The City of Devi: A Novel (10 page)

Fortunately, he found this uproarious, not distressing. We fell over on our sides, laughing so hard I had to release him. But he remained inches from my face, so with a cry of “Jantar Mantar,” I seized him again. At some point, I realized he had stopped laughing, that I was more tangibly aware of him in my mouth, that the tenor of our play had changed. He made a small gasping sound as he withdrew halfway, then slid in again.

Although I did not manage to bring him to climax that first time, I could tell he enjoyed it. As did I, especially after he reciprocated in kind (which I allowed only because my self-consciousness had been neutralized by the restaurant libations). One of the first things to do upon returning home, I decided, would be to invest in a case of wine. Though we both seemed so amenable to this new diversion that perhaps we wouldn’t need to be inebriated next time.

MAKING MY WAY ALONG
the tracks under the bridge at Opera House, I feel it. It couldn’t be, I think—there’s no electricity in the overhead lines. But there it is, under my feet—the vibration, the rumble, that can mean only one thing. I force myself to keep walking without looking back. When the sound is loud enough to fill my ears, when I can smell the smoke and taste it in my mouth, I finally turn around. Puffing towards me is an old steam engine pulling two yellow and brown train compartments along the rails.

“Sister, come,” I hear a female voice say as I jump aside onto the stones mounded against the tracks. A hand reaches out from the open door of the train—it is hennaed and bejeweled like that of a bride. “Come, I’ll pull you in, don’t be afraid.” Without knowing why, I begin to run alongside. I run faster and faster, and manage to latch onto the steps hanging from the door, then reach up and grasp the proffered hand.

5

THE TERRORISM RESPONSIBLE FOR ABBREVIATING OUR SIGHT
-
SEEING
in Jaipur wasn’t isolated. A series of attacks had continued ever since our wedding, with at least one set of bombs going off every two or three weeks in a different state. Other incidents of violence had increased as well—towns and villages all over India seemed afflicted by an epidemic of riots and rampages. Some explained this rising mayhem as a cycle of provocation and reaction engineered by the notorious Pakistani intelligence agency ISI, others pointed at Maoist insurgents or criminal syndicates. On the radio one day, I heard a news analyst trace the surge back to
Superdevi
, ascribing the blame to its climactic orgy of bloodshed.

As evidence, he enumerated several instances of theatergoers, inflamed after a show, running amok. In Ahmedabad, they broke into a nearby market and ransacked Muslim shops, in Jhansi, they beat up worshippers exiting a mosque, in Nagpur, they set an entire Muslim colony aflame. Right-wing politicians, recognizing the potential for a national conflagration, had joined forces to fan these sparks, he asserted—after all, hadn’t the same type of religious chauvinism, engendered by the screening of the Ramayana on national television a few decades back, eventually swept them into power? A year after
Superdevi
’s release, free screenings (using bootlegged DVDs) were still being organized in thousands of rural venues, each followed by a fiery religious discourse on the film’s supposed message of “purifying” the country’s population. The Hindu Rashtriya Manch had recruited and armed a half million villagers, posting them in strategic outposts all over India for a promised battle against non-Hindus to uphold the Superdevi’s will. “The entire country is a powder keg waiting to explode,” the commentator declared. “People call
Superdevi
inclusive just because the producers contrived to give her a Muslim sidekick. But next time you see it, count the number of Islamic villains she kills. Every listener should demand an immediate ban on the film.”

Bombay was the last place to call for such a ban. Not only were its audiences more sophisticated and harder to manipulate, but local entrepreneurs had dubbed Mumbai “City of Devi” to cash in on
Superdevi
’s
success. By now I saw the name everywhere—on giant billboards, across the sides of buses and trains, even as a flaming pink neon spiral down the airport control tower when we returned from Jaipur. The moniker fit well—not just because
Superdevi
took place in the city (with the lead actress Baby Rinky a real-life discovery from the Dharavi slums) but also because Mumbai’s patron deity Mumbadevi had the most screen time out of all nine incarnations. With both “Mumba” and “Ai” words for “mother” in the local language, which other metropolis in India could even come close to claiming (and capitalizing on) the mantle of the mother goddess’s city?

The idea proved to be a marketing coup. “City of Devi” tours, combining locales from the film with religious destinations, became so popular that even temples with only a stray idol or two of Devi dusted them off to vie for inclusion. Some managed to install video screens in their prayer halls, even THX stereo, from the inflow of tourist rupees (not to mention dollars, pounds, euros). Literary festivals, dance events, school essay contests, and the Taj Hotel’s “Best Avatar Costume” competition all bore the City of Devi logo: seven dabs of pigment (representing the seven original islands of Bombay) arranged into an artistically rendered image of Mumbadevi. The
Mumbai Mirror
published special pullout sections every Sunday on Mumbadevi myths—the demon giant vanquished by her, the devout Koli woman whose fisherman husband she saved, the time she brought fresh cotton to the city’s embargoed mills (this last one newly invented, like several others—Mumbadevi never having enjoyed top-tier goddess status, like Laxmi or Kali, before this). Anxious to regain advertising ground lost to McDonald’s, Pizza Hut came up with a computer mouse pad giveaway featuring the mother goddess smiling down benignly on various city sights. The promotion had to be hurriedly aborted when Muslims took umbrage at the image of Mumbadevi apparently blessing the entire Worli sea face, including the Haji Ali mosque clearly visible at one end.

