by Manil Suri
“You probably haven’t heard about Bhim, either, then? After all, he’s only the most important man in the city.” Madhu arches her eyebrows and stares at me until I nod—yes, I have heard of the leader of the HRM, almost mythically renowned for his bloodthirsty ways. “Think of this, then—Bhim himself, no less, has become a disciple of Devi ma. He challenged her at first, called her a pretender, but now falls at her feet at least once a week to beg her blessing. He’s dedicated every last man in his army to her, declared that without her will, even a leaf won’t drop in the city. In fact, who do you think arranges for this train, these maidens every week? It’s Bhim—Mura just works for him. So forget about trying to get off at Bandra—if you don’t fear Devi ma, at least worry about getting on the wrong side of Bhim.”
The train engine toots, and I see we have already passed the Bombay Central bridge. I can always slip away at Santa Cruz and make my way south, I think. Yes, I will audition for Mura, I say.
Guddi and Anupam squeal in delight. Even Madhu seems to thaw a little—as the other two open jars of makeup and ooh over them, she starts curling my hair with a brush. “Guddi, find that memsahib wrinkle cream. Anupam, get some water from the thermos and wipe her arms clean.” Her brush snags on grit, which she pulls out with a harsh tug. “Isn’t it difficult enough as it is, that your hair had to be snarled like this? What did you do, rub in handfuls of dirt?”
The girls want to paint my fingernails with polish, but Madhu declares it will take too long to dry. “Just do the cheeks and lips, and let’s hope for the best.” She arranges a necklace that cascades in a series of filigreed chains down my neck and threads heavy gold earrings through my lobes. They all stand back to look at me—my face feels caked with makeup. “She’ll look younger after you finish painting on the bridal dots.”
Once I’m all decorated, Madhu insists I put on the “magic” sari. “It really does glow, believe me, but only if it’s pitch-dark. In any case, your salwaar is filthy—do you really think Devi ma would tolerate anyone in such a rag?” I realize my mistake as soon as I change—neither the sari nor the petticoat underneath has a pocket, and I’m forced to wrap the pomegranate in the folds at my waist and hope for the best. As I sweat under the layers of heavy silk, Guddi and Anupam express delight at how bride-like the bright red color makes me look. Even Madhu grudgingly says that I no longer resemble their aunt. She draws the hem of the sari over my head and leads me to Mura’s door, as if it is my wedding night. Just before turning the knob, she pauses. “I almost forgot to make sure. This month—have you already had your flow? We don’t want to get Devi ma unclean.”
THE TENOR OF THE CITY OF DEVI campaign changed abruptly. We awoke one morning to find that a phalanx of fifteen-foot Mumbadevi statues had invaded Mumbai. “It’s a showcase for all the tourists coming to our city,” the new campaign chairman, rumored to be an HRM man, explained. “So they can appreciate all the splendor and magnificence of Devi ma.” The statues, however, projected more belligerence than beauty—ominous warrior figures with coarsely fashioned features, set identically in concrete. Many of them popped up next to crowded Muslim localities unfrequented by tourists, where their towering presence could cause the maximum provocation.
Soon after, the HRM-allied municipality banned the sale of meat on Fridays in deference to the mother goddess. The very next week, it issued an order directing all public establishments, including places of worship, to immediately start displaying the City of Devi logo. When churches and mosques protested that they found its image of Mumbadevi offensive, the HRM chairman, Shrikant Doshi, responded personally. “Devi ma only reveals herself to those who believe. Anyone who claims to see her in the logo can’t then claim to be a true Christian or Muslim.” His thugs issued ultimatums around the city, beating up non-compliant mullahs and priests, vandalizing their mosques and churches. In retaliation, mobs set upon Hindu temples, stabbing two priests at Babulnath and destroying some of the outer shrines at Mahalaxmi.
The riots that ensued permanently changed the character of the city. Even after they abated, an atmosphere of heightened animus, of extreme mistrust, lingered between communities.
