The City of Devi: A Novel

by Manil Suri

  The day before I accompanied them to Ballard Pier to catch their ship, I found my father sitting on the floor of one of the musty rooms, his books and prayer scroll collection spread out around him. I recognized the well-worn Koran by Nafi that he still pored over for hours. “See this?” he asked, holding up a copy of An Emperor’s Bequest to Islam. “It’s from the first edition—they only published five hundred of them—that’s all they expected to sell. Your mother and I worked on it for eight years—this is the original copy the publisher sent us in the mail from New York.” He opened it to the dedication page, to the inscription I’d read many times before—“May the light always shine on our son, Ijaz.” “The only thing more thrilling to hold in my hands for the first time was your tiny body, just after you were born.”

  He closed the book and laid it down on the floor. “We always hoped you’d accept our gift to you, Ijaz. When you spurned it, when you showed such disdain for religion, we understood, of course. What child hasn’t experienced the need to rebel? But we felt so sad. Not because we’d lost a follower, but because you’d never see the beauty we had. All the wisdom contained in these texts, the answers to so many problems ripping us apart now.” He caressed the cover of an old textbook on comparative religions, then ran his fingers over the ornate Urdu letters on one of the scrolls. The dusty light shone around his head like rays from God.

  When he looked up, though, his face was haggard. “They’ve won, Ijaz. I don’t know what we’ll do. They’ve finally taken over Islam—hijacked it completely with their threats and bombs. All our work, all our effort, all our credibility—all lost. We have to go on trying, of course, but with everything that’s happened, who’ll believe us now?” I shifted uncomfortably, unable to think of words of comfort.

  “You know what makes me the most ashamed? Having to leave you in this state. Not knowing if we’ll ever see you again. I never thought I’d be the type to abandon my own son.”

  “I’ll be fine. No need to worry, it’s probably only a matter of a month.”

  He shook his head. “That’s been the problem, all along. We’ve never worried about you enough. Right from Switzerland, we’ve always left you to find your own path. You might have thought us disinterested, but our fault has been to trust you too much. Not interfering in your life, not asking what you liked, what you loved—we simply took it too far.” He held out his hand, and I put my palm in his. Had we enjoyed a different relationship, we might have hugged.

  “Take the physicist, for instance. We could have done so much more to encourage you on. Such a sincere boy, so smart, such a relief to see you bring him home again after all these years. I told your mother we had to give you your privacy. We thought we’d stroll around while the two of you were in the apartment, but the blackout made it impossible. We ended up drinking six cups of tea at that tiny café near Lotus.”

  “I had no idea—”

  “I hope you’ll see more of him once we leave. Tell the neighbors he’s your cousin—it’ll be much safer with two people living here rather than just one. Plus, your mother and I will feel much better knowing you’re with someone so close.”

  “But how did you know?”

  My father seemed genuinely confused. “How did I know what?”

  CHAOS REIGNED at the docks, the multitudes clamoring to get on the old freighter of such biblical proportions that they might have just learnt of the Great Flood. My father’s contacts had managed to procure two of the last tickets out for him, and moreover, avoid the trap of air travel which had essentially ground to a halt. Right up to the moment my parents entered the processing booth, people were offering them lakhs of rupees to buy their slots. I waited around afterwards, but couldn’t spot them in the crowd surging up the gangplank.

  Watching the ship launch into the churning grey sea, I realized my odds of ever seeing my parents again were small. The Jazter would probably never succeed in migrating, never have to test Arabia’s tolerance for shikar. Back at the apartment, I could still hear my father’s words ring in my ears—get Karun to move in, live with someone I loved (I’d decided that’s what he meant after all). We could always find somewhere in the countryside to take cover, should the city situation deteriorate too much.

  I called Karun—the first time since he’d left the flat in a huff eleven days ago. My news, that I would be staying behind longer in Bombay, dismayed him. “Why should you be so upset when you don’t care?” I asked, and he hung up. After that, he clicked off on all my calls.

