The City of Devi

by Manil Suri

  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.

  By the time I turned on the television that morning, the toll booths had already been doused with vermilion and the swell of participants had reached the cantilevered section of the bridge. HRM’s Doshi appeared in a close-up, trying to smile through the sweat pouring down his face. He struck a coconut on the concrete, breaking it open only after three attempts. Holding the two halves aloft as if he’d aced a magic trick, he ascended a small podium and began to speak.

  “Many centuries ago, in the time of the Ramayana, our ancestors proved their engineering prowess. They built a bridge from India all the way south to Lanka so that Lord Ram could walk across the sea and bring back his Sita Devi. Today, Hindu engineers have repeated the feat of their forebears so that we can make a similar journey south, from Bandra to Worli.” I switched the TV to another channel, but Doshi appeared on that one too, thanking Mumbadevi for showering her protection and blessings on the bridge.

  Just as I readied to change the channel again, the camera drew back to an odd wide-angle aerial shot of the cable suspension spans soaring forty stories into the air. What caught my eye was how one of the central towers holding up the cables seemed to tilt out of the screen towards me. The giant fireball, accompanied by the sound of the explosion, came an instant later. Images flashed on the screen in jerky succession—people running about and leaping off, more blasts spewing debris and smoke, the two cable spans parting like the wings of a dying butterfly to collapse towards the water and sink. Each time I thought the mayhem had ended, a fresh explosion knocked out another segment. Eventually, as I stared aghast at the TV screen, only the smoking frame remained.

  One hundred and eighty-two people perished that morning, including Shrikant Doshi and much of the leadership of the HRM and its allies. “Stay indoors,” my father called to warn me, “there’s going to be riots all over the city.” Sure enough, rival factions plunged eagerly into a contest to see who could massacre the most Muslims—not just as reprisal (even though the explosions had all the hallmarks of sophisticated terrorists), but also to prove themselves the fiercest and most ruthless, and hence most deserving to fill the power vacuum. Our March for Unity failed to impress them, as did the anguished editorials composed by newspaper pundits.

  The single bloodiest incident occurred that weekend at Haji Ali. A rampaging mob led by a previously unknown upstart charged down the walkway across the bay to the island on which the mosque stood. Bhim’s army beheaded men as they prayed, dragged women out and raped them in the courtyard, impaled babies on sharpened sticks driven into the rocky beach. They also meticulously videotaped everything. Even censored for television, the clip broadcast that evening was so disturbing that both Karun and I had to look away.

  Others, however, reveled in the images. The video propagated its savagery all across the country, its frames leaping from screen to screen through the population’s billion-plus cell phones. (My father, to his horror, even received a digitally altered version casting the attackers as Muslims and their victims as hapless Hindu pilgrims.) After months of aimless venting, Superdevi-charged mobs in towns and villages finally found a focus for their hooliganism. The news turned so grim that Karun and I had to suspend our breakfast ritual of reading out to each other from the paper: twenty Muslim villages annihilated in western Gujarat, forty-one Hindu children in Lucknow circumcised with the same sharp stones used afterwards to bash in their skulls, Christians burnt alive in churches, Sikhs butchered on the street. Every group seemed to join in lustily, as if the national goal of religious integration had finally triumphed, and the bloodbath were a grand celebration of multiculturalism, of equal opportunity.

  When Bhim wrested control of the HRM, we all heaved a sigh of relief. The competition for power had ended, the killing would finally stop. All through his ascendancy, we’d heard different myths about Bhim—a businessman kidnapped and tortured by Muslims, a professor whose family terrorists had wiped out. But nobody knew what he claimed to stand for—not until the rally at which he declared himself a fighter for peace. “I pledge to set aside past bloodshed, extend minorities an olive branch,” Karun recited from the newspaper the next morning. “From now on, my goal is to promote harmony, to advance industry and science and art.” Supposedly, Bhim’s model was to be Ashoka the Great, the ancient Mauryan emperor who united India with unrestrained savagery, but then ruled with great compassion and benevolence. In the following weeks, reports streamed in about his attempts to get city dwellers to join hands with rural followers, his dynamic success in connecting with the educated young. Even Uma toyed with the idea of subscribing (out of sheer curiosity, she told my enraged father) when Bhim inaugurated his TwitterXLP account.