I REMAINED ONLY passingly attentive to the City of Devi tensions, so immersed was I in my “Project Karun” diary. The milestone of our hundredth star was fast approaching. The day I logged it, I couldn’t resist some calculations. Our performance had a weekly mean of 4.35 stars over the past five months or so, with a standard deviation of 2.72. If I ignored everything before Jaipur, the mean jumped to 6.67 stars per week, with σ = 1.44. I had no idea if these statistics were good, if they agreed with what might be normally expected.
“The average seems a bit low for newlyweds,” Uma opined. “But why worry? You now know his machinery works, and that he’s probably not a homo.”
“Thanks for being so sensitive.”
“Sorry. All I mean to say is that if you’re having fun, then the numbers are right—it’s the only thing that counts.”
We were having fun. Karun still waited for me to initiate things, but I found, to my surprise, that I enjoyed taking the lead. Sarita the huntress, Sarita the tigress out to get her meat—surely there existed a goddess embodying these pursuits whom I was channeling?
More importantly, Karun had become an essential part of my life. I loved being woken up in the morning when he clambered back into bed to share his mug of cinnamon coffee. We read the newspaper over breakfast, trying to catch flaws in “scientific” polls and studies, marveling at the latest lapses in politicians’ logic. I never knew what culinary experiment awaited me on evenings I worked late—once he even surprised me with Vietnamese. His Indo-Italian fusion had actually begun to taste rather wonderful, ever since Professor Ashton had mailed him packets of herb seeds from Princeton (we now had such European plants as sage and rosemary growing on our balcony). Sometimes, I discovered basil sprigs tucked into the folds of my towel—one day, I opened my cupboard to find sachets of lavender nestling between the saris. Each night, I liked to casually brush my toe against the hairless patch on his ankle for reassurance before closing my eyes. Our sunflower sheets grew softer, acquiring a silky smoothness over time.
The day my father suffered his heart attack, Karun held my hand all the way in the taxi to the hospital, his face as flushed, his knuckles as white as mine. “I’ve been through this when I was eleven,” he whispered. “I know what it feels like.” On the nights I kept watch, he insisted on staying behind with me—we sat till Uma relieved us at dawn, in adjoining chairs by my father’s bedside. At home, he nursed me as if I were the patient, fortifying me with minestrone and vitamins, assuring me everything would be fine. Perhaps these ministrations did have some trans-curative effect, because my father was back to walking around at home in a fortnight.
I realized how much I’d come to depend upon Karun, to love him, to know him since we married. He was too reserved to reveal himself to everyone—one had to be chosen for this opportunity. Even then, I felt like a bee burrowing into a tightly closed flower bud, each whorl of petals yielding to reveal another nestling inside. Despite how deep I advanced, I could still sense some mystery enfolded at his core. A secret, a treasure, an inadvertent lure, waiting for me to discover in time.
Perhaps true consummation, the traditional way, was part of this promise, this enticement. The huntress would have to persevere longer to earn her four-star trophy. I was willing to wait, to proceed only when Karun signaled his readiness. Until then, our limited repertoire of “Jantar Mantar” (as we’d begun to call it) would be enough to sustain me.
Uma’s pregnancy forced me to rethink my strategy. How would we ever form a trinity if Karun never got any closer to impregnating me? I reminded myself it wasn’t a pressing issue—although we’d discussed the family question before our wedding, it hadn’t arisen since (somewhat surprisingly). Once Uma delivered, though, the sight of my tiny new nephew at her bosom filled my own breast with longing. I had just crossed thirty-three—how close
was the expiry date on my biological battery?
So I broached the topic unambiguously one night. “It’s been a year and a half—perhaps we should try it differently? The usual way other couples do so—what do you think?”
Karun colored immediately. “So that we can be a family of three,” I added to take away any sting.
Despite his unease, Karun agreed to my proposal of working towards it over the next few weeks. Each night, with his eyes closed, he embarked on this new exploratory mission. I tried not to make any movement that would startle him, even stifling the impulse to look down, much less stroke him or guide him. Instead, I mentally transmitted welcoming vibes his way—my encouragement, my appreciation, my empathy.
