by Manil Suri
Together. Is that it, then? All that needs be stated? The way it’s announced these days? Together. How should I respond? What emotion should I bring to my face? Of all the reactions that flood my mind, none seems entirely appropriate to display. It’s not as if I haven’t brooded about this possibility, as if I didn’t have any warning, any time to prepare. Perhaps my defense is I’ve never encountered a Mills & Boon heroine confronting this situation, I don’t have a template to follow from Bollywood films. Shock or disappointment or horror or hurt—I wait for the spin to stop, for the arrow to point the way. “I’m sorry,” Karun mumbles.
And then the wheel bearings lock—in a surprise photo finish, anger wins. It no longer matters whether I saw this coming or not—my fury sweeps all such irrelevancies away. The rigors of my journey, the strain of the past weeks, the insecurities of our entire marriage perhaps, fill me with a desire to exact vengeance, to punish Karun for the pain he has inflicted. Sorry is not enough. Together is not enough. Vast reservoirs of indignation rage inside me, they must be tamed.
I make him start at the very beginning, tolerating no omissions, brooking no euphemisms. Each time he tries to finesse over something private, I insist he reveal every embarrassing detail. How exactly did Jaz initiate him that first time? What did he do to reciprocate? What is the physical sensation like, lying on his stomach and being penetrated? Is that it then—my spouse’s preference? What my pati-dev, my husband-god, specializes in?
At some point, Karun begins to cry, but his tears are insufficient to slake my need to humiliate. I show no expression, no vulnerability, even though my insides churn at the things I force him to relate. How many times did they do it on the library balcony? Where did they dispose of the soiled newspapers afterwards? Could they smell the bird shit as they fornicated amidst it? I ask each question as clinically, methodically, as if administering a lie detector test. This is surgery that must be performed, I tell myself, an exorcism that must be completed. Perhaps cruelty also plays a part in it.
“Stop, we have to save Jaz, don’t you understand?” Karun cries out. He has pleaded with me that he didn’t bring it up before marriage because it was all in the past, that he has never been unfaithful since, never given in to Jaz’s demands. But I remain unmoved. Why did he run away to Bandra? I ask yet again, even though he’s already explained the harassment (but really, wasn’t it temptation?) he was trying to escape. This time he simply sobs and doesn’t reply. I soldier on, trying to formulate more questions to torture him with.
Eventually, my wrath is spent, my vitriol voided. The churning in my stomach has given rise to nausea—I’m revolted by the sordidness of what I’ve wrung out of Karun, appalled at myself. I step outside, leaving him slumped on the sofa. “I’m going for a walk while Sahib sleeps,” I tell the guards.
One of them insists on tagging behind—an order he’s received. I take the steps down to the garden and sit in a beach chair by the pool. The tiles have been baking in the sun since morning, but I take off my sandals to let the heat sear the soles of my feet. The only people I see are in the distance on the stage, preparing for the devotional songs later this evening. An elephant labors amidst them, ferrying poles in its rolled-up trunk. I turn my face up to the sky—I want the sun to sublimate the anger from my body.
Perhaps the sunrays do have healing properties, because through my torrent of emotions, I am able to latch onto a single steadying thought. For the first time, I can begin to unravel the years of questions jamming my mind. All the attempts that failed in bed, all the times I blamed myself. Here, in the middle of this war, in this hotel where we wed, I start to see my marriage with Karun in a revealing new light.
What I keep returning to is whether I want to continue with Karun, whether this is something I even can do. The Jantar Mantar, the snatches of intimacy, the stars and statistics—will they still be enough? The prospect seems uncertain, now that the mystery is gone, replaced by a raw openness. How will I forgive Karun, recalibrate the delicate balance of our alliance?
On the other hand, what is the alternative? What chance do I have to start again, with the war and all its looming threats? Surely with some work I can salvage enough of my earlier contentment. Screen off what happened, since it occurred before our marriage—not let it drive us off the track.
