by Manil Suri
The hotel is over-the-top—marble from Italy, carpets from Afghanistan, even commodes from England, or so Rahim claims. “The same brand used by the Queen—truly a royal throne for a royal shit.” Every room is decorated in its own distinctive style—the one thing they have in common is they’re all unoccupied. This fact does not seem to perturb Rahim—he leads us merrily from floor to floor, leaving a trail of lights blazing behind. “More fabulous than the Taj and the Oberoi combined, don’t you agree?”
Coming down the stairs, he asks how “Auntie and Uncle” are doing. I say they’re fine, hoping Sarita either hasn’t heard or doesn’t realize he’s talking about my parents. “And that boy you refused to tell me anything about the last time I saw you? The one you followed all the way to Delhi, or so I heard from the grapevine?”
“That was a long time ago. We haven’t been in touch for years.” I want to pull him aside and warn him not to ask me anything personal, but Sarita’s right behind me. Fortunately, he doesn’t blurt out anything else incriminating.
We enter the dining room, set with an enormous buffet. Platters of salads vie with a cornucopia of cakes and pastries. “Shabbir! Parvez!” Rahim calls, but no one appears. “I must apologize—this war’s made the staff situation quite appalling.” He goes around whisking domed lids off serving bowls to reveal curries and stir fries, kormas and cutlets. “You must try the foie gras—we have a whole case imported from France,” he says, cutting off a generous wedge from a tray of cheeses and pâtés. Sarita gasps when she discovers a jar of Marmite among the condiments.
As we eat alone at the long, empty table, I can tell Sarita is as mystified as I am by all this lavishness. “We’re ready even for the Chinese guests who visit once in a while. Though try finding a chef who can cook a decent lo mein.” Noticing our expressions, Rahim stops. “You’re probably wondering where all this food comes from, correct?”
I nod. “Not only here, but also in the markets.”
“All the pomegranates they’re selling,” Sarita adds. “In most places, you’d be hard-pressed to find a carrot.” She takes a timid bite of the foie gras, grimaces, then smears it with Marmite.
“It’s quite simple, really—let’s see if you can guess. Who do you think would want to set up an outpost here in the heart of the city? A Mecca for Muslims to give them a taste of their promised land?” Rahim looks expectantly from Sarita to me, waiting for us to answer, tapping at his plate impatiently at our dullness. “Oh, come on. Who’d benefit most by getting a foothold in India? Who’s been wooing the Muslims ever since Independence? Who’s been trying to instigate Hindus to massacre Muslims all along—so they can step in as benefactor to the victims?”
“Pakistan?” I ask unsurely.
“No, the Republic of Finland. Of course, Pakistan. Who else? What they didn’t manage for decades in Kashmir, they accomplished overnight in Mahim. With some help from their Dubai friends, of course. The beauty of it is that all the channels were already in place—the old Arab sea routes from the sixties and seventies to smuggle in cigarettes and electronics, the new ones that the Pakistani ISI has been using for some years now to sneak in their terrorists. They’re still sending in the same boats, but filled with apples and onions instead of whiskey and televisions. OK, perhaps a few jihadis too—God knows nothing gets accomplished in the world these days without terrorism. But the primary effort is to have everything freely available in Mahim—meat and delicacies to pamper the elite, cheap tins for the rest, even Marmite for your friend here, who’s welcome to keep the jar, incidentally. They haven’t gotten to the point of revealing themselves yet—still all very hush-hush—only a handful of residents know, like myself. Still, this has to be the land of plenty, not just for prestige, but so that refugees pour in and the area grows. That’s why they’ve not slacked off—it’s much harder since the war started, but they still manage to slip in enough boats under the nose of the Indian navy.”
Rahim’s explanation is preposterous. “Are you seriously suggesting that Pakistan is setting up a colony in India? Here, in the middle of Bombay, in Mahim?”
“I know. It sounds completely insane, doesn’t it? But that’s precisely the point. Who would ever even imagine such a thing? Suspect the ISI of quietly engineering this for years? Why do you suppose every bomb blast in Bombay has led to at least one or two suspects with a flat in Mahim?”
