by Manil Suri
“Help,” Devi ma screams, trying to get to the clamoring devotees sequestered near the audio shed. But the guards have learnt Bhim’s trick—they fire their weapons into the air to tamp down the group’s fervor. The shots drive the girl away—she veers instead towards the path leading to the turret. Her cries trail off as Bhim chases her past the potted palms, through the gate, down the walkway next to the parapet.
Abruptly, the speakers come alive—the transmitters are still on, and the Devi’s microphone has drawn into range. “Help,” she says. “Help me, he’s trying to kill me.” Her words roll across the terrace, sweep over the plants and the pool, reverberate from end to end. The devotees shout and strain in rage, but can’t break free of their cordon. By now, despite his injury, Bhim has closed in—used to being toted to and fro, the girl keeps tripping, her puffed cherub legs unused to maintaining this pace. “Help. Help me, I’m being killed.” With Bhim almost upon her, she clambers onto the parapet to try to get away.
He latches onto her foot—the microphone is sensitive enough to pick up his words. “So this is why I brought you here? This is why I saved you from your slum, you witch, you chudail?” He tries to pull her down, but she kicks him in the head with her other foot and scrambles away. Her screams echo across the entire beach, broadcast through the crowd below by the speakers stationed everywhere.
He catches her again and tries to throttle her. Her limbs thrash around, her head hangs backwards over the parapet between a pair of crenellations. The amplifiers blazon every sob she emits, every wheeze, every terrified grunt. Her choking pleas roil the assembly below. A stream of debris starts raining down on the parapet—stones, shoes, coconut shells—anything people can lay their hands on. One of the projectiles strikes Bhim and he lets go, pressing both hands to his forehead.
Devi ma stumbles away screaming. The crenellations impede her—she almost falls off several times negotiating their treacherous topography. Reaching the turret, she realizes she has nowhere further to flee. She flaps her arms uselessly, then spots the levitation machine. She squeezes into it, pulling at its supports, wrapping its straps around her neck and torso, as if hoping it will magically transport her. But she remains earthbound. “Help me please, help your Devi ma,” she pleads to the mob below. Thousands of hands rise towards her, some with garments stretched like nets to catch her should she jump. She peers over, looking for a balcony or ledge to break her fall, but the turret has none. With Bhim only steps away, she inches up to the very edge and mewls.
She waits too long. Bhim nabs her before she can jump, hoisting her into the air like a puppet at the end of his arm. By now he has seen the turmoil below, picked up on the wrath of the crowd. “Look, she’s just an ordinary girl, that too from the slums. She’s not a real devi, so no need to work yourselves up this much.”
His words are faint, and the girl’s screams almost drown them out. He sets her down to rip off her microphone—she seizes the opportunity to squirm out of his grasp. But she’s not fast enough—he catches her by the arm and spins her around, then slams her headfirst into the parapet stone. The microphone captures the sound of impact impeccably, amplifying it for the benefit of the crowd.
I can feel the outrage from the beach rumble under my feet even where we stand. Bhim’s response is to forge on. “I’m the one who found her, installed her here for you to worship. The miracles, the fireworks, it’s all a show—I even write the lines she mouths.” He holds her aloft again, her head lolling like that of a freshly slaughtered calf. “A true devi wouldn’t be so helpless, would hardly allow me to smack her around. If she’s real, where is her holy power, why doesn’t she strike me down?”
Perhaps Bhim doesn’t see what we can from our vantage point—the angry sweep of humanity below him curling along its edge like a carpet to climb up the turret wall. “Follow me, not her. I’m the one, not she, who will save you from the enemy bomb.” Each time he shakes her rag-doll body in the air to underscore the Devi’s helplessness, the crowd presses forward, more of its members scrambling atop or trampled under the rising surge. The edifice, however, proves too tall to scale—halfway up, the embankment of bodies comes toppling down.
But the mob has also discovered the balconies forming a grid up the wall closest to the terrace. As Bhim booms on about uniting against the enemy colony in Mahim, the first devotees shinny up carved poles and swing over Rajput railings to clamber onto the walkway ledge. Khakis around us promptly shoot them down. This, however, galvanizes the long-cordoned terrace disciples, who finally manage to overpower their guards. They stream down the walkway, hauling their beach compatriots up over the parapet. “Shoot them,” Bhim commands, but even with weapons dutifully fired, the surge is already too thick to staunch.
His escape cut off, Bhim backs away to the edge of the turret. He threatens to toss the girl over, waving her body in the air. Perhaps it’s the breeze from this motion that revives the Devi. “Welcome,” she says to her army of followers, then twists around to claw at Bhim’s face.