I’m pondering the question of trust, about how I can be certain Karun won’t go trawling after other men in the future, when my line of thought leads me down a less than noble path. Karun’s been faithful all these years, somehow keeping his cravings in check. Perhaps it’s a consequence of his low sex drive, but he’s never gone burrowing through the muck for anything else. The only reason he acted this time was that Jaz reappeared. I feel my indignation spike towards Jaz—not only for the blatant invasion of our marriage, but also for the way he hoodwinked me into leading him here. Should I be that devastated if he gets his just deserts? Wouldn’t we be safe if this stimulus never returned? Surely it’s in my interest—our interest—for the temptation of Jaz to vanish, once and for all?
Instantly, I feel mortified, ashamed of myself. I mean no ill, I rush to reassure the life forces of the universe, to clarify for any hovering spirits. Without Jaz’s help I wouldn’t even be here—it isn’t in my nature to wish harm on him or anyone else. I think of Karun’s desperation, of his anguished pleas to save Jaz, who’s apparently ready to sacrifice himself for our sake. Despite any lingering resentment, of course I will try everything I can to rescue him.
And yet, a corner of my mind can’t help make the guilty calculation: What chance do Karun and I have against the whole of Bhim’s apparatus? No matter what our tack, the odds of prevailing look grim—I try not to let this realization run wild in my brain. It’s not my fault Jaz decided to follow me, I remind myself—I should have nothing on my conscience if we don’t find him. Which wouldn’t necessarily signify something morbid—for all I know, Bhim could have secretly released him.
Returning to the room, I find Karun hasn’t moved from the sofa. I do not reveal my decision to stay with our marriage. Instead, I go to the bathroom and wash my face, then bring out a wet towel and hand it to him. “We have to see the Devi. She’s taken quite a shine to Jaz. If anyone can save him, she will.”
THE GUARDS EXPLAIN their orders apologetically. We’re allowed to descend chaperoned to the garden, but cannot converse with anyone. An audience with Devi ma is out of the question. They’ll let me talk to Anupam, but technically, even she should be off-limits.
Before they can change their minds, I hurriedly give Anupam my message. “Tell Devi ma my husband saw her beloved Gaurav taken prisoner in the hotel annex. She has to find him and free him at once or Bhim will have him killed.”
Anupam gets very nervous—she won’t remember the message, she has to report to the kitchen for work, do I really expect anyone will allow her up to see Devi ma? I tell her she can convey it to Chitra in that case, make her repeat the lines a few times, and send her on her way.
There’s little to do now but wait. The prospect of lingering in the room with the claustrophobia of what’s passed is too grim, so Karun and I sit on a bench near the base of the steps. He will not look at me—holding his head in his hands, he rocks his body to and fro silently. Every few minutes, he gets up to pace, like an anxious relative keeping vigil outside an operation theater. I try to summon up sympathy for him, but my own self-pity keeps getting in the way.
I expect the Devi to send for us, for Chitra to appear, or even Anupam to return and tell us what happened. But nobody comes. The hotel turrets turn gold, then crimson in the setting sun, their shadows lengthen over the pool and badminton courts. An attendant brings us tea, then a plate of biscuits and samosas. The sounds of dholak and musical tongs waft across the gardens—I notice an audience has clumped around the stage. Through the darkening twilight, a large white buffalo shape glides surreally past the backdrop of the farthermost hotel wall.
Just when Karun seems to have rocked himself into a t
rance, and I’m despairing that everyone’s forgotten about us, the guards approach. “They’ve called you upstairs. To Devi ma’s floor.”
THE CLERKS OUTSIDE the suite are as stubborn and nitpicking as before. They want to know who Karun is, where he has appeared from, why they weren’t apprised of his visit in advance. Our escort of guards fails to impress them—only when Chitra appears and answers all their questions, do they grudgingly allow us to proceed.
“I’m glad Gaurav was able to find your husband,” Chitra says, her tone sounding anything but pleased. “Though letting him go off with Guddi has created a big headache for us. Devi ma is very upset. She keeps asking for her Gaurav-ghoda. Without him, she refuses to eat or even talk to anyone.”
“But I sent you a message. Through Anupam. Didn’t you get it?”
“Yes, yes, the girl from the kitchen who ruined her sari. She came up to say that Gaurav’s been captured—somewhere in the annex, apparently. Despite all my warnings to keep away—now you see what happens to those who don’t do as I say.”