“But this isn’t even the most densely populated in terms of Muslims,” Sarita points out. “Why not Mazgaon or Byculla or Dongri?”
“Because, quite simply, the sea route is essential. You’d have to go way far north to Mira Road before finding a suburb with as many Muslims living right on the coast. Of course, the goal is to eventually link all the Muslim pockets from here—expand south to the areas you mentioned and perhaps also to the north and east.”
Which sounds even more kooky. Could lead from his mascara be leaching into my poor cousin’s head? “Why stop there—why not take over the whole city?” I ask. “Rename it South Karachi and drive all the Hindus into the sea? I’m sure the ISI could find somewhere to resettle Bhim.”
Rahim laughs. “Yes, it’s all quite fantastic, I agree. They need to bring their plans back to reality. And you’re right, they’re severely underestimating the HRM and Bhim. Remember, though, that this was all a sleeper plot, something to dabble in on the side—they never expected to actually activate their scheme. This ‘South Karachi’ as you call it only came into being thanks to the HRM—the ‘City of Devi’ campaign was a true godsend. All the ISI had to do was keep the bloodshed going, provoke some more attacks using a few well-placed jihadis. But my Jazmine’s not quite convinced, I see—so let Auntie show you something interesting on the map.” He pulls out a place mat on which the boundary of Mumbai is outlined around the “Hotel Rahim” logo. “See how nicely one can isolate Mahim?—the railway tracks along here, the creek to the north, the bay to the west. Once the stage was set, they only needed to blow up the sea link bypass. That poor bridge—doomed from the start—some rumors have it that ISI agents actually managed to plant explosives during construction in the cement itself.”
“Terrorism with a vision.”
“Not terrorism. Strategy. With the sea link gone, they used the air raids to bomb the remaining bridges to our east. Leaving the connection between north and south nicely squeezed. Now every truck, every convoy, every goods train must make the long detour around or come through Mahim. Not only can they control who gets through, but they’ve set the stage to collect some hefty fees.”
“And the Limbus? Are they ISI agents as well?”
Rahim’s face darkens. “They’re a bunch of juvenile savages, that’s what. Buffoons who couldn’t care less about the religion they profess—they’ll drive us all off the face of the earth. We needed an army in a hurry to keep us safe, which is why there was no choice but to ask for their help. Except they’d been watching too many Taliban videos or smoking too much hashish, I don’t know which. Within days, they started banning music and film and TV and going on burning sprees. A new target every night for weeks—temples, video stores, fast food restaurants to show they’re anti-American. Even the Hinduja hospital, because they declared the ‘Hindu’ in the name blasphemous. The crowds flocked in of course—who can resist a good bonfire, especially if every other type of entertainment is gone? But then their hijinks started turning entire blocks into ash—you saw the one next door. So now—get this—they’ve declared that burning is too Hindu—that it derives from cremation, that it’s against the Koran. Muslims, they’ve announced, are only allowed to demolish the un-Islamic, never burn. Not that they’ve left anything un-Islamic still standing—half of Mahim is gone. To keep the masses entertained, they started performing stonings in front of the mosque. Except with stones so hard to come by in Bombay they rapidly ran out—so now they behead their victims. Genuine Hindus, guaranteed—to prove it, they slice off the foreskins first and toss them as souvenirs into the audience.”
Noticing our aghast expressions, Rahim hastens to assure us that most Mahim residents share his aversion to the Limbus, but are too scared to speak out. “Even the refugees, those who’ve lost everything in the riots—even they don’t condone the Limbus’ antics. I suppose they’re a necessary evil to keep us safe—perhaps in time, they can be trained.”
The question I can’t bring myself to confront Rahim with is where he fits in all of this. Is he a stooge, a Pakistani lackey? I take a bite of the pineapple pastry I’ve selected from the buffet—the custard cream filling slides smoothly down my throat. Do I thank the ISI for this treat?
It turns out my cousin has an even more sinister patron. “It happened while he was here on a clandestine visit—a VIP who loved my hospitality so much that he took over all my loans for me. The loans that were threatening to wipe out your poor Auntie Rahim. Can’t tell you the name, because you’ll recognize it—all I’ll say is he lives in Dubai and Karachi now, but still controls most of Mahim.”