The next moment is a blur, with Bhim shouting, devotees charging, and the Devi woozily spurring them on with snatches of her speech (“Show them no mercy,” “Nourish the land with their blood”). Seconds later, both she and Bhim hurtle down towards a mosaic of shirts and saris held aloft (together with the odd devotee pulled along). The loudspeakers continue to chronicle Bhim’s fate even after his body is swallowed from view—his screams mingling with the frenzied cries of the hordes, followed by a subtle series of pops quite distinct from the static, like knuckles cracking or a stale baguette snapped in two. It takes me an instant to realize this might be the sound a body makes when pulled apart. I look at the eddies of activity swirling in the floodlights, and although I can’t be sure, I think I spot Bhim’s head bobbing away like a coconut.
The Devi, on the other hand, seems none too worse for her tumble. Dazed but intact, she rides the adulatory swells resting on her back for a while, then sits up to test-wave each of her three hands in turn. In short order, she is presiding over a group of people pulling up loudspeaker poles and lashing them together to cant against the hotel as climbing ramps. The last glimpse I have is of her leading the charge to reclaim her abode, the arms supporting her invisibly tucked under. An airborne presence, like Superdevi herself, gliding magically over the sea of her followers.
Now that the danger from Bhim has dissipated, Sarahan and his companions finally emerge from the emergency stairwell. I shout to Karun and Sarita to follow me—the last thing we want is to get caught in crossfire between competing factions. We swim against the tide of devotees, pouring in steadily now up the various flights of stairs. As we struggle down to the second-floor landing, Sarita comes to a stop. “Would you mind waiting here? I’ve left something in Guddi’s room I need to get.”
“You can’t be serious. Not again.”
“It will just take a second.”
In the end, we all go. While Sarita rummages around the cupboard for her pomegranate, I slip into the bathroom to retrieve the gun, with which I seem to be playing my own karmic game of lost and found.
Even the detour’s five extra minutes exact a price. By the time we get to the ground floor, the entire beach seems to have crushed its way into the hotel. As we watch, the wall behind the stage ruptures open, and more devotees burst in. “The elephants,” I shout to Sarita, and we push our way towards their stables.
Where, bless her little Bride of Ganesh heart, we find Guddi, who has somehow managed to install herself in the role of chief mahout. “Their supervisor was ill, so with all my experience in the village, it seemed only natural to help them through this fix. That’s why I couldn’t return to the annex, Bhaiyya—I hope you’re not too mad for leaving you like that.”
I assure Guddi all is forgiven, but we need Shyamu and her now to convey us to safety over the throngs. She frowns at the suggestion. “But I’m in charge here. I can’t just take off—it’s much too important a job. Just look how the noise has agitated
the elephants. What if I leave and something goes wrong?” On cue, one of the animals trumpets, pulling with such force at his chain that he almost yanks the peg out.
But then another wall collapses and more people gush in. The mahouts inform Guddi that the only way to protect the animals is to ride them away to safety somewhere. They start mounting their charges and leaving, despite Guddi running around protesting that nobody should go until she decides what’s best. She gets very angry when I ask some of them if they will carry us along. “Didn’t you just say you wanted Shyamu and me to take you? Are we suddenly not good enough?”
Once I’ve soothed her feelings, she lines Shyamu up at the mounting stand so we can all get on. Clambering onto his head, she aims him towards a breach in the hotel wall through which the silvery sea is visible. She feeds him a small laddoo produced from somewhere under her sari. Then, unmindful of the screams of panicked devotees underfoot, Guddi steers us out towards the freedom of the sands.
SO IN THE END, fate gives the Jazter a last-minute reprieve, another shot at the Karun sweepstakes. I would have preferred just the two of us on the elephant (or, since we’re fantasizing, on a boat to some safe and secluded island), but still. One thing that’s changed: Karun has told Sarita about us—I can tell from their silence, see it in their faces. Which is excellent news—best to have everything out in the open, should Sarita claim the moral high ground because they’re married, or Karun be tempted to choose duty over love again. The Jazter has outgrown his Mahatma phase—no longer will he cede or sacrifice, watch his love wrested away. Now that it’s down to the home stretch, he’s going to make sure this journey ends the way he wants it.
SARITA
17
AFTER THE EUPHORIA OF ESCAPE HAS SUBSIDED AND THE CLAMOR of the crowds abated, after the moonlit beach has turned pristine and unpeopled again, I experience the strange sensation of being transported to another time, another place. Perhaps it is the rhythm of the elephant, the rocking cadence that pushes me back and forth against Karun, the soothing comfort I derive from the shoulder against which I brace myself. The stars shine down fondly on us, the breeze blows in coolly from the sea, and I feel secure, protected. Then I realize Karun is holding on to Jaz’s body just as I am holding on to his. Instantly, I find myself in the present again.
Too many thoughts flare up in my head, thoughts I haven’t been able to utter in Jaz’s presence. After the roller coaster of events, I no longer know where I’m headed, where I stand. With Jaz glomming onto us so resolutely, what odds of victory can I reasonably expect? Hasn’t Karun already tipped his hand by fleeing precisely such a situation in the past? The feelings he has let slip, the artless craving in his face I’ve glimpsed since. I watch the long white strands of waves ripple in silently, curl in on themselves with barely a splash. The brooding buildings that line the beach, the shuttered bungalows that sightlessly contemplate me back. The choice will be made tonight, there seems no way to avoid the contest. Already I can see the approaching showdown, its inky clouds billowing with portent.
