Manil Suri - The City of Devi

“Well, we’re in Mahim now. If you don’t look Muslim, we’re both dead.”

“But there’s nobody around.”

“Not here, not in this no-man’s-zone—the Limbus probably cleared it out as a safety buffer. But ahead, there’ll be people everywhere. When the rioting started, Mahim is where thousands of Muslims fled.” I hand her my handkerchief. “We’ll figure out the sari later, but let’s start by wiping off your forehead.”

Sarita smears off her bindi and bridal dots and returns my handkerchief—the stain on the cloth looks a dark and clotted red. She runs her fingers nervously through her hair. “Won’t they still suspect?”

“Not if we say you’re my wife. Mrs. Hassan. That’s my name. Ijaz Hassan, not Gaurav. You must have guessed back at the hospital that I’m Muslim.”

Sarita looks startled, and I realize I may have committed a terrible blunder. What if Karun has mentioned me to her and she’s recognized my name? To my relief, it’s the thought of playing the begum to my nawab that flusters her. I remember how she fled when I first tried to talk to her in the hospital basement—who knew the Jazter came across as such a predator of female flesh? “Couldn’t I be your sister instead?” she asks.

That would certainly ease her worry. Except, even with her features half obscured by shadows, one can tell there’s no resemblance. About to be paralyzed once again by the conundrum of what Karun could have seen in her, I remember her looks won’t actually matter. The rules in this new Mahim decree that women remain properly veiled, so it’s fine to play my sister.

She’s not pleased when I explain this to her. “You mean I have to keep my face covered?”

“Actually, your whole body. We’ll look for some cloth to use as a burkha—to conceal your sari as well. The Limbus call the shots—I hear they go around punishing infractions with whips.”

We decide that she’ll be Rehana Hassan, my virginal and impeccably virtuous younger sister. Maybe not too virginal, since the story is I’m escorting her to rescue her ailing husband, who’s stranded in Bandra. “Where will we spend the night?” Rehana inquires.

“At the best boutique hotel in Mahim. We’ll pay my dear cousin Rahim a visit.”

ONCE MY PARENTS’ return shut down our research lab, I tried to find other venues to facilitate Karun’s experimentation. He quickly dismissed my usual haunts: the beach at Chowpatty was too exposed, the alley near the Taj too seedy (I didn’t even bother suggesting the Bandra station facilities). I tried reasoning with him, pointing out that the city didn’t offer anything more hospitable. Hadn’t he come to Bombay after reading about park activities on the internet? What, exactly, did he now expect? Surely his training had taught him to take risks, to show some spunk, if not for his own fulfillment, then at least for the cause of scientific research?

But he remained unmoved. The tale of the Jazter and the physicist might have ended there, had not the Mumbai University library come to the rescue. Although I had often looked up to see the gothic structure indulgently witnessing my plunge fests at the Oval, I had never before stepped into its august halls. The place was cool and silent when we entered that afternoon, stained glass windows soared towards the cathedral-like ceiling. The books looked appropriately old and solemn, dusty tomes with cracked binding locked away in glass-paned wooden prisons. We stumbled upon the door behind a cupboard in a deserted reading room. It blended in so perfectly with the dark wood of the walls that only the presence of two small bolts, also painted brown, gave any indication it wasn’t just another panel. Opening it and stepping over the knee-high base led to a tiny balcony which time (and the staff) seemed to have forgotten. The floor was filthy with bird droppings—in fact, several pigeons burst into energetic flight as we emerged (though a few continued cooing in the eaves, unconcerned). Two stories below us stretched the verdant greens of the Oval, to our right rose the university clock tower, Mumbai’s own Big Ben. “The heart of the city, and no one knows we’re up here. This is perfect,” I said.

Karun was scandalized when he understood what I meant. One by one, I addressed all his concerns. Yes, it was dirty, but nothing a blanket or dhurrie couldn’t cover. True, it was outdoors, but lying down, we’d be completely shielded from view by the balcony enclosure. No, I didn’t believe other patrons would find it or try to enter, but had he noticed the door had bolts on this side as well? Even as I ticked off these answers, I knew I’d never be able to lure Karun back.

So there remained only one option. “Did you get today’s Times of India ?” Bewildered by my question, Karun took the paper he bought every morning out of his rucksack. “It’s good they’ve bulked it up with all these tabloid supplements,” I said, as I opened up the sheets and spread them over the grunge at our feet. Before Karun could recover from his disbelief, I bolted the door. “Don’t worry—we’re just going to lie here for a minute so you can see for yourself.”

Despite his resistance, I managed to pull Karun down—he was too nervous of attracting attention to protest out loud. I lost no time unzipping his pants—once sprung free, he could no longer deny his arousal. He gasped each time my tongue found something else to probe, struggling briefly, unconvincingly, when I tried to turn him around. The paper rustled noisily beneath us, but only the pigeons heard. At the end, as he climaxed, Karun remembered to whisper out his moans.

After that, I had much more success in overcoming Karun’s decorum, his squeamishness. The dove nest became our love nest, but I pushed his boundaries to include other venues as well. During an uncrowded matinee at the Regal, we treated the empty last balcony row to action it probably had never before witnessed, either on screen or otherwise. At a secluded spot in Versova, north of Juhu, we attempted it while waist-deep in the sea—the waves kept ruining our rhythm, so we had to find a spot under the palms to finish. I even got Karun to give me a hand job while barreling down Marine Drive on the top deck of an empty 123 bus late one evening. The experience proved so memorable that it moved the Jazter to poetry: “Salt air flew as the Jazter blew,” “Sea breezes rushed as the Jazter gushed,” “Scenery whizzed as the Jazter jizzed”—there’s a haiku in there somewhere, if he can get the number of syllables right.

Karun’s amenability to these escapades surprised me. I could tell he enjoyed sex, but I didn’t get the impression he hungered for it—it would never be the all-consuming force that fueled the Jazter. Rather, it occupied a single drawer in the orderly portfolio of his needs, one whose replenishment he could control and monitor. Perhaps he viewed our trysts as experiments, contributions to a broader ethnographical study on the congregational patterns and mating behavior of homosexuals. More likely, what attracted him was the chance to set responsibility aside and regress to a reckless adolescence. “I feel like a kid again,” he said each time we assembled the train set or rode the roller coasters at Essel Park, and I think our undercover adventures generated a similar thrill.

I enjoyed these naughty bits as well, despite once having been enough with every other conquest in the park. What puzzled me was all the extra time I still expended on dates with Karun, given that I’d already prevailed in my shikari motives. We journeyed to far-off food stalls and Udupi restaurants to unearth the best vada-pav and idli-sambhar (he only had money for holes-in-the-wall). Some evenings, we strolled along Marine Drive, perhaps sharing an ear of roasted corn. On weekends, I lugged my books over to his hostel, so that we could sit together in his study hall and prepare for our upcoming exams.