by Manil Suri
Around four-thirty, we duck into an abandoned clothing store for lunch. The show windows have all been smashed, the mannequins stripped of their garments. They lie naked in a tangled orgy on the floor. We sit on stools and divide up a packet of orange biscuits. I’ve always detested the artificial orange filling, but today I’m glad for the tiny bit of moisture it carries. Jaz, on the other hand, licks it off each side with obvious relish before eating the cookie part.
The unreality of the situation overwhelms me—sitting so tranquilly in the shop, amidst the sexlessly contorted mannequins, dining on this preposterous lunch. Next to this person, a constant fixture at my side for almost a day now, about whom I know little more than the alleged existence of a mother in Jogeshwari. “Will you stay with her once you reach?” I ask.
“No. Too dangerous. Even if they don’t wipe out the city this week as promised, Mumbai’s too juicy a target—air attacks, another bomb, anything. The sooner one gets away, the further, the better. Sequeira’s ferry captain friend has the right idea—lay low in a place like Diu, far away from everything. One small enough to be overlooked, one nobody’s interested in targeting.” Jaz parts open his last biscuit and smears off the lurid cream with his tongue. “You should think of it too—what you’re going to do once you find your husband. Come north, and we can be each other’s passport—journey through Muslim and Hindu pockets with equal ease.”
Except there’s no guarantee I’ll find Karun. Or rescue him from the clutches of whoever is holding him. I slowly exhale, then turn to gaze at the mannequins.
Jaz breaks the silence. “Don’t worry. You’ll find him. We’ll find him. I’ll help you get him out, I promise.” Instead of comforting me, his offer sets off warning signals in my brain.
THE HUMAN TIDE breaks upon us as precipitately as before. One instant, we gaze at the ramshackle walls of a shantytown from the deserted street outside, the next, we enter to find ourselves engulfed in teeming activity. Jaz spots a boy selling goat milk from a pot and bargains him down to two glasses for a hundred. The liquid tastes riper than I expect, but quenches my thirst and, as importantly, washes away the orange residue lingering in my throat. Farther down, a woman vends long and pungent white radishes from a basket—for an extra five rupees, she gives us each a pinch of salt and chili powder in our palms to dip them in.
Emerging from the slum, we find ourselves on a main road, so crowded with people that I wonder if this is where all the desolate blocks of the city have emptied. Men holding bouquets of incense, women cradling kohl-eyed infants, wizened slum dwellers, bouncy college students—we join their ranks in a procession that slowly wends towards the sea. Hawkers line the edges, selling roots and herbs and shiny crystalline minerals, with pictures of Kali herself promising miraculous cures. Some stand next to contraptions with flashing red arrows that look like games of strength, others vend flowers and pooja ingredients and Devi talismans.
We arrive at the beach at sunset. The scene reminds me of the Kumbh Mela, except one more densely packed. Stalls offer rude-smelling food, bare-chested men spin dwarf Ferris wheels made of rough-hewn wood. Green and blue flames leap up from ceremonial fires to cast an otherworldly effect. Shrines to Devi are everywhere—from small figurines adorned with simple flower offerings to elaborate garland-decked sand sculptures surrounded by jostling worshippers. A few of the HRM’s Mumbadevi statues have also found their way down—sentries towering over the festive hordes, their impassive amazon features hued by the sunset. Sadhus and other ascetics weave through the crowd, some with red and white symbols extending up their scalps like elaborately painted skullcaps. In the distance, I think I even see elephants.
As the wonder of the spectacle subsides, Jaz articulates the question that clutches at my heart. “How are we going find your husband among all these people?” The absurdity, the sheer impossibility of this task paralyzes me. Jaz must notice my despair, because he tries to come up with a course of action. “What we need to do is locate this Devi ma—that’s where the guesthouse manager said Karun will be.”
But although everyone is here for a glimpse of the Devi, nobody really seems to know her whereabouts. Ahead, they all gesture with excited smiles, so we follow the general stream up the beach, looking vainly for a stage or other venue where she might appear.
We manage to make our way to the plumes—three tall spouts of water that erupt each time a wave comes in. Smaller ones spring forth randomly all around—people shriek as they get sprayed. The runoff accumulates in a large pond that blocks our path ahead. Skirting it brings us closer to the sea, where a border of devotees squat along the beach’s edge. At first I think they are praying, but then realize they are simply relieving themselves. As I watch, a rogue wave churns in to ambush those who have strayed too far off the dry sand.