The elephant lurches and the pomegranate, round and firm, presses against my thigh. Urging me to have faith in myself, reminding me I have not played the game yet. I think of all the times I’ve lost and recovered it—surely there must be a reason providence has intervened so often. What magic will the fruit work tonight, how will it showcase my strengths? The memories it conjures: the elixirs before bed, the flavors and scents, the lips tinted red—will Karun simply succumb to them? I close my hand over the fruit to charge me with energy, bolster my confidence. My secret weapon, my enchanted orb—if nothing else, it will reveal my standing in the contest.
Guddi interrupts my reverie. “Where exactly were you expecting me to take you?” she asks us. “This boat you said you’re trying to catch? Shyamu’s not used to carrying so much weight.”
“Madh Island. Where the ferry from Mahim stops—it’s up ahead.” Which is technically true, since it’s north along the beach, though hardly close as Jaz’s words suggest.
After that, Guddi starts muttering a stream of complaints. Shyamu doesn’t like walking in the dark, there’s nothing for him to eat or drink, he misses the other elephants. Although she’s happy we found my husband, this means Shyamu now has the three of us to carry, which as anyone knows, can ruin an elephant’s back. “What will I say if he’s crippled when we return? Devi ma will be very upset.”
Things come to a head when we reach the creek that cuts across the sand to mark the start of Versova Beach. The tide is low enough to safely wade across—however, the sluggish current renders the water stagnant, giving it the reek of a drainage channel. Guddi puts up a fuss about both the smell and the supposed danger involved. “Chhee! I’m not letting Shyamu wade into that. What if he gets stuck? What if he sinks?” No amount of cajoling seems to move her. Finally, Karun remembers the cell phone he’s carried, uselessly, through all his misadventures. “So many buttons!” Guddi exclaims, punching at the keys and pressing at the display, trying to coax it to light up. “Does it take pictures? I hope it’s not dead, like the rest of them.”
She’s dubious about Jaz’s explanation that she only needs to charge it with electricity at the hotel. But she’s already formed an attachment to the phone in the few minutes she’s held it in her palm. She ferries us across.
“Say goodbye, Shyamu. To Sarita didi and Gaurav bhaiyya and Mobile bhaiyya.” She waves, the phone in her hand glinting in the moonlight. Shyamu flaps his ears back, trumpets twice, then turns around and disappears splashing into the night.
The moon has climbed high enough to light our path, so we walk on. The sea forms a constant presence on our left, a vast and endless plain, the waves so muted they seem to stand still, like barely visible furrows. No signs of life break the horizon—no ferries or fleeing ships, no dhows with picturesque white sails. The sands are equally deserted—even the crabs seem to be in hiding.
It occurs to me that this is the first time Karun, Jaz, and I have been alone. So alone, in fact, that we could be the last three people on the planet. Didn’t Karun always maintain three was the basic configuration of the universe? That triples governed everything from space to quarks? The geometry we lived in, the primary colors we saw, the particles pulsing around in our atoms, the stars in their celestial triads above. Except not all trinities are as natural or sustainable as he claimed. For instance, this triangle in which we find ourselves unwillingly conjoined.
We try the doors of a series of bungalows along a lane branching off from the beach, but none are unlocked. Jaz even smashes open a few windowpanes, but the jagged shards in the frames prove too difficult to pull out. In truth, I’m glad we don’t find a place to stop. My chest contracts at the prospect of the reckoning to come. We have scrupulously refrained from all but the blandest of interactions. No talk about shared futures, no expressions of affection. Not even a touch, for fear of setting off simmering jealousies. The longer we continue walking, the further we postpone a face-off.
Just past a thicket of coconut palms, we come across a shed with a bamboo door that swings open readily when tried. Most of the shed’s roof is missing, making the shelter it offers over camping out on the sand rather illusory. But Jaz points out that the beach has been shrinking steadily, and narrows even more drastically up ahead, making it too treacherous to negotiate in the dark. Karun also wants to spend the night there, so I go along with the idea. “At least the inside is well-lit,” I say, pointing to the patterns on the wooden slats formed by moon rays slanting in. In one corner, we even find some rolled-up reed mats, as if someone anticipated our sleep-in.
Jaz starts dusting the mats out and announcing how tired he feels. I’m instantly on high alert—is this all a strategy? Getting us to spend the night, controlling how the mats are laid out, pulling some physical ploy with Karun once we turn in? I need to have some time alone first, play my trump card of the pomegranate. “Could I talk to you alone for a few minutes?” I ask Karun.
Befo
re he can answer, Jaz cuts in. “There’s nothing you can’t say in front of me. I think we’re all adults, we all know what the situation is.”
“I was talking to my husband. It doesn’t concern you.”
“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?
