"Nagin," Raonaid says, and spits in annoyance at the gutter at the name. "I wish you wouldn't let them call you that. It's insulting."
It's not meant as insult, Nagin is sure; cobras are quick and clever. The raat-bazaar-wallas give her the name for the striped hood she often wears, and her eyes, the irises nearly black. "I like it."
"You would," Raonaid says. "Nagin, for God's sake, do you never come home?"
They claimed this space after the city was drained of people. There are bare lightbulbs wired across the ceiling, thick blankets on the jhula hanging over the verandah. But in these days of Raonaid's absence and her own becoming, Nagin has preferred the rock of the boats beneath her feet, and the dust here is thick. She says nothing, unwilling to attract further ire. Raonaid moves to wipe down the jhula and sets it in vicious motion instead, the ropes twisting above. She hooks it out of the way and tips the contents of her canvas bag on the floor. Nagin looks without comment at Raonaid's talismans and shibboleths. An old two-anna coin, amid the shrapnel of more recent currency. A ration book. A bound volume of the last Government of India Act. A gazette in scrappy printing with a modern seal. All the things she carries to the remote places, the villages which have not seen a stranger in her lifetime.
At the bottom of the bag is the hand-crank radio. Raonaid winds it with a sound like a mosquito whining and flicks the switch.
"One, two, three, four," says a voice distorted by static. Something quickens in Nagin's heart at the sound. "One, two, three, four."
"It’ll be on longwave soon," Raonaid says. "And I ought to be out there above the plains, telling people so. Instead I’m here, chasing after you."
Nagin lets that pass, sitting cross-legged on the floor, listening to the test signal. One, two, three, four. She lets it run several more times before she asks, "Why are you so angry with me?"
"I need you to be what you are," Raonaid says, fretful.
"What's that?"
"A scientist," Raonaid says. "Especially now, Nagin. This" – she gestures at the radio – "will change everything."
"Some things," Nagin says. It won't reverse the inundation. She may live a thousand lives, or just this one. The uncertainty doesn't concern her. But however the hereafter, she won't ever forget the weight of water, the snowmelt overwhelming the banks of the Yamuna. "It will change us, perhaps."
"Yes!" Raonaid looks like she wants to spit again. "And I thought I could rely on you. I go out there and tell people, there's nothing to be afraid of! What happened wasn't a judgement on us."
"There is nothing to be afraid of," Nagin says. "We had our faiths before the flood. We were more than—"
Ash and dust, she thinks, remembering the God of Raonaid's upbringing, who brought hellfire and vengeance. Nagin thinks she might cry again, waiting for that overwhelmed feeling, but it doesn't come. She's steady and calm, aware of what transcends the mundane in herself and in Raonaid; in the city of Delhi; in all other living things.
"More than what we can see," Nagin says.
"It's superstitious nonsense!" Raonaid says. "Wish-fulfilment, for those who need to believe it."
"I see," Nagin murmurs, delicately. “Like your pahari."
It's a calculated remark. Pahari, hill-folk, an old-fashioned pejorative – but Raonaid came from such people, a lifetime and half a world away. Nagin walks out after that, clambering down the crumbling stones beneath the neem trees, back to the bazaar.
___
Some people are concerned by the new lights at the top of the hill, visible for miles around. Nagin sits at the edge of a boat where by day they sell spices, breathing in dal-chinni, elaichi, and hing, and points up towards the high ground. She has taken the children up there to see the radio transmitter up close. Some were fearful of it; others wanted to climb to the top and find out how far they could see. She had hoped they might carry their new knowledge home to their parents, but none really understood its purpose.
"Invisible waves," Nagin says, again, pointing upwards, but the children who attend the night classes are unimpressed. Until today, they had never heard a recording of a human voice.
"They don't believe in what they can't see," Raonaid says, softly, jumping from the nearest boat. She's carrying chameli from the far edge markets, the scent luscious in the saturated air. Around them, the raat-bazaar bustles with laughter, music, people calling their wares. The long lines of floating lanterns clank together, clank apart.