By the time the Indica Hotel comes into view, our pace has slowed to a near standstill. The dying light burnishes the familiar terraces and turrets, but the Statue of Liberty has vanished from its perch. I strain to make out the faraway windows, to spot the balcony where Karun and I breakfasted the morning after our wedding. Despair clasps at me once more. Will I ever sit with Karun to gaze together at the waves again? Is he even in the vicinity, anywhere on this beach, anywhere near Juhu? Given the way the crowd has swallowed up all the roads, could his van have really made it through?
Jaz tries to bolster me again. “They came several days ago—there must have been a lot fewer people then. I’d say they drove right to wherever this Devi’s holding court.”
The elephants turn out to be real, not mirages. Young women dressed in red float astride their backs carrying wicker baskets filled with flower petals. Every so often, the women stop the animals, which reach into the baskets with their trunks and scatter petals over the crowd. Bells around the elephants’ feet warn of their approach. I find myself jammed against a wall of bodies as one of the animals lumbers through within touching distance.
We barely manage to worm ahead a few paces in the time it takes for dusk to deepen into night. My sari begins to glow again, creating a clot of curiosity around me, which further impedes our progress. At first, people content themselves with pointing or staring, but soon the bolder ones start caressing the fabric, rubbing it to see if it’s genuine. I slap and shoo them away, but a girl held in her mother’s arms yanks the end off and wraps it around her own head. In an instant, the crowd is pressing in from all sides, hands reaching out to touch me, stroke me, grab at my sari. My flailing and screaming only stimulates their frenzy. Jaz plunges in for a rescue attempt, but is powerless against the onslaught of clawing fingers, thrusting arms.
Just as I feel I will be smothered, the Indica starts to glow as well, in a shade close to a candy version of my sari’s. Music wafts from its turrets—the ubiquitous theme from Superdevi, reorchestrated this time as a devotional bhajan. The next instant, the entire hotel erupts in fireworks: rockets zoom from its towers, strings of crackers explode on its terraces, flaming waterfalls cascade down its walls. The smoke clears, the hands retract from my sari, and an electric rush sweeps through the crowd. There on the highest turret, from where the Statue of Liberty formerly presided, stands the Devi.
For a moment, I gape with everyone else, my trauma forgotten. Bedecked in gold, the Devi is strikingly visible, yet tiny. I think she holds lotuses in her hand, but it’s too far to be sure. What I can make out, even at this distance, is that she has four arms—though she engages only the lower pair to wave to her audience. Revolving smoothly like a trinket on a turntable, she bestows benevolence in each direction equally.
“Welcome,” she says, and the throngs roar in response. “I’m so gratified you have come to see me.” Her face is a bright, shining gold, her voice sweet and reassuring even through the distortion of the loudspeakers. “Do you know the one cure for all the unhappiness in this world, for all the fear and strife you have seen?”
“Devi ma,” erupts the reply from the beach, so thunderous, so passionate, I feel like an inter
loper for not joining in myself. Waiting for the response to subside, the Devi continues to rotate silently.
“What has brought you here today?” she asks, and begins to list the war, the bomb, all the other dangers the audience faces. “Dark forces are at work against your Devi ma, people who do not believe in me.” She urges the crowd, in the same honeyed voice, to flush out her enemies and exterminate them without mercy. “Nourish the land with their blood, just like seawater nourishes the beach.”
Bursts of acclamation continue to rise from the crowd. She negotiates them perfectly, as if she has premeasured the seconds required for each pause, programmed them into her speech. Her tone never varies too much—she remains equable, immune to the fervor of her admirers’ outpourings. “I am your protector, your savior. Once your feet have touched these sands, I will forever keep you safe under my shield.”
At the end of her speech, the volume of her voice increases sharply. “To all my charges, to all my beloved children, Devi ma just says, Come to me.”
The crowd surges towards the hotel, a few figures even manage to clamber some feet up the tower that bears the turret. The Devi extends her lower arms in benediction and sparks begin to drizzle from her fingertips. Her body rises—almost imperceptibly at first, and then in a more visible corkscrew motion, until she levitates, still rotating, several feet above the turret. The drizzles turn into showers, drops of fire begin cascading from her feet as well. I strain to make out a rope or other support, but can’t. She coruscates in the air, like a comet or shooting star, magically pinned mid-flight.
