into his life.