Manil Suri - The City of Devi

Rahim’s explanation is preposterous. “Are you seriously suggesting that Pakistan is setting up a colony in India? Here, in the middle of Bombay, in Mahim?”

“I know. It sounds completely insane, doesn’t it? But that’s precisely the point. Who would ever even imagine such a thing? Suspect the ISI of quietly engineering this for years? Why do you suppose every bomb blast in Bombay has led to at least one or two suspects with a flat in Mahim?”

“But this isn’t even the most densely populated in terms of Muslims,” Sarita points out. “Why not Mazgaon or Byculla or Dongri?”

“Because, quite simply, the sea route is essential. You’d have to go way far north to Mira Road before finding a suburb with as many Muslims living right on the coast. Of course, the goal is to eventually link all the Muslim pockets from here—expand south to the areas you mentioned and perhaps also to the north and east.”

Which sounds even more kooky. Could lead from his mascara be leaching into my poor cousin’s head? “Why stop there—why not take over the whole city?” I ask. “Rename it South Karachi and drive all the Hindus into the sea? I’m sure the ISI could find somewhere to resettle Bhim.”

Rahim laughs. “Yes, it’s all quite fantastic, I agree. They need to bring their plans back to reality. And you’re right, they’re severely underestimating the HRM and Bhim. Remember, though, that this was all a sleeper plot, something to dabble in on the side—they never expected to actually activate their scheme. This ‘South Karachi’ as you call it only came into being thanks to the HRM—the ‘City of Devi’ campaign was a true godsend. All the ISI had to do was keep the bloodshed going, provoke some more attacks using a few well-placed jihadis. But my Jazmine’s not quite convinced, I see—so let Auntie show you something interesting on the map.” He pulls out a place mat on which the boundary of Mumbai is outlined around the “Hotel Rahim” logo. “See how nicely one can isolate Mahim?—the railway tracks along here, the creek to the north, the bay to the west. Once the stage was set, they only needed to blow up the sea link bypass. That poor bridge—doomed from the start—some rumors have it that ISI agents actually managed to plant explosives during construction in the cement itself.”

“Terrorism with a vision.”

“Not terrorism. Strategy. With the sea link gone, they used the air raids to bomb the remaining bridges to our east. Leaving the connection between north and south nicely squeezed. Now every truck, every convoy, every goods train must make the long detour around or come through Mahim. Not only can they control who gets through, but they’ve set the stage to collect some hefty fees.”

“And the Limbus? Are they ISI agents as well?”

Rahim’s face darkens. “They’re a bunch of juvenile savages, that’s what. Buffoons who couldn’t care less about the religion they profess—they’ll drive us all off the face of the earth. We needed an army in a hurry to keep us safe, which is why there was no choice but to ask for their help. Except they’d been watching too many Taliban videos or smoking too much hashish, I don’t know which. Within days, they started banning music and film and TV and going on burning sprees. A new target every night for weeks—temples, video stores, fast food restaurants to show they’re anti-American. Even the Hinduja hospital, because they declared the ‘Hindu’ in the name blasphemous. The crowds flocked in of course—who can resist a good bonfire, especially if every other type of entertainment is gone? But then their hijinks started turning entire blocks into ash—you saw the one next door. So now—get this—they’ve declared that burning is too Hindu —that it derives from cremation, that it’s against the Koran. Muslims, they’ve announced, are only allowed to demolish the un-Islamic, never burn. Not that they’ve left anything un-Islamic still standing—half of Mahim is gone. To keep the masses entertained, they started performing stonings in front of the mosque. Except with stones so hard to come by in Bombay they rapidly ran out—so now they behead their victims. Genuine Hindus, guaranteed—to prove it, they slice off the foreskins first and toss them as souvenirs into the audience.”

Noticing our aghast expressions, Rahim hastens to assure us that most Mahim residents share his aversion to the Limbus, but are too scared to speak out. “Even the refugees, those who’ve lost everything in the riots—even they don’t condone the Limbus’ antics. I suppose they’re a necessary evil to keep us safe—perhaps in time, they can be trained.”

The question I can’t bring myself to confront Rahim with is where he fits in all of this. Is he a stooge, a Pakistani lackey? I take a bite of the pineapple pastry I’ve selected from the buffet—the custard cream filling slides smoothly down my throat. Do I thank the ISI for this treat?

It turns out my cousin has an even more sinister patron. “It happened while he was here on a clandestine visit—a VIP who loved my hospitality so much that he took over all my loans for me. The loans that were threatening to wipe out your poor Auntie Rahim. Can’t tell you the name, because you’ll recognize it—all I’ll say is he lives in Dubai and Karachi now, but still controls most of Mahim.”

“You mean a gangster? Like Dawood or Shakeel?”

Rahim titters. “Whoever it is, the ISI has full faith in him—they’ve entrusted their entire operation to his men. He still makes it personally to Bombay more often than people might imagine—always comes in by sea with a large entourage. As do his associates, some of whose names you would also recognize—we’re actually quite full most nights. That’s why I keep dinner ready—I never know who might show up, and when.”

“So what you’re telling me, basically, is that you work for the mafia underworld. Maybe one of the same dons who fled to Dubai after slaughtering hundreds in bomb blasts all over the city?”

Rahim stiffens. “Perhaps you need to look around before you point any fingers. Check to see who’s being slaughtered and who’s doing the slaughtering. Just the massacres in the past year alone—have you been keeping track? Gaza to Germany, Houston to Haji Ali, not to mention all the internment camps. We’re being annihilated, Jaz—if we don’t take help from whoever offers it, there might soon be no Muslims left. Besides, this isn’t some cheap two-rupee street hooligan we’re talking about—my patron is someone cultured, someone sophisticated, someone who appreciates foie gras with every meal.”

“Someone who’d still have no compunction in blowing up all of India. Or perhaps that’s too passé—thinking you owe your homeland anything.”

“How sweet—the little pup calling Auntie’s patriotism into question. After spending half its life abroad, no less. Well let me tell you, my flag-waving Jazmine, while you were swilling beer and chocolate with the Americans and Swiss, I was being bottle-fed the Indian dream. Nehru and Gandhi, Saare Jahan Se Achcha , the whole secular ideal. So what if our government perpetrated years of carnage against its own citizens in Kashmir? Or systematically filtered Muslims out from its armed forces and police regiments? Or turned a blind eye each time the Hindus decided to here and there roast a few minorities alive? None of it really affected me. I was content to keep singing patriotic songs, brand Pakistan the enemy, march against terrorism with all my fellow brainwashed Muslims hand in hand through the streets.

“Then the HRM started its Devi rampaging. Beatings, rapes, murders—they all happened to people I knew, people alarmingly close to me. On Linking Road, I personally saw the corpses in their shops: blackened mummies still sitting at the till, waiting to give change back from a twenty. Entire families wiped out and nobody did anything—not the government, not police, and certainly not our fellow Hindu citizenry.”