"It's not my area of specialism," Nagin says, the academic's phrasing rising complete from the depths of her mind. It's true: Nagin's post-doctoral research concerned the chemistry of the noble gases.
"I suppose not," Raonaid says, tentative. Nagin has been dozing afloat, rather than going home. Until now, she was unsure if Raonaid had set out for the north again. "But you're trying."
"I will find a way of explaining it to them."
"Yes, you will," Raonaid says. Nagin wonders if it's an apology, and then Raonaid hands her the armful of flowers, and she knows it is.
"Rachel," she says, and Raonaid looks at her sharply. She keeps her name in her own tongue, disliking it in English. But Nagin values the old language, and in particular its impersonal consonants, permissive of distance from what is spoken of.
"This is something new," she says, meaning whatever it is that's happening inside her, this coming of faith or consciousness of the ineffable, or merely a recognition, in the twilight of a frantic life, that she has come to where she ought to be. "And so are the longwave transmissions. But you're right. There's nothing to be afraid of."
Raonaid nods, slowly. “They’ll be calling you panditji," she says, not as though this is a thing to be welcomed.
“They called my father that," Nagin says, lightly, as Raonaid puts a flower in her hair. "All right, my children. Once more."
She hits the switch on the radio. Around her, the children start at the sound. One, two, three, four – and they begin again.
Panditji means scholar, as well as priest. If it comes to pass, it will do.
___
"You could come with me," Raonaid says, the morning she leaves, the long road stretching ahead beneath the open sky.
"I will," Nagin says. "Some day."
Perhaps some day they won't have to go on foot. Perhaps they will in any case, step by step, across the soil of this land that's still theirs. On her way back across the water, Nagin rows past a cobra in a neon sign, curled snugly around the loop of an R. Like her, it's content to be where it is. Nagin doesn't disturb.
Ur
The mali came in the morning to talk about their plans for the garden. “Flowers, madam," he said, firmly. “We must have flowers."
“Flowers?" Mrs Mukhopadhyaya said, amused at his determination, and he faltered for a moment, as though remembering whom he was speaking to. “Tell me," she added, gently, looking at the sweat gathering on his forehead, the firm grip of his knuckles on the spade.
“Flowers," the mali said, more softly this time. “I know the minister sahib would wish that we grew vegetables—"
“Not just the minister," Mrs Mukhopadhyaya said. “We take the first steps towards ourselves, here." She was quoting a governmental slogan; it had been drafted here, in this garden, produced on massive sheets in Devanagari calligraphy so beautiful that it had been drawn rather than written. “That means, self-sufficiency: that means, growing our own food."
“But you love flowers, madam," the mali said, and Mrs Mukhopadhyaya laughed and said,
“Perhaps."
She called for tea and Leila brought it, and Mrs Mukhopadhyaya and the mali took careful sips, looking out the light rising over the garden. Sunrises in Ur were pink, not the orange-red-pinks of home but true fuchsia, like the azaleas of her childhood window boxes. They watched it with reverence.
“How is Chotu doing in the new school?" Mrs Mukhopadhyaya asked, when the light had wholly diffused over the bare garden.
The mali nodded. “He is doing well, madam. He had a good
result in his exam."
“I’m sure you helped him study," Mrs Mukhopadhyaya said, and the mali shook his head.
“They did not teach this language when I was in school."
Mrs Mukhopadhyaya smiled. “Not in my school, either."
___
The minister came home for lunch, and he and Mrs Mukhopadhyaya sat on the verandah to eat. The government contributed some money to the running of the house, which they spent on wages for Leila, the girl who helped with the cooking and the cleaning and other matters of the household, and spent her evenings taking classes in the local college that had been purpose-built close by. The minister had learned the Xi Lyr language on Earth, at night classes in Meerut, impatient with being set homework and drills like a boy; Mrs Mukhopadhyaya had learned over his shoulder at that time, picking up his books from where he had thrown them down in frustration. Leila was learning from the same books. At least, Mrs Mukhopadhyaya thought they were the same the ones she had seen on Earth, but it could just be that they were the same as first books everywhere, brightly-coloured like the ABC and ka-kha-ga of her childhood. But when Leila spoke to the minister in words from those pages, her eyes seemed to flash with intense and unholy light.