  He overlooked one detail: while the HRM may have crowned him their emperor, the country had different ideas. In the long-scheduled national elections that month, the HRM was soundly trounced. Enraged by this humiliation (which he blamed on the “cancerous seeds” sown by minorities) Bhim not only jettisoned Ashoka, but decided the HRM would bypass the political process altogether. The violence from the power struggle had never really died down—it still burned in the background, as self-sustaining as a nuclear reaction by now. Bhim stoked its fires, channeling its bloodthirst into a campaign to rid the country of Muslims once and for all.

  He embarked on a “rath yatra” around the country—a chariot odyssey along which he evoked Hitler’s call for a “final solution.” Other leaders had undertaken rath yatras in the past, such as the famous crusade which led eventually to the destruction of the Ayodhya mosque. Bhim’s was a high-tech version, employing giant video screens to incite spectators, sophisticated communication techniques to mobilize and manipulate mobs. Most successful was his use of the new TwitterSpeak service, which broadcast his messages to the cell phones of illiterate followers directly in speech form.

  After that, the carnage surged to levels my father said had only occurred once before—during the 1947 Partition. It was self-perpetuating, he noted—as investors the world over fled from India’s chaos, the resulting economic collapse made people even more ready to scapegoat their Muslim neighbors. “Our new central government leaders should be shot—so desperate to hold on to their coalition that they barely dare squeak out any criticism of Bhim.” The BBC began using words like “ethnic cleansing” and “genocide” in its reports on India. Pakistan blustered a lot about intervening militarily to save its “Islamic brethren” but didn’t as yet have Chinese support. It must have contented itself with an increase in terrorist financing, because soon after, a dozen landmark temples—from Badrinath to Meenakshi—fell victim to bombs. Bhim used this as the perfect excuse to further ramp up the HRM pogrom.

  The Times of India reported that several cities with enough of a minority population to put up resistance had split into Hindu and Muslim sections, with Christians and Sikhs slinking in wherever possible. Maps showing the imminent divisions for Mumbai began appearing on the internet. Although the boundaries changed wildly from day to day, our area of Colaba always fell in a Hindu enclave. The meatwalla, a Muslim, stopped coming to our door, as did the man who sold biscuits from the large iron trunk he carried on his head. The Ahmeds down the hall reluctantly traded their sea-facing flat with a Hindu family occupying a Dongri one-bedroom. The Mirandas, a Christian family on the floor below us, also disappeared, as did Dr. Kanchwalla, whose name could have been Muslim, but
was actually Parsi.

  Perhaps more people vanished as well, perhaps the upheavals around me were more dramatic. Caught up in the turmoil in my personal life, I failed to notice.

  LOOKING BACK, I can pinpoint the exact night things changed with Karun. Pakistan had joined the Chinese invasion two days before, making a series of bombing sorties all the way to Delhi that morning. Rumors of an air raid on the rock carvings at Elephanta Island had left Mumbai on edge. Unable to find a cab, I had to walk back all the way from my mother’s house. When I finally got home, Karun seemed rather keyed—from the rumors, I assumed. But it turned out he hadn’t heard yet—something else must have happened to make him so tense. Before I could find out, he led me to bed, thrusting between my legs with such conviction that I thought we would at last achieve our fourth star. Abruptly, though, he lost his momentum, his expression slackened, his attention skittered somewhere else. He excused himself to get a glass of water, switching to kisses down my body when he came back. The Jantar Mantar he performed, with a touch of delirium almost, rocketed me quickly to climax. When it came my turn, though, I didn’t have much success. Eventually, he buried his head against my body and said he just wanted to be held.

