Manil Suri - The City of Devi

The only thorn in our side was Mrs. Singh’s eighteen-year-old son Harjeet. He scowled each time he encountered us on the steps, positioning his hefty frame to make it awkward to pass. He made raucously loud homophobic comments from the verandah when he got together with his Sikh friends. We stopped hanging out our clothes to dry on the terrace when gobs of dirt started mysteriously landing on them (underwear seemed especially vulnerable). He lifted weights in his turban and shorts on the landing outside our door on Sundays, so that he could mutter obscenities in case we accidentally glanced his way.

Fortunately, we spent most of our time on weekends exploring the city. On one such expedition, we chanced upon an expansive shrubbery-filled park that bordered an enclave of foreign embassies. I instantly realized its potential as a shikari’s paradise. Sure enough, men loitered all around, standing near the gate, reclining on benches, leaning against trees. A central pathway over a suspended red and white rope bridge had the most action, with shikaris and their prey working the circuit as if modeling their wares on a fashion runway.

On a whim, I took Karun by the arm and joined the men parading up the path to the bridge. A space immediately cleared all around us, as if in deference to our coupled state. I felt people’s curiosity, noticed them peering to catch a glimpse. Was there a measure of jealousy mixed in, resentment that we promenaded like royalty through their midst? Had I risked attracting their malediction, their evil eye, their nazar, by flaunting our good fortune in their face? Karun didn’t seem to notice the reactions—he blithely pointed to the trees, the gardens, the red and orange flowers.

That evening, I finally uttered the phrase whirling around in my mind. I could no longer remember when the inkling had first arisen, when it had fledged and strengthened, when it had parsed together the words for its own articulation. An idea, an expression, antithetical to Jazter philosophy, one that blasphemed his Gita, his Koran, his Bible. Our stroll in the park had given it that final energy to break free, when I realized how lucky I felt to no longer be a shikari. I raised myself up on my arms when I felt it coming, so that I hovered over Karun, looking directly into his face. “I love you”—the words felt unfamiliar yet silky as they slid from the Jazter’s lips.

For a moment, Karun didn’t respond, and I wondered if I’d overreached, overplayed my hand. Then he leaned up to kiss me. “I love you too,” he replied.

THE ALLEY BEHIND the hotel is deserted, except for rats enjoying a moonlit supper of discarded kitchen waste. We race past the rear of several buildings, Rahim’s large purple burkha billowing and flapping around Sarita’s slender frame. Cadell Road, when we get to it, is thronged with men, though thankfully a few burkhas dot the crowd as well. I try to keep us hidden from the Limbus glowering menacingly from the edges. Every so often, they gesture, with their rifles or the stiff plastic tubing they wield as whips, to pull people out for checks.

The skyscraper tower of Hinduja Hospital rises to our left. The Limbus have only managed to blacken it, not burn it down—even the charred shell of the aerial tunnel connecting the east and west wings still hangs above the road. Broken medical consoles, mangled hospital beds, smashed operating tables lie scattered around, like bodies dragged out of the building and clubbed to death. An MRI scanner seems to have been the object of particular wrath—its pallet twisted and burnt, its cylindrical tube hacked open in half, electronic entrails spilling out colorfully over the pavement.

Ahead, the air is thick with the smell of generator fuel. Loudspeakers blare religious sermons, the torches give way to floodlights beaming down from poles. Every once in a while a roar of approval erupts from somewhere up ahead. I’m uneasy about the crush—so strong that it’s impossible not to be carried along. We’re headed in the direction of the causeway, it’s true, but what if that’s precisely where they hope to scoop us up?

The road narrows, and more Limbus appear, blocking every side street and alleyway. It already appears impossible to make a break for the water, to choose the boat alternative Rahim had suggested. A few hundred meters away, a mound rises from the ground, splitting the crowd into two streams that slowly circle past. A pair of rifle-toting Limbus stands on this platform, flanking a smaller figure between them. Even from afar, I realize it must be Yusuf—they’re funneling us through so that he can scan all our faces.

Sarita sees him as well, and immediately slows down—I nudge her on to maintain her pace. There’s no way to turn around—the Limbus will get very excited if anyone attempts an about-face. Instead, I veer us through the flow at an angle, so that we gradually shift towards the edge. The doorway to a building stands unguarded ahead—if we can make it through, we might escape.

Barely have we stepped onto the sidewalk, though, when a whistle sounds, followed by a whole cacophony of them. We’ve been spotted from above—a Limbu gestures with his rifle from his balcony perch for us to stay clear of the building. I hastily pull Sarita back into the anonymity of the crowd before the terrestrial guards can pinpoint whom they’ve been whistling at.

We near Yusuf, and I notice his face is swollen. Blood runs down from his ear and mouth, several of his scabs have ruptured again. I try not to look at him—to be cautious, I tell myself, though it’s really due to guilt. But he catches my eye when we’re still several feet away. Recognition floods in—he opens his mouth and raises his hand to point me out. I brace myself for exposure—the accusing finger, the triumphant shout—can I really blame him after the injuries I’ve caused? One second extrudes slowly into the next—is it even worth fumbling for my weapon, should I simply let the Limbus gun us down? But at the last instant, Yusuf redirects his raised hand to wipe his chin—he licks the blood off his lips and closes his mouth. As we pass, he flashes the tiniest of smirks, while keeping his gaze trained resolutely at the crowd.

Sarita is so distraught at his condition that she tugs on my arm to go back—I’m thankful the burkha keeps her agitation masked. “His brother’s a Limbu, so he’ll be OK,” I whisper, and pull her along.

The road runs past the mosque turnoff to the causeway bridge, but the throng pressing in from the opposite direction makes it impossible to continue. Limbus push through, trying to bring order to the whirlpool of people, flailing their rubber tubes to herd everyone in through the entrance lane. We have little choice but to follow, towards the ornate green arch with white Urdu lettering that frames the mosque. The four minarets and star and crescent flag rising from the top of the gate are just as I remember. I’ve been here twice with my father—once to observe the ailing supplicants who come to seek a cure on Thursdays, once just to soak in the tranquillity of the inner sanctum housing the graves of a Sufi saint and his mother.

Now, the Limbus have erected a tall stage with loudspeakers in the tiled plaza. “These infidels, these kafirs, who tried to kill our innocent children with their terrorist train—” one of them recites, standing next to a slaughtering frame, the kind found in a halal abattoir. Ropes tether two blindfolded figures in bloodstained clothes to a pole. The man on the left pulls and strains to free himself, but the other simply sits slumped on the ground, his head lolling limply on his chest. A rock from the crowd bounces off his body and elicits a weak groan, but he makes no move to protect himself.

“I think that’s Mura,” Sarita says in a strangled voice. “What if they’ve got Guddi and Anupam as well?” She wants to stick around to make sure her train companions aren’t led on stage, but the queasiness is rapidly spreading in my stomach, and I pull her away before the “entertainment” Rahim warned us about can begin.