The City of Devi: A Novel (35 page)

“Good show,” Bhim says. He inhales deeply, as if pleased to be breathing in smoke from the air. “See, that wasn’t too traumatic. Stop looking so horrified—don’t you realize this means you’re free? One day you’ll thank me—competing with such a hobby is not so easy.”

The guards try to lead Karun back, but his legs give way under him. I rush over as they prop him up against a ledge by the pool. I cradle him in my arms, tell him neither he nor I could have done anything. But my efforts barely penetrate. “So little time. We had so little time together,” he keeps repeating.

Holding his stricken face between my hands, I see what he has managed to hide so well even this afternoon (or is it simply something I have refused to acknowledge?). The bond I ascribed to sexual attraction is deeper, more threatening. Despite the horror of what has passed, I want to ask: What if it had been me in the fire instead? Would his expression be as tortured, his devastation as complete? Or would his grief be more sculpted, staid—a bereaved spouse’s dutiful mourning? “So little time,” he says again. Hasn’t he spent even fewer years with me?

But then his suffering overwhelms me. I find myself dissolve in his anguish, cry for the love he has felt and lost, for the love I have for him, and for the love, even if not as strong, I know he has for me. I hold him close to my body, kiss his face repeatedly, tell him I’m there to comfort him, I will always be by his side. Somehow, I think, we will put Jaz behind us, find a way, no matter how painful, to focus again on the two of us.

I’m wondering where we go from here, what tentative steps we take into our future, when the first shots ring out. The Devi screams, as Das, accompanying her back from the turret, slaps his neck as though bitten by a gnat, and crumples.

JAZ

16

THE FIRST THING I DO WHEN SARAHAN
’
S MEN PULL ME OUT IS
retch. My tongue feels coated with gunpowder, my throat with fear—I double up on the ground, trying to expel the taste, the smell. Sarahan, meanwhile, gets busy smacking the person who unties his hands. “What were you waiting for? A few more minutes and I’d be a tandoori chicken, roasting in the air.”

“Forgive us, sahib—the guards we managed to bribe, but they told us Das usually stops by just before the end.” The man looks down morosely at his feet, trying not to flinch as Sarahan rains down more slaps.

Although the small courtyard in which Sarahan delivers his whispered upbraiding (right next to Birbal the buffalo) is, indeed, unguarded, there’s no point tempting fate. “Couldn’t we continue this somewhere else?” I suggest.

We repair to the nearby emergency stairwell, where Sarahan unveils the grand plans for the revolution. “Kill Bhim. It’s not terribly complicated.” He seems to have recovered enough from the near-death ordeal to affect his earlier nonchalance. “Have you handled a gun before?” he asks, and I nod vigorously—a technical truth, given the way the question is phrased. “Good. I want you to be the one to do it.”

“You want me to—?”

“Don’t worry, we’ll back you up, shoot from our hiding places as well. I’ve thought things over and it really makes the most sense. We can simply blame it on a Muslim infiltration this way—we won’t have any problem afterwards rallying Bhim’s men.” He hands me a revolver weighing twice as much as the pistol I’ve stashed in Guddi’s bathroom. “Of course, they’ll probably want to kill you, tear you apart and chop up your limbs. But you have my word, I’ll personally make sure you escape with your friend.”

Sarahan flicks his eyes between the revolver and my face, as if aware of the risk he’s taking with the firearm, of the calculations spooling in my brain. Except he’s wrong—I don’t have the slightest intention of trying out my marksmanship on him. I stuff the gun into my waistband—with the most macho swagger I can muster, I tell him to lead the way.

We take the steps up to the Devi’s level. A single follower awaits us on the landing, instead of the army I expect. I’m no expert at coups, but surely four people (five with the newly recruited Jazter) is a bit skimpy. Sarahan brushes this number off. “They’ll join us in swarms. Once you’ve slain Bhim.”

We slip in during Devi ma’s show, right as Karun races along the pool to save me (the Jazter’s insides wrench with emotion). Our deployment leaves much to be desired—all five of us clump around the entrance to the stairs. The plan seems so rickety, so harebrained, that I almost make a break for it, dive back into the stairwell. But Sarahan and his men are too jumpy for me to take the chance. They gesture at me to advance, and when I don’t, one uses his gun to prod me along.

Das drops as soon as the shots start flying. Sadly, I fail to discharge my gun yet again, ducking behind a storage tank as soon as a volley of fire comes our way. When I emerge, one of Sarahan’s men is dead, and the rest (including Sarahan himself) have fled. “Don’t shoot,” I say, and raise my hands into the air.

They bring me to Bhim, for whose unscathed condition the Jazter head must surely hang in shame. At least we got Das, I think, but his wound turns out to be no more than a skin graze. Both of them express astonishment—not only at my escape from the buffalo pyre, but also at my apparent intrepidity at masterminding this coup (a failure, but still). Then they remember Sarahan. “He’s the one behind this, not you, isn’t it?” Bhim asks, and I’m only too glad to relinquish credit.