“Leila," the minister said, stiffly, over aloo paratha and imli, “I would prefer that we spoke in English. Or Hindi," he added, as a vague afterthought, and Mrs Mukhopadhyaya hid her smile. Every mention of Ur had driven him to sarcastic irritation back on Earth: every verb in the new language, every fresh decree regarding his new role. She was wondering if this were a twilight of that rage, that ultimately impotent railing against a world under water.
“That’s fine," Leila said, in English, then again in Hindi, perhaps for emphasis, or just absent-minded repetition; Mrs Mukhopadhyaya wasn’t sure.
Before they all rose, Leila to return to the kitchen; the minister to the legislative assembly building that was a shady five-minute walk down the winding old street; and Mrs Mukhopadhyaya to her garden, she said, “I was thinking of some flowers, with the vegetables."
“Mmm?" said the minister, looking into his bag for his papers and data pad and stylus.
“Flowers," said Mrs Mukhopadhyaya, with sudden confidence. “The other people grow vegetables underground, like carrots or parsnips, and above there are flowers. Perhaps we could grow those, to keep the garden beautiful."
“Underground," the minister said, and then repeated himself absent-mindedly in Hindi; Mrs Mukhopadhyaya was struck by it, so soon after Leila had done the same thing. “Beneath the ground. My dear…" – and he looked up at her, with a kind condescension that turned, as his eyes rested on her face, into only kindness – “you’re speaking of things that root, yes? Things that burrow deep down."
“Yes," she said, a little confused, “yes."
“Bide a little time," he said, gently, “before you put down roots. Be sure someone will be here for the harvest."
She didn’t reply to that, and he picked up his papers, his fingers sliding automatically over his pad to see the afternoon’s legislative agenda. She said nothing as he left the house. As he left through the garden gate, Mrs Mukhopadhyaya realised that she had forgotten about the vote.
___
The mali went home just as the sun was dipping beneath the horizon, leaving his tools polished and gleaming with just a tenacious trace of Ur dirt. Without asking, Leila brought tea to Mrs Mukhopadhyaya, who was sitting in the garden as the evening breezes began to lift. From the smell, a few of their valuable Earth spices had been added to the blend. Mrs Mukhopadhyaya sipped it and listened to Leila humming as she closed the shutters. For a moment she allowed herself to imagine the possibility of a vote to withdraw – the possibility of packing up this house, and leaving this garden – until the steam from her cup reminded her of the care with which Leila had made the tea, and that it would be proper to drink it before it cooled. But the glass cup slipped unaccountably from her grip, bounced off a rock the mali had dug out of the ground earlier, and smashed into fragments in the grass.
“Oh," she said, because life here was like life had been when she was young – things broken could not easily be replaced – and then she thought about the mali bringing Chotu to play in the garden, his little hands perhaps being cut, and she got down on her knees and tried to pick up the shards.
From behind her, a voice like thunder and bells said, “Madam, may I offer sahayatha?"
“Sahayatha," Mrs Mukhopadhyaya said, stupidly, and looked up. On the other side of the garden gate stood a person who was made of glass. Their body gleamed with iridescence, giving off an impression of deliberate restraint, as though an abstract sculpture had come to life and was eager for motion.
“You seemed distressed," said the person, in English, and Mrs Mukhopadhyaya clambered to her feet and opened the gate.
“The cup," she said, still stupid and uncertain, and the person drifted through the gate and began, effortlessly, to pick pieces of glass from the grass and lay them carefully on the table. Mrs Mukhopadhyaya realised that they could do so easily: their long pincers would grip, without being cut.
“Thank you," she said in Hindi, “thank you." And then, because after they had finished placing the glass in rows, they carried on standing there, looking at her and her garden with curious, warm interest, she added, “Sahayatha is Hindi."
The person shook their great, lambent head. Mrs Mukhopadhyaya was not sure where their voice emanated from, or if it were a product of their body at all or something achieved mechanically. The minister would know. “I do not understand."
