Manil Suri - The City of Devi

He looked so dejected that I pulled him to myself, nestling him between my thighs. I buried my nose into his hair to identify the different curry spices, like one might the bouquet components of a fine wine. His fingers smelled mostly of garlic and ginger—kissing them, I noticed the tips stained yellow with turmeric. “It’s fine. I enjoyed our little chemistry experiment. Plus it was fun going shopping.” I put my arms around his chest and rocked him from side to side.

Sitting there, with Karun in my lap, I caught a glimpse of a future I could never have imagined. Karun and the Jazter, snug and domesticated like this, rocking gently through life. I almost burst out laughing, but then stopped. Was the picture so corny, so absurd, so completely removed from the realm of possibility? What future did the Jazter see for himself, exactly? Would his days of shikar continue indefinitely, or did he dare look beyond the beaches and the train stations and the alleys? Could he, in some part buried deep within, secretly crave conventionality? (Or was that too much of a heresy?)

I kissed Karun’s neck. The future, as always, felt too abstract to worry about, too nebulous, too otherworldly. What mattered was the here and now. The feel of Karun’s body as he reclined against me, the spices perfuming his hair and resting in their jars in the kitchen, the defiant chicken on the counter waiting to be subdued some more in the morning. I felt grateful for each magical moment we’d spent playing house together, grateful for the four days we still had left.

AS YUSUF SLIPS INTO THE DARKNESS OF MAHIM, I TRY TO PREPARE Sarita for meeting my cousin. “He owned an enormous flat at Chowpatty which he sold to buy this hotel. You might find him a bit—um— unusual .”

Rahim opens the door himself, and shrieks upon recognizing me. “My sweetie. My little Jazmine. What a surprise. After all this time, you’ve finally remembered your Auntie Rahim.” I’m unprepared for how rotund he’s become in the decade or so since I last laid eyes on him. His cheeks have acquired an unworldly ruddiness, his lips an ethereal gloss; his mascara addiction, so startling at the party at his house all those years ago, seems decidedly out of control. Could this have really been my first heartthrob, the one who presided over the Jazter’s mizuage ceremony, plucked the virginity diamond from his nose? Although thinking back, it really was more the other way round.

“Well don’t just stand there, come to me.” He wears so much attar that fumes rise from my shirt after we hug. I finesse my lips out of the way as he tries to kiss me. “Oh, you’re shy because we’re not alone.”

Sarita watches transfixed—somewhat worrisome, since this is hardly the place to pick up her sorely needed makeup tips. “And what gorgeous creature do we have here? All dressed up as a bride for the Pandvas, no less.” Rahim theatrically undrapes the sari edge from her head and sharply intakes his breath. “Naughty, naughty! The leopard’s a bit full-grown, isn’t he, to be changing from spots to stripes? Or should I say from meat to fish?” He cackles noisily.

“This is my friend Rehana.” I try to muster my most formal tone. I can sense Sarita abuzz with questions about Rahim and me, but I avoid looking at her. “Her husband is sick in Bandra so we’re going there to bring him back to Mahim. The Hindu getup is a disguise, to get her past Bhim’s goons.”

“Ah, a damsel in distress. You’re reuniting her with her true love and all that. Our little Jazmine has grown up to become a humanitarian. Forgive your Auntie Rahim her dirty mind if she wonders where your interest lies in all of this.” He notices the tablecloth Sarita clutches to her chest. “Don’t tell me that’s supposed to be her burkha.”

“It’s the best we could do on such short notice—we bought it on the street off an urchin.”

“Oooh—it’s ghastly. Auntie can’t bear to look at it. Wait here.” He disappears up the stairs and returns a moment later carrying a purple number with a delicately embroidered face flap. “Sometimes Auntie likes to dress up as a real auntie,” he says to Sarita. “I just love your sari—remind Auntie to tell you when she was a bride herself.”

The hotel is over-the-top—marble from Italy, carpets from Afghanistan, even commodes from England, or so Rahim claims. “The same brand used by the Queen—truly a royal throne for a royal shit.” Every room is decorated in its own distinctive style—the one thing they have in common is they’re all unoccupied. This fact does not seem to perturb Rahim—he leads us merrily from floor to floor, leaving a trail of lights blazing behind. “More fabulous than the Taj and the Oberoi combined, don’t you agree?”

Coming down the stairs, he asks how “Auntie and Uncle” are doing. I say they’re fine, hoping Sarita either hasn’t heard or doesn’t realize he’s talking about my parents. “And that boy you refused to tell me anything about the last time I saw you? The one you followed all the way to Delhi, or so I heard from the grapevine?”

“That was a long time ago. We haven’t been in touch for years.” I want to pull him aside and warn him not to ask me anything personal, but Sarita’s right behind me. Fortunately, he doesn’t blurt out anything else incriminating.

We enter the dining room, set with an enormous buffet. Platters of salads vie with a cornucopia of cakes and pastries. “Shabbir! Parvez!” Rahim calls, but no one appears. “I must apologize—this war’s made the staff situation quite appalling.” He goes around whisking domed lids off serving bowls to reveal curries and stir fries, kormas and cutlets. “You must try the foie gras—we have a whole case imported from France,” he says, cutting off a generous wedge from a tray of cheeses and pâtés. Sarita gasps when she discovers a jar of Marmite among the condiments.

As we eat alone at the long, empty table, I can tell Sarita is as mystified as I am by all this lavishness. “We’re ready even for the Chinese guests who visit once in a while. Though try finding a chef who can cook a decent lo mein.” Noticing our expressions, Rahim stops. “You’re probably wondering where all this food comes from, correct?”

I nod. “Not only here, but also in the markets.”

“All the pomegranates they’re selling,” Sarita adds. “In most places, you’d be hard-pressed to find a carrot.” She takes a timid bite of the foie gras, grimaces, then smears it with Marmite.

“It’s quite simple, really—let’s see if you can guess. Who do you think would want to set up an outpost here in the heart of the city? A Mecca for Muslims to give them a taste of their promised land?” Rahim looks expectantly from Sarita to me, waiting for us to answer, tapping at his plate impatiently at our dullness. “Oh, come on. Who’d benefit most by getting a foothold in India? Who’s been wooing the Muslims ever since Independence? Who’s been trying to instigate Hindus to massacre Muslims all along—so they can step in as benefactor to the victims?”

“Pakistan?” I ask unsurely.

“No, the Republic of Finland. Of course , Pakistan. Who else? What they didn’t manage for decades in Kashmir, they accomplished overnight in Mahim. With some help from their Dubai friends, of course. The beauty of it is that all the channels were already in place—the old Arab sea routes from the sixties and seventies to smuggle in cigarettes and electronics, the new ones that the Pakistani ISI has been using for some years now to sneak in their terrorists. They’re still sending in the same boats, but filled with apples and onions instead of whiskey and televisions. OK, perhaps a few jihadis too—God knows nothing gets accomplished in the world these days without terrorism. But the primary effort is to have everything freely available in Mahim—meat and delicacies to pamper the elite, cheap tins for the rest, even Marmite for your friend here, who’s welcome to keep the jar, incidentally. They haven’t gotten to the point of revealing themselves yet—still all very hush-hush—only a handful of residents know, like myself. Still, this has to be the land of plenty, not just for prestige, but so that refugees pour in and the area grows. That’s why they’ve not slacked off—it’s much harder since the war started, but they still manage to slip in enough boats under the nose of the Indian navy.”