Which doesn’t quite save me, since they start discussing the relative merits of immediate execution versus torturing me for information first. Das wants to investigate whether I’m part of some larger Muslim conspiracy, but Bhim deems it a waste of time. “We already talked to him, didn’t we?—at the annex with his friend. Just do away with the gandu—he didn’t seem to know anything back then.”

By now, Karun has realized I’m still alive—I see him run up, Sarita in tow, and struggle to get through the encirclement of guards. Bhim notices too, pointing him out to Das with a tilt of his head. “See—a gandu, nothing more, just like I said. Surely if it were a plot, they’d send a proper man.” He inquires if they have more buffaloes ready. “Go find Sarahan—I like them stuffed in as a pair. Two sacrifices in one night—the crowd will be thrilled.”

Since I’ve just escaped the hospitality of Hotel Birbal, these new preparations make me very uncomfortable. As the dread seeps back in, I catch my name called out in a voice I never thought I’d take such delight in hearing again. “Gaurav-ghoda? Where were you? I’ve missed you so much.” Devi ma squeezes through the human cordon surrounding us and attaches herself to my leg. “You promised we’d spend the day together, but I waited and waited after pooja and you never came.”

Her thick girl-neck has never felt so welcome as I lift her up against my body. The laddoo-fed kilos seem to simply evaporate. I nuzzle my nose against her belly, kiss every digital nub, every cherubic appendage. She smiles at me happily. “What were you talking about with Bhim kaka? What’s happening?”

“Your Bhim kaka wants to kill me,” I announce, and make a sad face. “I escaped from the buffalo you just sacrificed, so now he wants to stick me in another and have you also set that one aflame.”

“Why would he want to do that?”

“I don’t know. Ask him.”

“He’s lying,” Bhim tries to scoop the girl out of my arms, but she evades his grasp. “Tell me, would you rather trust Bhim kaka, whom you’ve known all this time, or him?”

Perhaps it’s because I’m holding her—the reassurance of my arms, the sincerity transmitted with every thump of the Jazter heart, that she picks me. “Gaurav-ghoda is my friend. Don’t anyone dare touch him.”

Seeing Bhim bow, I decide to press my advantage. “Also, if it pleases Dev ma, could she tell him to release my friend?” Grudgingly, Bhim nods, and both Karun and Sarita break free through the ring of guards.

“And my gun. He took my gun. I need it back to protect you, Devi ma.”

As expected, Bhim balks, which causes the girl to flare up. “Do as Gaurav-ghoda says,” she commands. Bhim pretends not to hear, which excites her so much that she scrambles out of my arms onto the ledge I’m standing next to. “Didn’t you hear me?” she shouts, stomping her foot. “Return his gun at once.”

Bhim bows again, even deeper this time, then straightens. “Forgive me, Devi ma. But this has gone far enough.” With a quick swoop, he picks her up by her shortest arm.

The girl screams as he swings her at the end of her stub. She tries to claw at him, but Bhim holds her further away from his body, then walks to the infinity pool and dangles her over the water. “Does Devi ma know how to swim? It would be such a pity if she drowned.” He dips her feet in, then dunks her up to the waist. She kicks and thrashes and tries to wrap all her appendages, like a panicked squid, around his arm. “Will you behave yourself if I set you down?”

Her eyes streaming tears, she nods. But she spits in his face the instant he deposits her on the ground. Then she kicks him in the shins and runs. “Guards! Attendants! Quick, get him, someone.” The maidens all look stricken, but none of them makes a move to respond. “Didn’t you see how he treated me? Kill him at once.” Anupam steps forward to help, but freezes under Chitra’s disapproving glance. “It’s my order. From your Devi ma.” Still shrieking her commands, she trips and falls.

Bhim takes his time lumbering up to her. “Did you really think you run the show here? Go ahead, shout all you want.” He stands over her, smiling indulgently at her cries, then bends down and slaps her hard. She screams throatily as he lifts her by the hair, then tries to crawl away whimpering, after he punches her in the mouth and lets her drop. “Do you understand now? Most
respected
Devi ma?”

He’s about to hit her once more when the rumble from the devotees distracts him. They’re milling around, riled at their devi’s treatment, their outrage barely contained by the guards. Bhim lets off several shots in the air to calm them down. “Look, she’s fine,” he says, lifting the girl to her feet and trying to wipe away the blood. “They’ll have her fixed in no time.” He thrusts her into the weeping maidens’ arms.

Unfortunately, the gun he’s fired seems to jog his memory. “Ah yes, the Muslim. We were about to do away with you, weren’t we, before the interruption?” He checks to see if the gun still has bullets, then waves the guards closest to me away from my body.