Fireworks burst forth again from the terrace. This time, the night blooms not only with their flashes, but also with the white parachutes released by exploding rockets. Thousands of heads turn up to watch the armada’s floating descent—hands point excitedly at the lit Devi idols dangling at each parachute’s end. The struggle to snag the figurines gets so frenzied that the airdrop might have been engineered from heaven by god herself. By the time the smoke clears, the Devi has vaporized. The beach roils with excitement for a few more moments, after which the audience settles down to await her next appearance.
“At least we have a destination now,” Jaz says, as I stare at the still-smoking terraces, unable to pull my gaze away. Could this be some sort of divine coincidence? The Devi appearing at the very hotel where Karun and I got married? I try to tamp down the irrational optimism billowing up inside. All I need do is make it to our bridal suite, and Karun will be still reclining on our wedding bed, the Buddha looking down benevolently.
My exuberance is short-lived. Sighting the Devi is very different from actually getting to her. The crowd remains as impenetrable as toffee, slurping around to pull us back each time we discover a new foothold. Jaz has an idea: “Perhaps we should try capitalizing on your sari.”
He starts announcing I am Devi ma’s helper, who needs to reach the Indica urgently. Unfortunately, the enthrallment over my sari has dissipated, people seem quite blasé about my glow after witnessing the Devi’s pyrotechnics. A woman stands stoutly in my path, observing me as she might an insect struggling in a web. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Please. I need to get through. To see Devi ma.”
“And what do you suppose the rest of us have gathered here for? To enjoy the sea breeze? To eat bhel puri? You’re not the only one who wants her blessing.”
“You don’t understand—”
“I understand perfectly. We’re not villagers that you can dazzle us by wearing something bright and shiny. Let’s see how you get past.” In short order, she’s organized a clutch of onlookers, arms crossed, to blockade me.
The night turns darker. “We’ll be stuck here forever,” I whisper, and Jaz can only offer a ratifying silence. I stare at the Indica in the distance—its turrets now give it the appearance of a fortress, one ensconcing an impregnable bridal suite. The thought that all my effort has been for naught, that Karun may finally be so close, and yet so excruciatingly unreachable, fills me with hopelessness. A pinpoint of light, perhaps the last floating ember from the spent fireworks, hovers hazily in the air. I turn away, unable to bear to see it extinguished.
When I look back, the speck, rather than dying out, has grown, both in brightness and size. I track its path in fascination as it homes in—could it be a firefly attracted to my sari? Except it soon gets too big to be a firefly, looking more like a seated form floating through the darkness—someone on a flying carpet, perhaps. It draws closer, and I begin to hear bells, then feel underfoot vibrations, then discern large auricular outlines that emerge from the dark to flap into life. And finally the recognizable figure, surely an apparition born of my desperation, aglow in a sari similar to mine.
“Didi, up here,” the voice calls, as the fat woman screams and her cohorts blocking my path scramble for safety. Astride the giant pachyderm lurching towards us is Guddi.
12
THE ELEPHANT IS BETTER THAN AN AIRBORNE CHARIOT, an enchanted galleon. As we bob and pitch across the beach, the sea of humanity parts before us in waves. “It’s the only way to get through such a crowd,” Guddi says. “At first I was terrified we’d trample someone. But then I realized people always find the space to squeeze away somehow. Just like insects. Isn’t that right, Shyamu?” She reaches forward and pats the elephant’s head. “Except for that one lady this afternoon. Don’t feel guilty, Shyamu, it’s not your fault. She was quite old, anyway—how long could she have lived?”
Guddi starts chattering about her adventures since we last saw her, about the journey on the other side of the tracks that brought her and Anupam to safety at the Indica the night before. “All thanks to Vivek bhaiyya. The train driver’s helper—did you meet him? He took us crawling over this big-big pipe—so big we could have probably walked through, at least Anupam and me. But Bhaiyya said it would be very dirty inside—all the kaka and susu from the city—chhi! And we had to remain completely silent—otherwise, Bhaiyya said, we’d all end up like Madhu didi.” She stops and bites her lip. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance . . . ?” I shake my head, and she starts crying. “I miss her. And Mura chacha. I wish they were here with us, Didi.”