  So I decided to confront him at his institute. Nobody challenged me at the entrance—in fact, the watchman pointed the way to the correct office when I said I had an appointment. Karun stared in disbelief as I shut the door behind me. “How dare you come here?”

  “I want you back, Karun. I want us to give it another shot. My parents have left for good, so we’d have the place to ourselves.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “I’m not saying to move in right away. Just spend the night with me. In the morning, you can decide what you want.”

  “You are mad.”

  “Could you just listen? I saw it in your eyes the last time, Karun, and I can see it again standing here right now, so it would be nice if you dropped the pretense.”

  I tried to kiss him, but he ran behind his desk and picked up the phone—either to call for help, or to use as a club in fending me off. “Get out of here at once.”

  I began following him, both on his way to work and back. Usually, I stood at the bus stop facing his building or the phone stall right opposite the institute, but sometimes I had to conceal myself before he ventured out. A few times I accosted him along the way—springing out of the abandoned police kiosk near the church, or the ruins of the bombed-out McDonald’s, to remind him of my proposed one-night experiment. He neither slowed nor spoke, and I resisted the urge to physically restrain him. Twice, I tailed him when he emerged from the building with Sarita, but at a more measured distance. (The Jazter had to grudgingly admit she carried herself presentably enough in person. At least for a librarian.)

  I ratcheted up the pressure by telephoning her at home later that week, and leaving a message for Karun to contact “Mr. Masood.” (After racking my brains on how to unearth Karun’s residential number, I had finally found it listed in the phonebook!) He called back that very evening. “Don’t you dare do that again,” he shouted, then began pleading for me to leave him alone.

  “You know what I want, Karun.”

  “I just can’t,” he said, and I could tell he was crying. “It’s not fair. I’ve worked so hard.”

  “A single night, that’s all I’m asking.”

  “Just let me go. You’re pushing me too far. You’ve had your chance.”

  Although I felt Karun’s anguish, and found it more than a little loathsome playing the stalker, I knew I couldn’t ease up. I left more messages with Sarita, and surprised Karun again at his institute. One evening, I walked right up as he waited to cross Wodehouse Road, and put an arm around his shoulder. Another time, I followed him into his building elevator, and forced my lips onto his after the other passengers got off at a lower floor. I even tried his doorbell while Sarita was away, but he refused to respond.

  And then, one morning, Karun didn’t emerge from his building. I thought he may have slipped by earlier than usual, but he didn’t show up at the institute gate that evening, either. Two days later, I glimpsed Sarita making a brief foray to the corner grocer and heaved a sigh of relief—they hadn’t packed up and left. She seemed distraught when I called later with my usual “Mr. Masood” alias. “He’s not here. I’ll let him know when he returns.”

  That night, a series of explosions awoke me at about one. The walls in my bedroom radiated orange, and I jumped out of bed, thinking the building was on fire. But the conflagration, I saw from my window, raged further down the road, in the direction of Metro cinema. For hours, the sky flashed and popped with bursts of anti-aircraft fire.

  The next m
orning, the air itself seemed different, as if a new and insalubrious season had swept in overnight to lay siege on the city. As I walked the deserted route towards Karun’s place, my instincts screamed for me to return to the safety of the flat with every step. Swathes of charred cotton and linen hung from the trees outside St. Xavier’s School—an explosion at the cloth merchant premises opposite had sent bolts flying everywhere. A band of people milled around the still-smoking ruins of Metro cinema. “Don’t go any further,” they warned. “The roads to the south are crawling with HRM snipers.” Trains had also stopped running, they informed me, making it impossible to detour around.

  More bombing raids followed, severely curtailing my surveillance trips to Colaba. By now, the threats of nuclear annihilation had emptied the city. The fact that I never actually saw the exodus puzzled me—when had everyone slinked off? My neighborhood remained desolate, its streets free of departing hordes each time I ventured out.

  There seemed little choice but to leave myself. The HRM had become increasingly brazen in their attempts to take over the area, and my store of rice had almost run out. The few times I’d managed to reach Colaba, I had seen no sign of Sarita, cutting off my last link to Karun. I’d gambled by staying and lost—pushed too hard and scared Karun off. It was time to give in to my self-preservation instincts and head to safety.