“But haven’t you informed Devi ma? All she needs is to give the order. To have Gaurav freed, no matter where he might be.”
Chitra makes a scoffing sound. “If only it were that easy. We’re talking about Bhim’s annex—despite what you might imagine, Devi ma doesn’t control everything. If that’s where Gaurav is, we can’t just blunder in—why do you think I kept pretending it was unoccupied? Guddi seems to have vanished as well, or I’d ask her what happened, exactly.”
“You mean you haven’t done a thing to look for him?” Karun cuts in. “All this time my friend might be getting killed and you’ve kept us waiting around uselessly? I’ve already told you what happened, what more do you need?”
Chitra stiffens. “I have bigger problems to worry about, whoever you think you might be. If your friend had listened to me and not gone in there, he’d be safe. Instead of endangering not only himself, but also poor Guddi—”
“If he had listened to you, he’d have never found me—”
“What my husband means,” I interject with a conciliatory note, “is that perhaps you could at least try telling Devi ma, to see if something might come of it.”
“Tell Devi ma?” Chitra laughs. “Do you hear that racket outside?” I pause to listen—muffled crashes issue from the terrace, interspersed with yells and screams. “That’s her, breaking every bottle and plate because Gaurav’s missing. Any minute now she’s going to decide to escalate into her Kali mode—demand a drink of human blood or try to set fire to the place. My job is to protect her, prevent her from getting to that stage. Goading her on about Bhim, when she can’t really do anything about him, will only get her more inflamed.”
Chitra shakes her head. “Besides, Bhim is the only one who can calm her down from this state. He’ll be here any moment now—in fact, he’s the one who ordered you brought up to wait for him.”
“Well, I’ve waited enough,” Karun says. “If you won’t tell Devi ma, I will.” Sidestepping Chitra, he strides towards the terrace. He dodges the guards and bursts out through the door, as Chitra, shouting for him to stop, gives chase. I follow as well, narrowly escaping the grasp of a Khaki who lunges my way.
The air outside smells of burning plastic—by the edge of the infinity pool lie the smoking remains of a beach chair. One of the potted trees is also on fire, which the attendants try to douse with water scooped out from the pool in a saucepan. Biscuits and pakodas and colorful orange laddoos float in the water, along with wooden trays, a plastic table, even an upturned throne bobbing amidst a swirl of red fabric. The terrace is littered with such a profusion of broken china that I wonder who could have supplied the Devi so many plates. At first I can’t locate her amidst the pandemonium of all the people running around. Then, behind a ring of devotees broken free from their guards, I spot the flash of a neck painted gold, the glimpse of a stunted arm.
We all run up to this human barricade, where Chitra tries to cajole the Devi out. The devotees chant and raise fists in response—the plates must be spent, because only a few odd pieces of cutlery come sailing out. A cry of pain shudders up from behind the cordon—through the shifting thicket of legs, I catch a glimpse of an attendant lying ashen-faced on the ground. Red stains the collar of his beige uniform. The Devi lies stretched atop him, her face buried deep into his neck, as if engaged in something carnal. The legs shift again, and now she looks up. Blood drips from her mouth, like from a feeding animal’s snout.
“Get them away,” Chitra shouts, and the guards get busy using their rifle butts to knock devotees down. But each time one falls, two more surge in, their passion so strong that first one, then another Khaki gets swallowed by the crowd. Somewhere in the melee, the supine attendant manages to crawl away, his neck awash in blood, as if punctured repeatedly by a fledgling vampire just learning to suck. I catch a glimpse of a woman disciple eagerly take his place—she unbuttons her blouse to bare her neck, a look of beatific anticipation on her face.
Eventually, though, the rifle butts prevail—the gauntlet is penetrated, the Devi exposed. Startled, she springs off her new and freshly bitten donor, landing cat-like, on her hands and feet, in a crouch. She hisses at the advancing guards, then rises to her full height and growls. “Careful,” Chitra cautions. “Remember that touching Devi ma is not allowed.”
“Yes, remember touching me is not allowed,” the girl mocks, lunging at the guards, forcing them to back away. She raises her good arms above her head, then flaps them up and down, as if chasing after birds or pretending to be a plane taking off. It’s a move I remember from Superdevi, used by the heroine each time she wanted to change herself into a particularly fearsome avatar. Nothing happens—the Devi girl remains untransformed. “Kneel down and touch your foreheads to the ground,” she commands, apparently undaunted by this deficiency in her transmogrification powers.
