The City of Devi

by Manil Suri

  “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.

  We both end up naked. I feel too exposed with Jaz in the same room, so I draw back my divested sari to spread like a sheet over us. Every rustle and scrape gets amplified in the confines of the shed, and I keep worrying we will awaken Jaz. But he dozes through it all—the kisses and nestling and exploration as Karun and I reacquaint ourselves with each other’s person. “So long since I slept next to you,” Karun says, and I wonder how I could have mistaken his earlier dispassion, misread the pomegranate’s call. As his excitement reaches its usual modest plateau, I realize I can’t sustain it. We don’t have enough room for free movement, for gymnastics like Jantar Mantar. My body ignites just a
s his fades. He embraces me in a cuddle that promises only affection, unaware of the chemicals that surge through my blood ways.

  Karun nuzzles against my body. I caress his neck as he drifts away. It takes me a while before I can calm myself enough to follow him.

  Neither the night nor the heat has lifted when my eyes next open, but something has changed. Karun’s breath comes in rasps—he still holds me, but his body seems further away. Abruptly, he arches back his neck, and I feel the fullness of his manhood press into me. I think he’s in the midst of a dream, but through the darkness, I glimpse his eyes are open. He subsides, then pushes forward again, his whole body arching this time, his legs and torso meeting at the focal point of his groin. Seeing me awake, he buries his face in my neck and covers it with kisses. As he presses forth, he pulls me to him, so that my body bends against his in the same arc, like in the yoga asanas we once practiced. I feel his penis climb up my thigh.

  His hands caress my breasts, his lips work down the hollow of my throat to my chest. Thrown off by his movements, my body nevertheless responds to his touch. He groans as I take him in my hand. I’m unsure what drives him, but I want him to continue, I will help any way I can.

  That’s when I glance beyond. At first I think it’s just an aberration, the darkness massing together into a shadow more substantial. As my eyes adjust, I realize it’s Jaz. Naked and awake, engaging Karun in what way, I can’t exactly tell. Instantly, I retract. Karun tries to hold on to me. “Wait,” he gasps.

  Jaz wraps an arm around Karun’s chest and draws him away towards his own body. “Wait,” Karun says again. “No, not yet.” His eyes close and his words trail off as he leans his head back. Jaz twists around as if preparing to devour him—clamping his mouth over Karun’s, silencing him before he can utter anything else.

  For an instant, I watch as Karun lolls helplessly in Jaz’s control. Limbs flash, chests strain, muscles flex. This is the image I never had: what it looks like between the two of them. Not content to be just a spectator, I latch onto Karun’s waist. As their conjoined bodies thrust towards me, I grasp Karun again and guide him into myself. He cries out my name, his pelvis pushing forward, his shoulders tilting back.

  Matching their rhythm proves elusive. I lose Karun, have to repeatedly tuck him back in. To my amazement, he neither wilts nor fades, unlike any of our previous attempts.

  Perhaps Jaz decides my lack of synchronization hampers his efforts as well. He positions Karun prone over me, caging him against my person, splaying his hands on the floor as if he might escape. Lying under Karun, I now feel the sensations reach deep inside me—every time he presses in, every thrust that drives into his body. I try not to think of these thrusts, try to ignore the sounds from Jaz’s heaving frame. Instead, I concentrate on the rising throb of pleasure and pain within me, the same interplay I see mirrored on Karun’s face. The realization that he feels every stimulus when I do, endures a version of every sensation he inflicts, fuses my experience with his. As the tides gather and the wave begins to build, I have a flash of intuition. I suddenly know what it feels to be Karun—the passivity at the core of his being, his need to be a conduit, the passion he can experience only when thus initiated. I want to share this insight with him, assure him that I empathize, that I accept and forgive. But the wave is already too close, its waters too high—before we can slow down, its obliterating form thunders in. Karun’s features dissolve, my insides turn liquid, and as Jaz labors on, the two of us are simultaneously swept away.

  Surely supernovas explode that instant, somewhere, in some galaxy. The hut vanishes, and with it the sea and the sands—only Karun’s body, locked with mine, remains. We streak like superheroes past suns and solar systems, we dive through shoals of quarks and atomic nuclei. In celebration of our breakthrough fourth star, statisticians the world over rejoice.

  Afterwards, I lie on the mats as before, with Karun at my side. I savor the familiar smoothness of his ankle, the steady sound of his breathing, the reassurance of his fingers clasped with mine. A bubble of optimism buoys me. We will complete our journey to safety, set up a house in another city, live once again in normal times. Even the dream of realizing our family trinity seems within reach now—the door has opened to this opportunity, to finally trying for a child.

  Then an alarming thought occurs to me. What if our trinity is already complete, with Jaz forming the third element? Surely he doesn’t plan on leaving—Karun would be unprepared to let him go anyway. More critically, wouldn’t the union we just experienced have been impossible without Jaz? Wasn’t he the catalyst, the very engine, without whom Karun and I would have never made it past the foothills of the slope we climbed?