The barrier I needed to help Karun cross seemed mostly psychological. Sometimes he wilted too quickly, but on most nights he stopped even though physically still primed. Uma told me to try pomegranates. “It’s the desi alternative to the oysters they prescribe in the West. The Kama Sutra says to boil the seeds in oil, but in my experience, a glass of juice right before works just as well.” Karun seemed puzzled by all the freshly squeezed nightcaps I began serving, so I extolled their antioxidant benefits, telling him a bedtime dosage worked best. Hazy on the Kama Sutra instructions, I erred on the safe side by also downing a shot myself.
I shopped for pomegranates at the market near work—red ones rather than gold, because they clearly displayed the ardor I felt befit an aphrodisiac. I learnt to distinguish between the different varieties—the “Mridula” with its voluptuous crimson interior, the “Bhagwa” with its smooth and glossy skin (fruits from Satara were always the juiciest). I became an expert at separating the arils from the bitter white pith, at squeezing out every last drop of succulence. In a pinch, I brought home the bottled variety of juice one evening—it tasted flat and spiritless, nothing like the fresh.
We both got addicted to our bedtime tonic. Perhaps Karun guessed its purpose, even though I didn’t confess. Each night, we tasted pomegranate on our first kiss—a few times, I noticed my nipple was tinged red. I wondered if the scent mixed with my own after Jantar Mantar, if I left telltale traces on Karun as well. Sometimes I saved a few kernels to sprinkle on our cornflakes the next morning, to carry over the spell.
Surely the same lovemaking associations must have evolved in Karun’s mind as well. Perhaps this was the subliminal conditioning the Kama Sutra intended, because I did notice progress. Karun’s explorations grew keen enough for me to cautiously anticipate success. I lay in bed under him every night waiting patiently for the next increment. Images from his past drifted through my mind—the photos and toy planes, the moral instruction citations, the fantastical Lego shapes. Soon the breakthrough would arrive to complete my assimilation of him. The planes taking off, the Lego flying through the air, like so many quarks and electrons, planets and Milky Ways. The two of us enveloped by the sweet smell of pomegranates as our very own supernova blossomed across time and space.
I SMOOTH OVER my sari to make the bulge of the pomegranate at my waist less conspicuous as Madhu leads me into Mura’s section of the compartment. It is surprisingly shabby. Areas of fresh white paint compete with expanses of peeling railway-regulation green, as if someone abandoned a renovation project midway. One entire side still has sleeper berths stacked two high running along its length, and the floor shows gaping holes where walls and dividers have been yanked out. Could this really be the den of someone working for the great and mighty Bhim?
Mura sits in one of the lower berths, cracking open peanuts. He does so with the fingers of only his left hand, extracting the kernels and tossing them into his mouth in a single compulsive arc. He is small but bulbous, with a head larger than his body, as one might expect of someone employing a lot of brainpower—an accountant, perhaps. I notice an unhealthy sheen to him, an oiliness that oozes out of his skin and glistens on his scalp. Perhaps he has too many peanuts in his diet.
Madhu explains my presence and withdraws, closing the door behind her. The makeup must have worked, because Mura does not question me about my age. “Can you dance?” he asks instead.
“A little. Guddi said she could teach me.”
“Ah, Guddi. She’s so innocent, isn’t she? Do you know, when I went to fetch her, she asked if she could bring her five-year-old brother along to meet Devi ma as well? These villagers—they’re all so child-like. One can’t even begin to explain the ways of the world to them.” Mura takes off his thick accountant glasses and wipes his face with a handkerchief, and I wait to find out what he is getting at.
“Of course, you, being from the city, must know things work a little differently. For instance, despite whatever blemishes your layers of makeup might be trying to hide, suppose I choose you for Devi ma. The question then arises, what would be in it for me?” Mura’s eyes bulge a little behind their lenses, like those of a child reminded of a favorite treat.
“I don’t have much money, if that’s what you want.”
“Oh, no—I meant nothing so crass. But you do see my point, don’t you? City people are different from villagers—more willing to be a little guileful if it gives them an advantage. With them—with us—there’s no shame in asking for fair give-and-take.” He pats the seat beside him. “Why don’t you come here and sit with me on the berth? If nothing else, as a small reward in recognition of all I’m doing for our community?” He breaks open a peanut and holds out the kernels in his hand, as if I’m a bird he’s trying to attract.