In fact, several citizens’ groups wanted to scrap the City of Devi designation entirely, on grounds that it violated Mumbai’s secular spirit (my father was positively apoplectic). The organizers dismissed these qualms—the campaign had a cultural, not proselytizing, aim. It promoted commerce, the true religion of the city.

THE INTERIOR OF THE TRAIN
compartment is unlike any I have ever seen. The walls are painted pink, with crimson banquettes and sofas lining the perimeter—light sconces bloom rosily from next to the curtained windows. A Kashmiri carpet stretches across the floor, all the way to a closed door leading to the rest of the compartment. Dressing tables flank this door, one on either side, with pink dupattas draped over their mirrors. I feel I have clambered into the boudoir of a traveling courtesan, the parlor of a mobile house of ill repute.

However, the three women inside are dressed as brides, not ladies of the night. They shimmer in red saris, dots of decorative white pigment glittering along the borders of their faces, diamond pins in their noses sparkling promises of virginity. “Welcome,” the tallest one says. “I’m Madhu, and these are my fellow sisters, Guddi and Anupam.”

“Madhu did said we’re going to be Devi ma’s new maidens from tonight,” Guddi breathlessly announces. Her face is heart-shaped, her eyes spaced apart wide—she seems the youngest, no more than sixteen.

“Just see what they gave us,” Anupam adds, pointing to her necklace, laughing in excitement as she jiggles her earrings. “And this sari—I know it’s a secret, Madhu didi, but I have to tell her. It glows in the dark, just like Ooper-devi ma’s sari!”

“Yes, just like Ooper-devi ma, in the final scenes,” Guddi chimes in. “We’re the first maidens to get them! Maybe we should show her—turn off all the lights and pull down the shutters. Can we, Madhu didi?”

Madhu tells them no. “Don’t mind them. They’re very naïve—Mura recruited them from their villages only last week. I’ve had barely three days to give them their city training. We had another one, too—Nalini—but she couldn’t make it.”

“Poor Nalini didi.”

“She’d be so disappointed if she knew what she was missing.”

“It was that time of the month for her,” Madhu says. “It seems they don’t keep such good track of these things in the villages, unfortunately. Mura’s wondering what he’s going to do, since he promised to deliver three of them this week. When I saw you walking along the tracks, it came to me that perhaps you could—”

“Oh, that would be so terrific, if she could take Nalini didi’s place,” Anupam exclaims.

“Yes, could she? Could we make her our sister as well? Please, Madhu didi, say yes.” Guddi takes my hand in hers and presses it to her breast.

Madhu examines me closely, and frowns. “You seemed much younger on the tracks.” She speaks in an injured tone, as if I’ve misrepresented myself. “It’s hardly going to work if you look like their aunt instead of their sister—you must be already past thirty.”

“But we could make her up, Didi,” Anupam says. “All those powders and lipsticks you showed us. We could make her look young again by rubbing that magic cream into her skin—the one you said foreign memsahibs use when they’re aging.”

“And teach her to dance. Mura chacha wouldn’t be able to turn her down, then, would he?” Guddi raises her joined hands above her head and starts sashaying on the carpet, alternating between classical Kathakali poses and moves from popular films. “We can perform together for Devi ma, all four of us.”

Madhu is still dubious. “I suppose we might as well give it a try. At least she’s not wearing a mangalsutra—if Mura saw she was married, that would be it.” Before I can correct her, she hustles me towards the dressing table. “We better hurry—the train will be at Santa Cruz before we know it.”

My ears prick up—Santa Cruz is only a couple of stations after my destination. “Actually, if you could have the train stop at Bandra, I could get off there—”

“Oh, but that won’t be possible. The train driver’s in the engine—the only way to get word to him is by pulling the emergency chain.” Madhu says this with a regretful look, but can’t quite conceal the trace of glee that brightens her face.

“Besides, we have to prepare you for Mura chacha, Didi,” Guddi says. “This is not a chance you want to miss. He’s resting back there, behind that door—he’ll be getting up any minute.” She sits me down while Anupam starts shaking a vial of white liquid. “It’s good we still have Nalini didi’s outfit—we can dress you in it.”

Anupam starts to paint a series of white bridal dots along my brow, but I push her hand away. “I’m sorry. I really don’t know what you’re doing. Forgive me, but I don’t want to be dressed up for your Mura chacha—I just need to get to Bandra.”