  I feel chilled, even though the air around remains as oppressive. I imagine a lifetime of sharing, of deference, of compromise, the role of a less privileged wife. What allowance would I get of Karun’s day, what part of his attention, his love, his life? Given Karun’s hopeless passiveness, wouldn’t I have to struggle with Jaz over every day, every minute? And sex—would it play out like tonight, Jaz calling the shots each time? The indispensable savior, the proud conqueror, riding in on his own wave a few seconds after mine?

  The sky slowly lightens in the hole above us. I watch the dawn advance, swallowing the stars most weakened from their vigil through the night.

  A TERRIBLE THIRST, much worse than the accompanying hunger, afflicts us all in the morning. We look longingly at the coconuts sprouting from the unreachable tops of the nearby palms, fantasizing more of their sweet juice than their meat. Jaz breaks into a cluster of shuttered stalls just off the beach, finding the first three completely stripped of their wares. In the fourth, he gets lucky while feeling around under the counter, discovering both a one-liter Pepsi bottle filled with water and loose Marie biscuits in a plastic bag—someone’s personal stash, perhaps. “Not quite Gluco,” he tells Karun as we eat the biscuits, and they both smile. I feel left out at the private joke, but nothing like the shock I experience when Jaz leans forward and plants a kiss on Karun’s lips.

  “You shouldn’t mind him,” Karun says, while Jaz is off trying to break into another stall. “The Gluco biscuits—when we first lived in Delhi, we shared a packet for breakfast every day.”

  I look at the sea, at the resurgent tide, at the frothing waves. Perhaps I need to take solace from their exuberance. Perhaps I need to tell him I can’t do this, he has to choose, pick a side. “He’s actually very nice. You’ll see when you get to better know him.”

  As if to prove Karun’s point, Jaz returns with some salted gram he has found, which he divides between us, scrupulously to the last grain. “There’s a bit of water left, too,” he tells me, “if you want it.”

  Jaz’s prediction of the beach narrowing quickly comes true—in fact, the sea sweeps right across our path along several stretches. The waves force us to clamber over the rocks stacked as reinforcement against the water. Behind the rocks rise walls, some topped with spikes and barbed wire, which enclose towering skyscrapers—or their bombed-out hulks. The barbed wire continues across the mouths of several of the lanes running perpendicular to the shore—a post-war addition, no doubt, to keep out beach riffraff like us.

  The trio of fighter planes appears as we make our way over a particularly challenging tract of rock. They pass harmlessly overhead as we try to scramble up and flatten ourselves against the wall. “The enemy’s,” Jaz says. “I used to think that could only be Pakistan—now I’m not so sure. But we should be safe from them—they must be looking for something bigger to bomb.” Before I can offer a correction based on my personal experience, we hear a fourth jet—one with a lower-pitched drone (could it be the same one that shot at me on Marine Drive?). Fortunately, the wall has an overhang of sorts under which we can all squeeze in, so the pilot probably doesn’t see us. My unease is well-founded—seconds later, we hear him farther down the beach, strafing the rocks.

  We sight more jets. None fly directly overhead, but their presence reminds us t
hat the war continues in full force. Surely this increased activity is ominous, considering that the nineteenth is tomorrow. Jaz feels just the opposite, given the sounds of bombardment we hear. “If they were planning on dropping the Big One in twenty-four hours, why would they bother with this small stuff right now?” Minutes later, a volley of explosions sounds from the direction of Juhu, as if the Devi might be putting on a special morning edition of her show. A black column of smoke rises in the distance—Karun wonders if it’s the hotel.

  “Might very well be. Bhim apparently had a special thing going with the CIA or some other such protector—who exactly, I didn’t find out. With him gone, the Pakistanis—” Jaz breaks off, as a fresh series of explosions send an enormous tree-shaped cloud of smoke into the sky. “Such a glaring target, what with the Devi and all. I’m amazed they held back for so long.”

  As more smoke billows up, I have a vision of Devi ma bursting through the cloud. Darting after the jets that bombed the hotel to shoot lasers at them with all four extended arms. One after another, the planes succumb, disappearing in loud and spectacular fireballs. Even as the wreckage falls towards the water, Devi ma lets loose some extra rays to dispatch the parachuting pilots—she’s never been known for mercy, one cannot expect impunity messing with her. Then she heads back to land, towards her cheering droves, another morning’s errand done.

  BY TEN, WE STAND at the northwest edge of Versova, where Malad Creek cuts off the land. Madh Island lies directly across the water, barely a few hundred meters away, the ruins of its fort visible on a knoll to the left. The rickety landing wharf is gone, probably the victim of a bombing attack. Craters line our side as well, which is puzzling, since the shore had little worth bombing to begin with. No terminus, no docks, not even an elevated landing platform—the place has always been notorious for forcing ferry passengers to disembark directly into the mud. Further down the creek, the mast of a capsized boat sticks up through the water, its exposed lines still supporting tattered pieces of sailcloth. Two small fishing vessels float next to it like dead fish, their hulls overturned.