  He remained off-kilter all week, distracted to the point of feverishness (though his temperature was normal—I checked). Each night he came to bed seemingly determined to prove himself. Although he valiantly compensated afterwards, I saw him increasingly frustrated by his recurring lack of success. I scoured the nearby market daily for pomegranates but the war with Pakistan had taken them off the shelves.

  I almost didn’t make my weekly visit to my parents the following Tuesday, since Karun looked so unwell. But he insisted he felt fine—he seemed anxious I keep my appointment. I returned to find the flat empty—Karun came back only at eleven-thirty p.m. He looked disheveled, almost crazed—I could have sworn I smelled alcohol on his breath. “It’s the astroparticle conference I’ve been organizing—we had an emergency meeting. First the riots, now this war—the preparations are not going well.” He didn’t look at me when he spoke, and I wondered if I should believe what he said. In the morning, I could tell he hadn’t slept.

  He grew increasingly jittery in the days that followed. Some nights, I awoke to find him sitting in the dark, his hands cradling his head. He refused to divulge what was wrong, insisting he’d be fine once the conference had been held. We stopped having sex—not even Jantar Mantar—the dates in my diary remained starless. The nightly air raids had thrown the city into complete turmoil—in fact, the entire world was teetering after the new September 11 attacks. I reasoned Karun must be wound up, like everyone else. He instructed me not to reveal his whereabouts to anyone who might ask—the hostilities seemed to have made him paranoid as well. Only later did the thought that somebody might be blackmailing him (about what? surely astroparticles weren’t classified?) enter my head.

  On our last night together, he clung to me with great tenderness. “I love you so much. When this is all over, we’ll go and—” He didn’t complete the sentence. I had the feeling he stared at me all night as I slept.

  He left before I awoke, calling from Bandra that afternoon. “I’m at the institute annex—the center where they’ll hold the conference. The attendees come in on Sunday, so with everything going on, I may as well just stay here till then.” His cellphone seemed to be getting no signal, so he gave me the number for the front desk. By then, the idea of a conference in the midst of such global chaos was painfully absurd, but I could tell from his strangled voice how much he hated lying to me, so I kept up the pretense. Later, I realized he must have planned the trip—his duffel bag was missing, and even the classical CDs he listened to during yoga were gone.

  Mr. and Mrs. Iyer came up to check on us after that evening’s bombing attack. They mentioned in passing that the conference was cancelled three weeks ago—had Karun been planning his escape since then? I dialed the number he’d given me, but it kept returning a busy signal. The next morning, when the new communiqué about Pakistan’s threatened nuclear attack appeared, I called again. I kept trying day after day without getting through, until the electricity failed and the phones went dead.

  THE TRAIN PICKS UP SPEED. I keep my eyes averted out the window. Mura comes over and gazes with me at the houses going past. Only their tops are visible now, the rest obscured by a wall in between. “I remember when I was a child, we used to ride the train every Sunday to visit my uncle in Goregaon. There weren’t so many houses then, or walls for that matter—at Santa Cruz, one could see all the way to the planes parked at the airport.” He begins to caress the back of my neck. “Did you grow up in the suburbs or the city?”

  I brush his hand off my body, but he manages to latch onto my fingers. He buries his face into my hair and inhales deeply. “Ah, that lovely fragrance convent school girls have. Is it the shampoo or the soap or just that wealthy South Mumbai scent?”

  I turn around to try and squeeze away but he has me cornered against the wall. “Very educated, are you? College, probably. That’s why you’re not very impressed with our devi. Look at Guddi and Anupam, all bubbling with excitement. So completely convinced Devi ma’s come to save her own city.”

  “You mean she hasn’t? How devastating to hear that. This whole train and bridal charade you’re putting us through, and you don’t even have a devi?”

  “Oh, we have her all right. Even better than in the movies, you’ll see. The crowds worship her, even if convent girls like you don’t believe.”

  “And you do believe? That she’ll protect us from the Pakistanis? That she’ll open her heavenly parasol to block their bombs on the nineteenth?”