  But as I left the flat this morning, an overwhelming wave of nostalgia carried me south. I felt I had to make one final sentimental pilgrimage to Karun’s building, an homage of sorts. I stood there for an hour, looking up at his floor, trying to imagine the two of us ensconced safely behind the empty windows. How would our life have played out? What unreachable part of myself had I lost when I lost him? Just as I bid my last maudlin farewell, Sarita emerged.

  WE RECLINE SIDE by side in our bridal suite. Despite my vigorous protests that Sarita and I would be fine camping out on the dance floor with the other stragglers (the ones who didn’t leave on the ferry back to Mahim, like Zara), Sequeira has insisted we spend a few hours alone in this room. “It’s your wedding night, your suhaag raat. You’re going to need every bit of privacy we can muster. Not the best setup for what you’ll be up to, but I’m sure you’ll find a way.” I can still feel Sarita glare a hole through me as he laughs. “Sleep well. Though I suppose that’s hardly the point, is it?”

  The “suite” is little more than a storeroom behind the Air India set. Our bridal bed consists of two surplus airplane seats that Sequeira informed us didn’t quite fit in with the rest. “They’re first-class, so I couldn’t use them—too much of a recline.” He’s right—I’ve never been so comfortable in any plane flown in my life. Sarita seems equally at ease—fluorescing serenely, snoring softly.

  As I marvel at the absurdity of the situation (the Jazter and his slumbering liebling, on the night of their eternal union), a sudden thought sobers me. Unlike me, Sarita has been through a suhaag raat before. With Karun. Who must have lain by her side and gazed at her face with the same proximity as I do now. And then? They had kissed and caressed, most certainly. What had her lips felt like? Had he been aroused by the fragrance of her body?

  I lean forward to take a good sniff, but don’t smell anything. Try as I might, I cannot see Sarita through Karun’s eyes. I cannot picture him consummating their wedding night. Perhaps it’s my personal prejudices, the innate Jazter skepticism for Kinsey one through five. What if Karun’s the fabled perfect three? If through all our years together, he’s harbored a closeted ambidexterity?

  Except that wouldn’t explain his agitation at my reappearance, his attempt to flee from me. Or rather from his own cravings. The Jazter remains confident he could beat Sarita any day in desirability. Sadly, though, for the Karuns of the world, sex isn’t everything. What if he’s developed feelings for this glow-in-the-dark woman next to me? In addition to her wifely loyalty, chances are she has a pleasing personality. And then there’s the whole unfair issue of reproductive capability. Can the Jazter really be so cocksure of victory?

  It occurs to me that I have no strategy for tomorrow. What will I say to conquer Karun when we confront him side by side? How will I explain away all my lies to Sarita? What if Karun pretends not to know me?—will I unmask him in front of his wife? Not that she’s necessarily so unsuspecting. After our little laser joust, I have no idea how much she knows, what she herself might be plotting. I drift off to sleep watching her luminous breasts fall and rise.

  Sequeira wakes us at noon with a breakfast tray laden with eggs and tea, toast and biscuits. “For the newlyweds, the special Sequeira breakfast—believe it or not, fresh eggs from real hens.” He beams happily when I say protein is exactly what the missus and I need to replenish what we expended overnight. Frau Hassan scowls again—chalk one up for the Jazter, who at least has a sense of humor (though perhaps Karun isn’t the best one to appreciate it, given his own deficiency in that department). We fill up on the food, and pack away as many biscuit rolls as we can carry, since we don’t know when we’ll eat next. Sarita gives me the jar of Marmite for safekeeping, so that she doesn’t finish it all at once.

  Sequeira has a house at the northern edge of Bandra, and offers to drop us off in his car at Sarita’s “brother’s” place. I can see her itching to get away from me and go her own way, but of course she can hardly desert her new husband so brazenly. “He lives on Carter Road, near Otters Club,” she reveals reluctantly.