“You asked me," Mrs Mukhopadhyaya said, “if I needed sahayatha. You asked me in English, but sahayatha is Hindi."
“Another language," said the person, and again, Mrs Mukhopadhyaya had the impression of blinking, of blurred but clearing understanding. “I see. Thank you for this education."
“I cannot" – Mrs Mukhopadhyaya hesitated, then went on – “speak your language. Not well."
“We are all learning," said the person, brightly, and that, Mrs Mukhopadhyaya thought, at least, was true.
“May I bring you some hot tea?" she asked. It grew cool quickly in Ur in the evenings; the ground was baked solid from long-ago desert, letting the heat out at twilight. Mrs Mukhopadhyaya had once seen that dim night haze from space. Her hands were getting cold, away from the little steaming cup on the table.
“I could not drink it," said her friend. “It is not for my body. But thank you."
“Oh," Mrs Mukhopadhyaya said. In English, she knew she should say, you’re welcome. Not in Hindi, and now she thought of it, perhaps not in English either, not after thanks for a gift not given. When the person drifted on, down the path beyond the gate that led to the house next door, she watched them go with sunset catching pink and fiery in the crevices of their body, and thought, neighbour – and wished she had had something else to offer.
___
In the morning the legislative debates were broadcast, in Ur and on Earth, with each speaker choosing their language shortly before rising and trailing a comet’s tail of subtitles at the base of the screen. Mrs Mukhopadhyaya had lifted a trowel and was going out to help the mali; Leila was washing pans and stockpots with a piece of steel wool; but they both paused, set down their tools and looked up at the screen.
“DEBATES: ALIEN CITY VOTE", said the headline above the subtitles, and that was what the first speaker said, as he rose and walked slowly to the podium. Although some of the representatives and delegates were on Earth and some in Ur, the technology worked seamlessly, so everyone watching felt themselves addressed, intimately and personally, from just a few feet away.
“The experiment," he said, hesitating – his name was Patrick Adeyemi, said the text – “the aliens who run the experiment."
Mrs Mukhopadhyaya said, with a vehemence that surprised her, “They are people."
“With respect to my learned friend," a new voice was saying, from the front bench, “the people of Earth and the other peo
ple of Xi Lyr are the people of Ur, together."
It was the minister. Leila and Mrs Mukhopadhyaya exchanged smiles.
“I grant that," said Adeyemi, uncomfortably. “I grant that they are people. But for eighteen months, Earth time" – a year in Ur, Mrs Mukhopadhyaya was thinking; a year, so it was time now to think of planting – “we have left our people be. We have left them in this foreign city, of which we know nothing. It is the ruin of an ancient civilisation, say the other people, and we have chosen to believe them: it is on another world, they say, but it will be safe, and we have believed it. We have sent money and seeds and equipment and more money and asked no questions. Now is the time to assess whether the, ah, experiment in xenoanthropology, is over."
There was a hubbub, then, as those who had put hard work into the city bristled, and others laughed with not a little derision. Leila said something to herself which Mrs Mukhopadhyaya didn’t understand, in the other people’s language, but she noticed that the steel wool by Leila’s hand shone a little, as though touched by spark and fire.
“It is foreign to all," the minister said, above the throng. He had risen to speak, this time; the screen identified him as vithra mantri, the Ur minister of resources. Mrs Mukhopadhyaya noticed he had chosen to speak in Hindi, which was unusual; he was often ineloquent in it. “We are all foreigners, here. It is not their experiment, nor ours, but ours. We stand and fall together."
It was strange, Mrs Mukhopadhyaya was thinking, but he looked surprised: as though until that moment, he had not known that that was what he was going to say.
___
Some people came to the garden, the following day: some women Mrs Mukhopadhyaya had known from the party grassroots back on Earth, and some of their children and partners, and some of the others. The women came into the house and helped carry stacks of steel tumblers and tea urns out onto the grass, and the other people stayed in the garden, their bodies catching the sunlight in prismatic splendour. They helped put out the cups and jugs, although they themselves drank only from saucers; their upper bodies could not uncurl enough to grip cups.
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