  Mura draws back. “Nothing’s going to happen on the nineteenth—it’s just a rumor the Pakistanis have been spreading to scare us. Who makes such an announcement if they really mean to attack?—they’d have simply launched by now, most assuredly. Or rather we’d have, even earlier, to beat them—if the threat seemed at all real to our military. Surely you could figure this out with your college degree?” He peers through his glasses to appraise me. “That’s the whole beauty of Devi ma, don’t you see? She gets to save Guddi and Anupam and the crowds flocking to her, keeps her promise to rescue Mumbai, without having to do anything.”

  “And what if you’re wrong? What if the warnings are correct?”

  “They’re not, but we’re prepared for any eventuality.”

  “Who? You and your devi?”

  “Not the devi, Bhim. Do you really think he wouldn’t have taken precautions—someone so visionary? I can’t go into details, but if the Pakistanis do try any mischief, he’ll make sure we’re the most protected souls in the country. Which includes all of Devi ma’s maidens, incidentally. So you’re lucky I picked you—perhaps you could show some gratitude to me.”

  Mura comes closer again, and runs a hand through my hair. “So what do you say? In return for saving your life—surely you can agree to such a little thing?” He leans forward to kiss me.

  I lay my palms on his chest as if in acquiescence, then push him hard. He topples over easily, tumbling across the floor like a plump and comical baby. He gropes for his glasses and locates them underneath his own body. One of the arms has snapped off. “How will I see with them now?” he asks mournfully, staring at the piece in his hand.

  I am at the door, banging for the girls, when he is upon me. He rams his head into my back, knocking my breath out. I turn around, and he batters me again, like a fat and hornless goat, this time between my breasts. The impact of the blow sends me falling to the floor. The pomegranate rolls out of my sari, and the first thought that flashes through my mind is that if he tastes it, he’ll be further crazed by its aphrodisiac properties.

  But he pays it no attention. Instead, he squats over me as I lie there trying to suck air back into my lungs. “Such a small favor I ask.” His face is red, he wipes tears from his eyes. “And instead, what do you do? You attack me.” I try to sit up, but he pushes me back
. “Convent girls—do they all have to be so haughty?” He holds me down and stretches out atop me. His body is soft and unnaturally yielding—even his lips on my neck feel spongy. “Please,” he whispers, “it’s not too much.” I can still detect the peanuts on his breath.

  I nod to buy time. “But not on the floor, not like this.” Surprised, he peers at me to see if I’m lying. I give him a reassuring smile. “As you put it, for saving my life.”

  He helps me to my feet, and leads me to the berths. I stall by prodding the cushions on each, pretending to look for the softest. I’m running out of ploys and Mura out of patience when the undercarriage shudders—a sharp crack from below interrupts the steady rumble of wheels. Metal grinds noisily against metal, the compartment buckles and lifts, and to my disbelief, I see the wall outside the window closing in. I have just enough time to cover my face before we plow through, before a barrage of brick and mortar bursts in. The room tilts precariously around me, flinging me against a berth—then rights itself miraculously, the instant before tipping. A line of building façades whizzes by—I realize the train has left its tracks and is thundering down the center of a road.

  Except that it’s not quite the center, but an angle at which we hurtle—an angle that brings us closer and closer to the buildings streaming past. We mount something, the edge of the sidewalk perhaps, and the jolt dislodges the pomegranate from its hiding place. It lifts off the floor and sails by my face, serene as a flying saucer, as I vainly try to snare it. I imagine myself airborne as well, the walls around me weightless, the train a rocket launching into space. As the moment of contact arrives, gravity gives us a pass, and we rise above the buildings instead of crashing into them. The scrunching of metal, the splintering of wood—all the sickening sounds of impact surrounding me fade. We arc through the air, the compartments liberated from their earthly existence, our persons conveyed heavenward by the freed spirit of the train. I look down through the clouds at the long trail of Mumbai that stretches below us—from the string of suburbs unwinding north, to Colaba at the southernmost tip. For a moment, as we peak, everything is still. Then we begin our descent back to the city where Karun awaits.