Suddenly, I feel very exposed. The wind blows in from the sea to swirl around my frame, highlighting its vulnerability, its isolation. “Ordinarily, I’d prefer something with a little more flair, but packing you back in a buffalo would take much too long.” He points the gun at my chest, and I feel my stomach contract, my breath stop. It seems too soon, too abrupt—I can think of nothing to say to give myself even another few seconds, nothing to do except stare paralyzed into the point-blank muzzle.

“Jaz!” Karun runs up and pushes away Bhim’s hand just as the gun discharges.

The bullet goes off into space. Karun falls against me, and I hold him in my arms and look into his face—in that one instant, I witness something I’ve never known, never even believed existed. The love I see there, the lips mouthing my name—this is what people live and die for, what they spend their entire existence seeking. It is the most intimate moment we’ve shared, conveyed entirely through touch and gaze, with nothing left to articulate. What good deeds did the Jazter perform to deserve such a moment?

Then I hear Bhim shout to get Karun off me, as Sarita, screaming, flings her body at us. Das tries to pull her away, the guards join in to separate the tangle, and at the edge of this drama, I notice the Devi creeping up on Bhim. This time, she carries her trident—with a yell, she plunges it with all her might into his thigh.

Bhim bellows in pain—so loudly, that for a moment, we all stop. The girl steps back to gaze regally at him—a devi staring down at her vanquished demon in triumph. But then he pulls the trident out, and she retreats a few paces. He raises the weapon and aims it at her—she gives a yelp and scurries away. The crowd parts to let Bhim through as he limps after her. A guard comes to his assistance, but he waves him away. “Come back. Bhim kaka has a lesson to teach you.” He hurls the trident after the girl, but it clatters harmlessly across the terrace.

“Help,” Devi ma screams, trying to get to the clamoring devotees sequestered near the audio shed. But the guards have learnt Bhim’s trick—they fire their weapons into the air to tamp down the group’s fervor. The shots drive the girl away—she veers instead towards the path leading to the turret. Her cries trail off as Bhim chases her past the potted palms, through the gate, down the walkway next to the parapet.

Abruptly, the speakers come alive—the transmitters are still on, and the Devi’s microphone has drawn into range. “Help,” she says. “Help me, he’s trying to kill me.” Her words roll across the terrace, sweep over the plants and the pool, reverberate from end to end. The devotees shout and strain in rage, but can’t break free of their cordon. By now, despite his injury, Bhim has closed in—used to being toted to and fro, the girl keeps tripping, her puffed cherub legs unused to maintaining this pace. “Help. Help me, I’m being killed.” With Bhim almost upon her, she clambers onto the parapet to try to get away.

He latches onto her foot—the microphone is sensitive enough to pick up his words. “So this is why I brought you here? This is why I saved you from your slum, you witch, you chudail?” He tries to pull her down, but she kicks him in the head with her other foot and scrambles away. Her screams echo across the entire beach, broadcast through the crowd below by the speakers stationed everywhere.

He catches her again and tries to throttle her. Her limbs thrash around, her head hangs backwards over the parapet between a pair of crenellations. The amplifiers blazon every sob she emits, every wheeze, every terrified grunt. Her choking pleas roil the assembly below. A stream of debris starts raining down on the parapet—stones, shoes, coconut shells—anything people can lay their hands on. One of the projectiles strikes Bhim and he lets go, pressing both hands to his forehead.

Devi ma stumbles away screaming. The crenellations impede her—she almost falls off several times negotiating their treacherous topography. Reaching the turret, she realizes she has nowhere further to flee. She flaps her arms uselessly, then spots the levitation machine. She squeezes into it, pulling at its supports, wrapping its straps around her neck and torso, as if hoping it will magically transport her. But she remains earthbound. “Help me please, help your Devi ma,” she pleads to the mob below. Thousands of hands rise towards her, some with garments stretched like nets to catch her should she jump. She peers over, looking for a balcony or ledge to break her fall, but the turret has none. With Bhim only steps away, she inches up to the very edge and mewls.

She waits too long. Bhim nabs her before she can jump, hoisting her into the air like a puppet at the end of his arm. By now he has seen the turmoil below, picked up on the wrath of the crowd. “Look, she’s just an ordinary girl, that too from the slums. She’s not a real devi, so no need to work yourselves up this much.”

His words are faint, and the girl’s screams almost drown them out. He sets her down to rip off her microphone—she seizes the opportunity to squirm out of his grasp. But she’s not fast enough—he catches her by the arm and spins her around, then slams her headfirst into the parapet stone. The microphone captures the sound of impact impeccably, amplifying it for the benefit of the crowd.

I can feel the outrage from the beach rumble under my feet even where we stand. Bhim’s response is to forge on. “I’m the one who found her, installed her here for you to worship. The miracles, the fireworks, it’s all a show—I even write the lines she mouths.” He holds her aloft again, her head lolling like that of a freshly slaughtered calf. “A true devi wouldn’t be so helpless, would hardly allow me to smack her around. If she’s real, where is her holy power, why doesn’t she strike me down?”