Both Guddi and Anupam look at me in alarm. “Do you know what you’re saying?” Madhu exclaims. “It’s Devi ma we’re dressing you up for, not just Mura. The real Devi ma, the one who’s appeared at Juhu in person—not all these fakes people keep conjuring. That’s why we’re headed to Santa Cruz—haven’t you heard anything? You’re lucky to get this opportunity—only because Nalini can’t join us. Devi ma herself, you understand?—to serve as her personal maiden. Though in your case, not to be impolite, it would be more matron than maiden.”

“Please, Didi, you must agree,” Guddi says. “Devi ma can be very quick to flare up if you show her any disrespect. There was a girl in our village who made a joke about the idol at the temple—said she was much fairer, that Devi ma had too black a complexion. Within a week she was dead—not only her skin but even her eyeballs turned black. We watched as the jackals ate her body—even her parents weren’t brave enough to go near her after that.”

My skepticism must show, because Anupam starts nodding and insisting it’s all true. “Bhim kaka. Tell her about Bhim kaka,” she says to Madhu, her voice squeaky with urgency.

“You probably haven’t heard about Bhim, either, then? After all, he’s only the most important man in the city.” Madhu arches her eyebrows and stares at me until I nod—yes, I have heard of the leader of the HRM, almost mythically renowned for his bloodthirsty ways. “Think of this, then—Bhim himself, no less, has become a disciple of Devi ma. He challenged her at first, called her a pretender, but now falls at her feet at least once a week to beg her blessing. He’s dedicated every last man in his army to her, declared that without her will, even a leaf won’t drop in the city. In fact, who do you think arranges for this train, these maidens every week? It’s Bhim—Mura just works for him. So forget about trying to get off at Bandra—if you don’t fear Devi ma, at least worry about getting on the wrong side of Bhim.”

The train engine toots, and I see we have already passed the Bombay Central bridge. I can always slip away at Santa Cruz and make my way south, I think. Yes, I will audition for Mura, I say.

Guddi and Anupam squeal in delight. Even Madhu seems to thaw a little—as the other two open jars of makeup and ooh over them, she starts curling my hair with a brush. “Guddi, find that memsahib wrinkle cream. Anupam, get some water from the thermos and wipe her arms clean.” Her brush snags on grit, which she pulls out with a harsh tug. “Isn’t it difficult enough as it is, that your hair had to be snarled like this? What did you do, rub in handfuls of dirt?”

The girls want to paint my fingernails with polish, but Madhu declares it will take too long to dry. “Just do the cheeks and lips, and let’s hope for the best.” She arranges a necklace that cascades in a series of filigreed chains down my neck and threads heavy gold earrings through my lobes. They all stand back to look at me—my face feels caked with makeup. “She’ll look younger after you finish painting on the bridal dots.”

Once I’m all decorated, Madhu insists I put on the “magic” sari. “It really does glow, believe me, but only if it’s pitch-dark. In any case, your salwaar is filthy—do you really think Devi ma would tolerate anyone in such a rag?” I realize my mistake as soon as I change—neither the sari nor the petticoat underneath has a pocket, and I’m forced to wrap the pomegranate in the folds at my waist and hope for the best. As I sweat under the layers of heavy silk, Guddi and Anupam express delight at how bride-like the bright red color makes me look. Even Madhu grudgingly says that I no longer resemble their aunt. She draws the hem of the sari over my head and leads me to Mura’s door, as if it is my wedding night. Just before turning the knob, she pauses. “I almost forgot to make sure. This month—have you already had your flow? We don’t want to get Devi ma unclean.”

THE TENOR OF THE CITY OF DEVI
campaign changed abruptly. We awoke one morning to find that a phalanx of fifteen-foot Mumbadevi statues had invaded Mumbai. “It’s a showcase for all the tourists coming to our city,” the new campaign chairman, rumored to be an HRM man, explained. “So they can appreciate all the splendor and magnificence of Devi ma.” The statues, however, projected more belligerence than beauty—ominous warrior figures with coarsely fashioned features, set identically in concrete. Many of them popped up next to crowded Muslim localities unfrequented by tourists, where their towering presence could cause the maximum provocation.

Soon after, the HRM-allied municipality banned the sale of meat on Fridays in deference to the mother goddess. The very next week, it issued an order directing all public establishments, including places of worship, to immediately start displaying the City of Devi logo. When churches and mosques protested that they found its image of Mumbadevi offensive, the HRM chairman, Shrikant Doshi, responded personally. “Devi ma only reveals herself to those who believe. Anyone who claims to see her in the logo can’t then claim to be a true Christian or Muslim.” His thugs issued ultimatums around the city, beating up non-compliant mullahs and priests, vandalizing their mosques and churches. In retaliation, mobs set upon Hindu temples, stabbing two priests at Babulnath and destroying some of the outer shrines at Mahalaxmi.