I ignore his offering. “If you don’t mind, I prefer to stand.” First the hospital Romeo, then Hrithik, now Mura—has my body pumped out some special pheromone today to provoke all these advances? Why am I suddenly so popular?
Mura shakes his head. “Unwilling to even sit by my side. Not even a little generosity of spirit.” He looks at me reproachfully. “Perhaps then Mura will have to stand as well.”
Just then, I hear the screeching sound of the engine brakes being applied. Peanuts sail through the air, Mura slides to the floor and I almost go flying as well, as the train slows, suddenly, violently. We come to a halt, and Mura gets up sputtering. “That driver, he must be mad to make a stop like this. You just wait here, I’ll go investigate.” He exits from the door to the girls’ room, and I hear a bolt being drawn closed on the other side.
This is my chance to escape. I go to the door and call out the girls’ names in a whisper. “Anupam? Guddi? Madhu?”
“Yes, Didi?”
“Guddi, can you open this door?”
I hear a giggle, and some muffled conversation. Then Anupam answers. “Didi? Mura chacha said not to let you out.”
“It’s just for a minute. I have to use the bathroom.”
More discussion follows, and then Guddi speaks again. “We’d have to check with Madhu didi first. She’s stepped out with Mura chacha. They won’t be long.” Anupam giggles in the background.
I decide to try a window. I pry apart two of the horizontal bars, but the widened space is barely big enough for a cat to squeeze through. Searching the compartment for something to use as a crowbar, I notice how much rustier the windows get towards the far end. The last window only has two bars still in place, one of which simply crumbles when I test it. Just as I knock out the remaining bar for an opening I can comfortably squeeze through, Mura returns.
“That stupid engineer. He wanted to return to Dadar, got cold feet going through Mahim. Some crazy idea of taking the Central Line to Ghatkopar, then switching over to the new metro rail. Never mind that those tracks are twenty meters up in the air. I told him there was absolutely no danger, that Bhim had personally arranged our passage.”
I stand in front of the window as he talks, trying to cover the absence of the bars with my frame. Perhaps he won’t notice the alternate plans I’ve made.
“It really wouldn’t have done you any good even if you had managed to crawl through,” Mura says softly as we start moving again. His voice sounds concerned, sympathetic. “Haven’t you had a chance t
o see what’s outside?” I look through the window at the pools of stagnant water by the tracks, at the line of shanty houses running alongside. Plots of spinach and salad leaves go by, just like anywhere along the suburban rail corridor.
“You don’t realize, do you?—that fork at Dadar the engineer wanted to take? We’re in Mahim now, the Muslim side he dreaded. It’s the heart of their stronghold—when the killings began in force, the first area they barricaded themselves off in. But don’t worry, we’ve paid them off to let us pass—they think we’re just a harmless bunch of Christians headed back to Bandra over the railway bridge.
“Of course, you’re welcome to go your own way. But there’s no telling what they’ll do to you the minute you step off the train. Especially when they see you in that pretty Hindu bridal outfit.”
WHAT SENT BOMBAY careening most irrevocably towards its breakup into Hindu and Muslim sections was the Bandra-Worli sea link. Cutting across the sea to avoid crowded suburbs like Dadar and Mahim, the bypass connected the south to the north in ten minutes flat (seven with Uma driving). “Look at us,” she’d say, zipping us over the structure that had taken sixteen billion rupees and a decade to build. “We’re a top-tier international metropolis now—no less than San Francisco or Sydney.”
Perhaps it was the acclaim lavished on the bridge as the crown jewel of Indian engineering that attracted the HRM’s attention. The organization announced, out of the blue one day, that although operational since 2009, the structure had never been consecrated. For the next City of Devi project, massive religious processions would march all through Mumbai to converge at the bridge, where Hindu priests would confer their blessing and rename it the “Mumbadevi Sea Link.” To further stoke this “new and incendiary mischief” (as The Indian Express called it), the HRM would fly in the top leaders of all the major right-wing organizations in the country to join in the ceremony.