In a few moments, though, she’s cheery again. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw that glow—I’d been searching the crowd all evening, praying to Devi ma with all my might. Did I tell you, Didi, they’re taking me to see her in person tonight? Anyway, Shyamu didn’t want to investigate, but I insisted—I told him the light had to be from a sari just like mine—either yours or Madhu didi’s. See, Shyamu? I was right. One has to have faith—even elephants should pray once in a while. To Ganesh, if they like—I’m sure Devi ma wouldn’t get jealous if they also asked her blessing on the side.
“You should have seen how amazed the hotel people were when I told them I sat on my first elephant at nine. That we had a whole family in our village, whom we rode all the time. That’s why they let me have Shyamu—do you think they would’ve trusted me otherwise? Sometimes I feel I must have been an elephant myself in a previous life. I knew the instant we locked eyes that we were soul mates—Shyamu, isn’t that right?” She strokes his head, but he takes no notice. “Too bad Anupam wasn’t as lucky—she’d never even sat on an elephant before, so she’s stuck in the hotel kitchen, poor thing. She’ll be thrilled to see you, if she ever finishes all the chores they’re probably loading her with. But tell me, Didi, how did you escape? You and . . .” She gazes quickly at Jaz, unsure how to address him. “You and Bhaiyya.”
I begin to call Jaz by his name, then catch myself. “Gaurav bhaiyya. Remember, he was the person from the second compartment when the train derailed? He’s a friend of Mura chacha. We came through Mahim, not over the pipe like you did. Without him, I never would have made it.”
Guddi’s eyes widen. “Mahim? Isn’t that where all the Muslims live? Don’t they do terrible things to virgins?”
“Yes, they eat them,” Jaz says, and Guddi recoils in horror.
Our r
ide atop Shyamu isn’t the most comfortable. He doesn’t have a proper howdah, just a thick blanket that’s strapped on, resulting in the constant danger of falling off. Guddi tugs his ears to make him turn right or left, and digs her knuckles into his neck to make him start or halt (her maneuvers succeed only part of the time). “Stop that, Shyamu,” she admonishes, upon hearing my startled cry as the tip of his trunk starts rummaging around in my lap. “Don’t mind him—he’s just looking for the flowers.” She pushes forward the basket of petals for him to dip into. At the end of each stop, she loops his trunk around another basket, this one empty, to collect offerings for the Devi. Fruits, garlands, currency notes, even a few wristwatches and necklaces, pour in with each haul. Most of the bananas disappear into Shyamu’s mouth, along with the odd piece of jewelry. “Look what someone put in!” Guddi exclaims, holding up a cell phone. “They don’t work anymore, so Devi ma has said we can keep these.”
Once the petals are all scattered and the large canvas bags hanging from Shyamu’s neck filled with booty, Guddi guides him towards the Indica. The ride seems to get less bumpy as soon as the beach gives way to pavement (though Guddi insists Shyamu much prefers walking on the sand). We bob past armies of Khaki guards holding back the throngs of devotees, to the main entry, situated around the corner. Shyamu curls back his trunk and trumpets—on cue, the heavy metal gates swing open. Could Karun’s van have passed through this same portal?
Inside, the driveway winds up towards the majestic arch of the entrance, with its golden Mughal domes and alternating baby gopurams. Lights blaze everywhere, profligately so, perhaps to underscore the contrast with the power-starved city outside. The compound is still lush with thickets of Hawaiian shrubs and bushes, though the elephants seem to have chomped off several of their tops. Three of the animals stand in line, like unwieldy planes on a runway, waiting to take off. “The left ramp is too steep—some of them go halfway and get stuck,” Guddi explains. “Even with this longer ramp, they can only go up one by one.” She starts cooing into Shyamu’s ear upon getting the signal to launch. He takes his first tentative steps up the incline, but slows noticeably two-thirds of the way up. By the time we near the top, Shyamu is trumpeting anxiously, pausing between each doddering step. “Come on, you can do it—keep going, don’t stop.” But Shyamu refuses to go any further. All of a sudden, Guddi jabs her elbows sharply into the sides of his neck. With a startled bellow, Shyamu staggers up the remaining distance and barrels through the entrance.