“You mean a gangster? Like Dawood or Shakeel?”
Rahim titters. “Whoever it is, the ISI has full faith in him—they’ve entrusted their entire operation to his men. He still makes it personally to Bombay more often than people might imagine—always comes in by sea with a large entourage. As do his associates, some of whose names you would also recognize—we’re actually quite full most nights. That’s why I keep dinner ready—I never know who might show up, and when.”
“So what you’re telling me, basically, is that you work for the mafia underworld. Maybe one of the same dons who fled to Dubai after slaughtering hundreds in bomb blasts all over the city?”
Rahim stiffens. “Perhaps you need to look around before you point any fingers. Check to see who’s being slaughtered and who’s doing the slaughtering. Just the massacres in the past year alone—have you been keeping track? Gaza to Germany, Houston to Haji Ali, not to mention all the internment camps. We’re being annihilated, Jaz—if we don’t take help from whoever offers it, there might soon be no Muslims left. Besides, this isn’t some cheap two-rupee street hooligan we’re talking about—my patron is someone cultured, someone sophisticated, someone who appreciates foie gras with every meal.”
“Someone who’d still have no compunction in blowing up all of India. Or perhaps that’s too passé—thinking you owe your homeland anything.”
“How sweet—the little pup calling Auntie’s patriotism into question. After spending half its life abroad, no less. Well let me tell you, my flag-waving Jazmine, while you were swilling beer and chocolate with the Americans and Swiss, I was being bottle-fed the Indian dream. Nehru and Gandhi, Saare Jahan Se Achcha, the whole secular ideal. So what if our government perpetrated years of carnage against its own citizens in Kashmir? Or systematically filtered Muslims out from its armed forces and police regiments? Or turned a blind eye each time the Hindus decided to here and there roast a few minorities alive? None of it really affected me. I was content to keep singing patriotic songs, brand Pakistan the enemy, march against terrorism with all my fellow brainwashed Muslims hand in hand through the streets.
“Then the HRM started its Devi rampaging. Beatings, rapes, murders—they all happened to people I knew, people alarmingly close to me. On Linking Road, I personally saw the corpses in their shops: blackened mummies still sitting at the till, waiting to give change back from a twenty. Entire families wiped out and nobody did anything—not the government, not police, and certainly not our fellow Hindu citizenry.”
“But that’s exactly how they want you to think—Hindu versus Muslim instead of just Indian.”
“It doesn’t matter what one thinks. You can scream you’re Indian, you can disavow your religion, you can even be the next incarnation of Krishna for all your Hindu countrymen will care. Their HRM will pull down your pants and check your foreskin and slaughter you just the same.”
Rahim takes a deep breath. “Listen, Jaz, you’ve known me for years. Just look at me, just look at my fabulousness—I simply can’t conceal who I am. You can never imagine what a hard time I’ve had all my life fitting in. But all the insults and abuse I’ve endured have taught me one thing: how to protect my own skin. Before being an Indian, before being a Muslim, I’m a survivor—prepared to do whatever’s needed to stay alive. If you and your friend want to come through this war, I’d suggest you start doing the same.”
AS WE SIP OUR after-dinner coffee, I remark on the fact that none of Rahim’s big-shot gangster sponsors seems to have checked in. “It’s still early,” he says. “They find it hard to give me notice, now that mobile phones don’t work.”
“So it’s nothing to do with the nuclear firecracker that Pakistan might be lighting this week?”
“You mean those rumors? The phones and the internet?” Rahim waves his hand dismissively. “That’s not Pakistan, that’s Bhim, trying to empty out the city.”
“Why would he want to do that?”
“Who knows? Perhaps he figures it’ll be easier to take over. Or perhaps he’s just hoping to scare the Indian army into a preemptive strike. God-willing even our military isn’t so stupid. The important thing is that Pakistan would hardly sink so much into their colony here if they intended to blow up the entire city.”
