Manil Suri - The City of Devi

UMA PICKED US UP at one and drove us to Karun’s flat in Colaba. We had decided to defer our honeymoon by two months, when I would accompany Karun to a conference in Jaipur. “Carry her over the threshold,” Uma said, “like they do in foreign countries.” She giggled as Karun looked for a place to put me down, and helpfully suggested the bed.

I’d been to the apartment before, and instantly fallen in love with the view of the sea through the windows. Karun showed me the bedroom cupboard he’d emptied. “If you have more clothes, I can clear out some of my shirts as well.” On the bed, under the covers, he’d spread the new sheets he’d purchased. “Uma said you liked roses, but this sunflower pattern was all I could find. They’re still a bit stiff—I only had time to get them washed twice.”

We spent the afternoon listening to his collection of classical CDs. “The sarod you hear is by the maestro himself, Ustad Ali Akbar Khan,” Karun said, fitting me with headphones as he played one of his favorites. “It’s the Chandranandan raga, his most famous composition.” Afterwards, he talked about the first nanoseconds after the Big Bang when the primordial soup coalesced into protons and neutrons, then showed me a simulated film on his computer of gold ions colliding. “What this tracks is the condensation process in reverse—the particles blown apart into a plasma of gluons and quarks.”

The flat came with Karun’s job—in fact, the entire cluster of buildings was owned by his institute, an annex to the larger housing complex down the road where Uma and Anoop lived. “I didn’t realize I’d be surrounded by scientists,” I exclaimed.

He looked confused. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I’m joking. My sister’s married to a scientist—and now, so am I.”

Just as we hugged each other, the doorbell rang. Mr. Iyer, a South Indian colleague from two floors below, stood at the door with his wife. They handed us a tiffin box filled with food: dinner thoughtfully packed for our first night. We spread out the containers on the small dining table in the kitchen after they left—in addition to dosas, sambhar, and idli, Mrs. Iyer had even cooked up some sweet upma with cashews and jaggery. Karun poured us each a glass of champagne from a wedding present bottle, then carefully stowed away the remainder in the rear of the fridge. “I usually don’t drink, so I’m not good at knowing what one says.”

“To us,” I said, raising my glass. We each took a sip.

Kishmish , my guilty-pleasure television serial, came on at eight, so we dined in front of the living room set, the dosas and champagne balanced in our laps. “I started watching it when I was fourteen, and haven’t been able to give it up since. I’d stay overnight with my friend Reena to study for our finals, and her mother would allow us this one break—she’d give us orange squash and potato chips.”

As I stood in the bathroom, it struck me how much I felt back at Reena’s. Karun and I had listened to music and talked about particle collisions instead of memorizing formulas and dates, but otherwise, it seemed the same. And yet, this was not some overnight visit. The doorbell would not ring tomorrow, my mother would not be standing there to take me back. I looked at my toothbrush leaning next to Karun’s in the cup, the soap dish he had wiped out for my bar of Lux, the color-coded red towel he’d hung for me next to his blue one on the rack, and felt a surge of affection. I was here to stay.

We again got no further than the previous night’s fondling. Perhaps the single glass of champagne really had incapacitated Karun, as he explained. He tucked us in amidst the sunflowers and went to sleep with my arm clasped against his chest.

All week, the aura of a sleepover lingered (especially once we took to wearing pajamas). Our lovemaking remained restricted to above the waist. Karun patted my thigh amiably each time I brushed it against his, kissed my hand whenever I let it stray. He offered frequent apologies (without specifying for what, exactly)—a fatiguing day at work, an unsolved equation rattling around in his head. “But you have no idea how much I’m enjoying sleeping together. It’s the best part of the day.”

One evening, on Uma’s prescription, I greeted Karun in high heels and a short black Western-style dress she lent me. But this vixen incarnation left him baffled, not aroused. “Isn’t it very uncomfortable to walk around in those shoes?” he asked, and I felt absurd enough to change.

“It can be difficult in the beginning,” Uma consoled. “Especially with someone who has as slow a fuse as Karun. Anoop suffered from it a bit too—do you remember how hard I had to work to pull him in, play Shakuntala to his Valmiki? It’s probably true of all these scientist types—always in need of polishing, always too distracted by their theories—they simply don’t spend enough time around women. Have you tried just talking about it?”

“It’s not exactly easy to bring up. Besides, he might freeze—I don’t want to confront him.”

“Then don’t talk, just act. Touch where needed. You have to do something before he convinces himself that cuddling is all you require of him.”

That night, as Karun lay shirtless by my side, I played with his trail of chest hair all the way down to his navel. I let my hand stray under the edge of the sheet across his waist. Slowly, I rolled back the sunflowers, then loosened his pajamas to uncover what nestled there. For a moment, I let him get accustomed to the sensation of being bare.

He kept his eyes closed, but shifted noticeably as my fingers began their exploration of his groin. His entire body tensed as I brushed against his manhood—the contact startled me as well. I waited a moment before trying a tentative stroke—this time, he emitted a truncated groan. I almost withdrew, but Uma’s voice urged me to continue. “One of the partners has to take an active role,” she said, “and in this relationship, it’s you.” Sliding my fingers around, I took Karun’s penis in my hand.

“Sarita,” he gasped, and I looked at him. His face was bloodless, his lips chalky, his eyes filled with panic. “Stop. I can’t,” he said, and instantly, I released him.

“I can’t,” he repeated, and pulling the sunflowers up to his neck, turned towards the edge of the bed.

EMERGING FROM THE canteen stairwell, I notice a man on the aquarium steps, trying to peer into the lobby. Hearing the door shut behind me, he turns around. “There you are, thank goodness.” He comes down the steps towards me. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I reply warily. He speaks with a slight accent, which I can’t place. His features look keenly familiar—the short, impeccable hair, the hint of smolder in his eyes. I feel I should be able to recognize him—is he one of Karun’s work friends?

“I lost you. When the guns started firing, you ran too fast. I walked all the way to the overhead bridge near Chowpatty, then thought you might have ducked in here and came back. I’m so glad.” He pauses. “You don’t recognize me, do you? I’m Gaurav, from the hospital. The one you saved? I know it was dark.”

“Gaurav?”

“Yes, please call me that. I thought I’d repay you somehow.”

“You’ve been following me?” The idea makes me feel vulnerable, exposed. Should I try to run back up the canteen steps? Which presents the greater danger: this man’s stalking or Hrithik’s adolescent fantasies?

“I just wanted to make sure you weren’t attacked. All the hoodlums around in khaki—it’s the least I could do, I said to myself. I tried to ask you before in the hospital where you were going, but you misunderstood, perhaps. I overheard you inquire about trains from those dressed-up people and just wanted to say I was headed to the suburbs as well.”