  The day has a whitewashed, almost Mediterranean look to it. Waves lap at the rocks shoring up the wall next to the road; the sea is refreshed, rejuvenated, since last evening’s low tide. “You really should settle down here if we ever get past the nineteenth,” Sequeira says. “A mixed couple like you won’t find any other place so welcoming.” He gives us a short history of Bandra (Bandora, as he says the island was called) from the time the Portuguese first built their church of Santa Ana. “With all the Christians we have, nobody cares if you’re Hindu or Muslim. It’s truly the queen of suburbs, the only one with such a cosmopolitan feel.”

  “But aren’t you afraid the Limbus will take over? Or, more probably, Bhim?”

  “They haven’t, so far. I have a hunch they might actually like us as a buffer in between. Not that we take any chances. War or no war, this is Bombay—money still rules everything. We pay them off—their men make the rounds of all the businesses every week.”

  We sit squeezed together in an implausibly tiny Nano, which Sequeira deftly maneuvers around abandoned cars and large chunks of debris on the road. An impassable pile of rubble from a bombing raid forces him to detour east. He points to a tall building on a corner, with sleek elliptical balconies that seem to float in the air, like a real estate agent might. “Nobody lives there, can you believe it?—all the people who’ve fled the city. You could walk right in and have your pick of empty flats for free. Think of when the war is over—these places worth millions of rupees.”

  “If they’re still standing. There’s a reason they’re so empty.”

  Sequeira nods. “True. The bomb. But nothing’s happened yet, and chances are nothing will on the nineteenth. That’s what I tell myself, in any case—that neither side will be so foolhardy. Just three more days of uncertainty.

  “Afsan, the ferry captain, thinks I’m crazy. He’s quitting on the eighteenth—making one final trip to Madh Island, then continuing on to some faraway place for safety. He keeps asking me to join him—he’s even offered to make Diu his destination. That’s where the Sequeiras are from, where my brothers and sister live. I might take him up on his offer—he certainly knows how to tempt me. Except my children here would be so dismayed, the ones at the club who’ve come to depend on me. I have this superstition that I can keep them safe as long as I keep the party going every night.” He kisses a small locket around his neck, then touches it to his heart.

  The lanes leading down to Carter Road all seem blocked—one by a fallen building, another by an overturned truck. Sequeira stops the Nano a few blocks away to let us out. “
Who knows what’s the best course of action—to stay or to flee? You’re a very inspiring couple. God be with you, whatever you decide.”

  Sarita turns to me the minute Sequeira has driven off. “I have no idea how to thank you for all your help. But now that it’s safe, I can really make it from here by myself.”

  “Nonsense. It’ll only take a minute. After all this time, I’d at least like to say hello to your husband.”

  After a few more attempts to shake me off, she reluctantly lets me follow her down the lane. We squeeze by the truck, which lies on its back with its wheels in the air, and find a flight of steps to clamber down towards the sea. I’m thinking some more of how Karun will react upon seeing the two of us when Sarita gives a cry and starts running. For an instant, I stand there dumfounded—does she really believe she can give me the slip this late in the game? Then I see the shambles of the waterfront—the twisted benches and utility poles, the charred, frondless palm trunks that line the yawning bomb craters. Otters Club seems to have vaporized; all that remains are a pair of tall metal gates secured with a profusion of chains and locks—a final attempt, perhaps, to keep the unwashed hordes out.

  We run past the ruins of a park whose jogging track, still marked into neat lanes with white paint, cants into the water like the deck of a sinking ocean liner. Sarita veers into the road, then comes to a stop beside a space-pod balcony that seems to have alighted fully intact from the jumble of ravaged buildings around. “Karun,” she shouts, pausing after each call to see if he will emerge waving at her from one of the listing windows or doors.

  But the wreckage remains silent. A wave crashes behind us, the water churning up a furrow in the land almost to the point where we stand. “It’s gone. It should have been right around here,” Sarita says, and in an instant, I feel harrowingly close to her, or at least to the panic rising in her face. She wanders down the road, still calling, and I follow.