“So it’s just a coincidence that your hotel is empty. Did you at least have a lot of guests yesterday?”
Rahim ignores my question. “They’ll be here soon, believe me. I’m sure they’re already on their way.”
By nine, he’s plainly worried. He tries his cell phone repeatedly, as if it might have miraculously started working. He sends some of his servants to the Limbus to check if they’ve heard anything. He reiterates his bomb theory several times, coming up with even more far-fetched motives that might explain Bhim’s ploy (to scare up more followers, to feed his own vanity). At nine-thirty, the doorbell rings. “They’re here,” Rahim announces, both triumphant and relieved. He rushes down the stairs to personally usher in his guests.
He returns after a while. “We need to clear out from here—my clients prefer to dine privately. Let me show you to your rooms.” Sarita is alarmed at being ushered into her own separate suite, but he assures her I’ll be just down the hall. “The sheets are Egyptian cotton—you’ll sleep so soundly you’ll forget all your worries.”
We bid Sarita good night and Rahim walks me to a room down the corridor. The minute we’re inside, his expression changes. “That was the Limbus. They’re on to you. They ambushed a train today and took a Hindu prisoner or two—they’re looking for the ones who escaped. A kid named Yusuf says he led you here—they roughed him up a bit after a friend ratted on him. I told them I hadn’t let anyone in, but they still wanted to search the hotel. It’s only when I reminded them who the owner is and how angry he’d get that they relented—they’re milling about outside now, waiting for permission from their higher-ups.” He pauses, then looks at me gravely. “She’s Hindu, isn’t she? I should have guessed—that way of sliding her sari over her hair.”
My mind races. “Do they have the rear covered as well? I saw an alley between the buildings—there must be a back entrance, correct?”
Rahim looks at me sadly. “There is, right through the kitchen, and it would make a perfect escape. Except I can’t allow it—my boss would kill me if the Limbus didn’t. But fortunately, there’s a simple solution to all this. We’ll tell them the truth—that you’re Muslim, that we’re related—you can swear you didn’t know she was Hindu when we turn her in.” He brushes the back of his fingers against my cheek and smiles. “It wouldn’t be so bad to stay here with me now, would it? Just like old times, my little Jazmine.”
I swipe off his hand. “Don’t be absurd, Rahim—I’m not turning her in. Plus, there’s no danger to you—even your servants haven’t seen us. Just show us the back entrance, and the Limbus will never even know we came.”
Rahim shakes his head. “You don’t get it, do you? She’s Hindu. Hindu, don’t you see? All the things I’ve talked about, all
the information she now has stored in her brain. A few words from her and the HRM will be targeting my hotel by the end of the day. You know I’ve never had a prejudiced bone in my body, but times are different now, there’s too much at stake.” He shakes his head again. “What in the world possessed you to bring her here? I would never have thought you would endanger me like this.”
“Listen, Rahim—”
“No, you listen. I want you to come with me to her room and act as if nothing’s happened. We’ll go downstairs nice and easy, and you can hand her over yourself to the Limbus to get in their good graces.”
That’s when I pull out the gun. It seems cartoonish, but also quite appropriate, given that the whole situation—the train, the hotel, the nuclear threat—feels like something from a movie script. Rahim senses it too. “What are you now, Jaz Bond? Double-oh-Six, the chhakka secret agent? Shouldn’t you at least butch yourself up a bit?”
“Let’s go get Sarita. Quietly.” I try to sound authoritative, project all my conviction and ruthlessness right through the muzzle of my weapon. But it doesn’t quite work—the gun feels so alien and uncomfortable in my hand I have trouble keeping it level.
“Oh, please. You shouldn’t play with such toys. You know you have no intention of using it. The Limbus will be up in a second if they hear it—even my servants might stop their gossiping for once and come investigate.” Rahim casually pushes my hand away, as if correcting a child. “But I am impressed. You would actually resort to this, just to protect her. What hold does she have? It must be something to do with love, isn’t it?”
I’m loath to reveal anything, unsure I can trust Rahim. On the other hand, there seems little choice but to take the gamble. “That boy you mentioned—the one who went to Delhi. She’s married to him.”