One by one, the guards and attendants obediently prostrate themselves, with the devotees (those not already knocked down) enthusiastically joining in as well. Chitra looks on tight-lipped as Devi ma steps on the nearest Khaki, mashing his face into the floor with her foot. She zigzags across the arrangement of backs as if playing a sprawling game of hopscotch. “Why are you still standing?” she demands, coming to a stop before us. She beats her arms vigorously—perhaps a last-ditch effort to give her metamorphosis a kick-start.
Chitra draws back a bit but Karun stands his ground. “Because I have something to tell you. I know where your Gaurav is.”
“Who are you?”
“His friend. The one he came to find. We were together when Bhim captured him.”
No sooner has Karun pointed the finger when Bhim himself walks through the terrace doors.
I’VE SEEN BHIM in photographs and videos, but never in person, nor in full regalia. Locks cascade from under warrior headgear, gold breastplate and armguards gild him as splendidly as Devi ma, the fringe of his tunic billows in a brocaded swirl. He strides across the floor, decked out like an emperor of yore. Despite quibbles about appropriate heft and height for one so powerful, the awe he commands is palpable. Khakis and devotees alike jump back guiltily to their feet, as if caught playing games in class by a roving principal. And yet his manner, as he bends down level with the Devi’s face, is gentle. “Is something the matter?” he asks.
I expect her to curse or stomp or whir her arms, but instead, she calms right down. “Gaurav-ghoda. You took my Gaurav-ghoda. I want him back.” She bursts into sobs.
“Gaurav-ghoda? Who’s Gaurav-ghoda? Bhim kaka doesn’t have any Gaurav-ghoda.” He turns to Chitra. “What’s she talking about? Didn’t I tell you to keep her in a good mood at all costs?”
Chitra starts to apologize, to explain about Jaz, when Karun cuts in. “Don’t believe what he says, Devi ma—ask where he’s hidden Gaurav.”
“Ah, so you’re the one filling her head with this. The wife no longer quite satisfies your urges, I see—still pining for your friend.” He leans down again t
o the girl and holds out his open arms. “The man’s right, Dev ma, forgive Bhim kaka for having forgotten. I do have Gaurav-ghoda, all safe and sound, more special to me than any guest. We’ll go see him at once, right after your show is done.”
“He’s lying, Devi ma, listen to me—he’ll have your Gaurav-ghoda killed, he told me so himself. Go right now and save your friend, or you may never see him again.”
But the Devi girl has already allowed herself to be picked up in Bhim’s arms. She snuggles against his chest, her stunted right hand playing with his locks, the nubs on the left stroking his neck. “He gave me a present,” she says, producing the empty Marmite jar from a pocket and forlornly turning it over for Bhim to see. “The chutney inside was so tasty, I licked it clean.”
“And you didn’t save any for Bhim kaka? We’ll get some more, don’t worry.” He kisses her forehead. “As for your Gaurav, I promise not to touch a hair on his head.”
“Don’t trust him!” In desperation, Karun tries to clutch at the girl’s shoulder to get her attention. She screams as his fingers slip past and wrap around her malformed appendage instead.
“How dare you touch Devi ma! I’ll have you put to death. Guards, you heard what I said. Right now, this instant, in front of me. Slice off his head.”
The guards look at each other and I nervously draw closer to Karun. Bhim starts laughing. “Now, now, Devi ma—that’s quite a drastic punishment. Perhaps you can show some mercy, because I need him and his wife tomorrow, at breakfast.” He lifts her up on his shoulders so that she sits straddling his neck. “Bhim kaka has never seen you summon Kali quite like that before—he’s very impressed.”
The praise pleases the girl. She waves away the Khakis from atop her perch and makes a big show of granting Karun a pardon. “It’s almost time for your appearance,” Bhim reminds her, patting her leg. “Today’s the big night, isn’t it, to speak your lines yourself? Bhim kaka hasn’t forgotten—let’s go get the gold on your face touched up and fit a microphone around your neck.”