Manil Suri - The City of Devi

His explanation sounds plausible enough—perhaps I’ve been overwrought in my assessment. He doesn’t come across as a sexual predator, even if I can’t be absolutely certain he’s not lying. “You saved my life,” he continues. “Let me do this to reciprocate. Ensure you get to your destination, accompany you for safety’s sake.”

I’m taken aback. War or no war, he’s still a stranger, his offer plainly presumptuous. “I’m fine, thanks. I don’t need an escort.”

“I would consider it my privilege, my duty—”

“No, really. The duty was mine, to save you—you don’t need to repay me. I’ve lived in Mumbai so long—believe me, I can take care of myself.”

Before taking my leave, I make sure he understands he is not to follow. I look back a few times to check if he obeys, but cannot spot him through all the people around. I am struck by the throng—the all-clear sounded barely ten minutes ago, and already Marine Drive is swarming, as if the stadium at the other end has just let out after a cricket match. Wasn’t the city supposed to have emptied out?—where have all these people been hiding? A multitude of heads stretches all the way to Chowpatty, like pixels packed in a photograph.

I immerse myself amidst these pixels, their flow carries me along. Smiles and laughs abound—people wave flags like on Independence Day, blow paper horns. Perhaps their jubilance marks the just-survived attack. In the distance, the footbridge Gaurav mentioned rises high above the road and adjoining tracks. THE NATION IS ON THE MOVE, a billboard across it for Nike footwear proclaims, in giant letters the colors of the national flag.

Ahead, the crowd bunches up to detour around another crack in the ground. Jets of water shoot spectacularly towards the sky as the sea tries to squeeze in. As I round the tip, a boy comes running up to hurl himself over the chasm. A wave crashes against him in midair, but his momentum carries him across. He lands and raises his wet arms in triumph—the onlookers applaud. A giggling young lady follows, her sari puffing up under her as she leaps through the air.

At the swim club, a crush of humanity forms a knot at the gate. I think of all the evenings spent there taking lessons from Karun. This is hardly the time for a swim—why are all these people trying to get in? Then I realize they’re attracted by the vantage of the diving tower. Masses cluster precariously on the platforms, a thick line winds up the stairway. I watch to see if anyone will jump like Karun and me, but the clumps remain intact.

I near the footbridge, teeming with people as well. Hands and arms stick out through the gaps around the billboard and lob objects into the crowd below. A bottle explodes on the pavement nearby. A rock hits a woman who collapses to the ground, holding her bleeding head. I manage to pass under, unharmed.

Curiously, no projectiles fall on the other side of the bridge. A row of people crowds up high behind a second Nike billboard, faces craning towards the Chowpatty sands. I forge ahead through the crush on the ground, wondering what makes the aerial spectators so spellbound. I begin to see loudspeakers tied to lampposts—the sound of chanting fills the air.

A large cloth sign announces a yagna, a great holy fire ceremony. “Rise, O great Mumbadevi, to save your city,” it proclaims. The list of sponsors underneath includes several temples and religious groups, but not the HRM. In fact, I can spot no Khakis in our midst. The men blowing whistles to direct the crowd wear no uniforms, no saffron bands adorn their necks.

And yet, saffron is everywhere: flags fluttering from poles, kiosks sprouting from the sand, a banner that has come loose and undulates in the wind—the beach has been inundated by a saffron wave. Behind the kiosks and a bank of generators lies the stage. It rises thirty feet into the air, supported by a cluster of bamboo legs, like a giant cricket hovering over the multitudes below. Stairways spiral up the legs—as I watch, men clad in loincloths ascend and seat themselves in orderly rows on the platform. The sun reflects off something—perhaps the white Brahmin’s threads across their chests.

The scene reminds me of the Olympics—I wait for an athlete to go running up and light a flame. But the prayers commence and I realize the fire must already be consecrated. I have witnessed yagnas before, but on a much smaller scale. Mentally, I trace the actions of the priests as they consign camphor and ghee and saffron into the holy flame.

Musicians sit on either side of the platform, the tearful sighs of their shehnais rising to the heavens with the invisible smoke and the prayers. Will these offerings prevail upon Devi to take our side and vanquish the enemy planes? Or will she send in the sea to swallow the city—water exploding up through fissures like the ones already cracking the Marine Drive pavement?

“I come to you with a message of peace,” the voice taking over from the priests on the loudspeaker announces. “We have gathered to end this war, to heal the differences between us, to appeal to you, O great Devi ma.” A coalition of temples has organized this event, the speaker explains, to counteract all the divisive forces at play in the city and the country. “We are your true followers—come before us and reveal your wisdom, your mercy.”

I have no time to stop and listen—my goal is to cross the street and be on my way. The Nike footbridge is too far behind, so I start inching towards the aerial overpass ahead. Sweat soaks through shirts and saris and rubs off on my skin. A child clutches at my hand, and I instinctively check to make sure the pomegranate is still in my pocket.

It takes me thirty minutes to reach the foot of the overpass, and another fifteen to push through the spectators and climb up halfway. How can the bridge withstand the weight of so many people? They listen raptly as the speaker exhorts them not to pay attention to rumors. “The real Devi ma has not yet descended. She is nothing like what you might have seen in the movies. She can only appear at a proper temple, not a godforsaken spot on a beach as some claim.”

The first shouts over the loudspeakers are faint, and seem to emerge from just within range of the microphone. I notice the smoke is now visible—a thin black plume rising from the stage. For an instant, it strikes me that this could be part of the ceremony—perhaps the platform itself is to be burnt down in the finale. Then figures begin to leap off, while others try to scramble down the bamboo framework. The tarpaulin border hoisted over the edge starts smoking, then catches fire with a speaker-amplified pop. I spot flames—small bursts at first, leached of color by the sunlight, and then large sheets that roll around canvas and leap ambitiously into the air. Within seconds, the platform is engulfed. Bamboo, tarpaulin, steps, and priests all vanish behind a curtain of orange—the stage becomes a giant seaside funeral pyre.

From where I stand, the ensuing horror unfolds like a carnage scene from a movie epic. The crowd surges away in waves as debris rains down flaming from the platform. Fueling the panic are the loudspeakers, which continue functioning longer than they should, broadcasting the grisly fate of those trapped on stage. By the time the fire finally cuts off their screams, an enormous stampede has been generated. I now hear the cries of people on the ground being trampled under the feet of the roiling mob. The surge is so strong that its edges push up the bridge. A few onlookers pitch over the sides, but I manage to hold on.

Finally, the panic abates. Mangled corpses litter the beach, a smoking hulk remains where the platform stood. People start dazedly making their way down. I almost stagger along with them before remembering I’m trying to cross over. More bodies lie twisted on the other side of the bridge—my knees feel weak as I pick my way across the sidewalk. I pass the New Yorker restaurant, where Karun and I sometimes had coffee after our swim. The Statue of Liberty cutout still stands intact, though blood spatters its ice cream cone torch.