Manil Suri - The City of Devi

Mrs. Singh, when we finally tracked her down, dismissed our complaints—her Harjeet was a good boy incapable of anything like that. If we had a problem, we could always find another place. Except we couldn’t, and we all knew that. In addition to the problem of finding a landlord open to both Hindus and Muslims, rents had shot up dramatically in keeping with the overheated economy.

Although I learnt to brush off Harjeet’s bullying attempts (swaggering past when he blocked my way, responding in kind when he muttered insults), Karun got more cowed. He peered down before descending the steps to make sure Harjeet wasn’t lying in wait, and came up with only the most anemic rejoinders when verbally taunted. “I hate it,” he said. “Is this what we have to look forward to our whole lives—dealing with people like him?” I sometimes wondered if he spent more time in Karnal just to escape Harjeet.

WITH KARUN GONE so much of the time, the Jazter’s urges often remained unrelieved—he no longer got regularly milked. The palm, the sock, the fruit, the fowl—their creative use helped, but only in a limited way. For a while he fought the good battle, thinking about the park he’d stumbled upon with Karun, but not venturing near. Riding a bus to the stop one day, but turning back at the gate. Darting in just for a little peek at the flowers after that, but trying not to notice the fauna frolic. Joining them for a quick modeling jaunt down the runway the next time, but the self-control still commendably in place.

And then it happened. A glance exchanged, a path into the trees, a bed of grass with the familiar blue ceiling. A quick game of cobra and burrow, mongoose and den, and relief came surging in (or out, technically). Shirts tucked, zippers zipped, no need for pleasantries to be exchanged. The bus waiting to take me back—such a convenient one-stop shopping trip.

I got home congratulating myself on the solution I’d found—why hadn’t I thought of it before? The answer lay in wait—guilt broke upon me in an overwhelming wave as soon as I stepped through the door. The cupboard we shared, the bed we slept in, the table at which we ate—everything reminded me of my betrayal. Hadn’t I professed my devotion to Karun each time he clung tightly to me during his brief home visits? How could I have done this to him, especially with his mother so sick?

But logically speaking, what difference did it make? Since I didn’t intend to tell him, the question of hurt didn’t arise. Besides, I always used protection, so I wasn’t exposing him to any risk. In fact, my actions promoted a positive outlook, an upbeat disposition, which helped me be more supportive. Wer rastet, rostet —what rests, rusts.Surely it behooved the Jazter to remain prepared, to keep his parts well-lubricated?

So I went back to the park. I reacquainted myself with sweat and spit, how different men smelled, how they felt, how they tasted. I explored all the cruisy new internet sites, learnt the mores of shikar in virtual spaces. Each time Karun returned home, I suspended these efforts and concentrated solely on him. He had grown thinner and looked gaunt—in his hair, I even found a few strands of grey. He spent a lot of time lying in bed, with no appetite for sex and little resistance when I initiated it. I wondered if he suspected my transgressions, somehow sensed the other men my body had been intimate with. He spoke very little of his mother except to say she was steadily deteriorating—the doctors had given her a few more months to live. He didn’t mention the matrimonial ads any more. Sometimes he leafed silently through his abandoned Ph.D. thesis.

I tried to rally my affection for him, to remind myself of the joys of our relationship. But his listlessness was so draining, his gloom so contagious, that I felt relief at the end of each visit. Sighing away the guilt, I continued in the same taxi to the park after dropping him off at the train station.

WALKING ALONG MAHIM BEACH, still on the lookout for something seaworthy to Bandra, Sarita and I stumble onto a group of people huddling against a shed. At first I start, my hand instinctively dipping into my pocket to close around my gun. But then I notice they’re not Limbus—everyone’s much too clean-cut and well-dressed. “Hello,” one of them calls out, her voice friendly, breezy. She seems in her late twenties, as do the others. “Are you here for Sequeira’s? The ferry should stop by any minute.”

“Sequeira’s?”

“It’s the End-of-the-World Party tonight, haven’t you heard? They’ve even promised us electricity!”

Like the other two women, she carries a burkha folded loosely over her arm instead of being robed in it. She accepts a cigarette from one of her male companions—its end burns bright orange as she takes a drag. “Aren’t you afraid they’ll spot you smoking?” Sarita asks, staring.

“Who, the Limbus?” The woman laughs. “Don’t worry, they never bother us here.” She takes another drag of the cigarette. “Are you hiding from them?—is that why you ask?”

Sarita begins to stammer a denial, but the woman interrupts her with another laugh. “I’m just teasing. And it’s OK even if you are. We won’t tell—no Limbus among us.” She offers Sarita the cigarette. “Here, would you like a puff?”

Sequeira’s turns out to be a nightclub on the Bandra side. “How strange you haven’t heard of it. I thought for sure that’s where you were headed when I saw the jeans and the sneakers. That’s what all the men wear—it’s practically a uniform. Not that I mean to pry into your destination, but you might as well have a look if you’re trying to get across.”

Just then, a bell chimes softly behind us. A dark shape has materialized from the sea—as we watch, a small boat detaches itself from the ferry and approaches through the ripples. An ark borne by fairies through the heavens couldn’t warm the Jazter cockles more, I think to myself, as our means of escape from Mahim draws up.

“This is the part I hate,” the woman, whose name is Zara, says, taking off her shoes. “You have to wade into the water to get to the boat. Which means that afterwards, on the dance floor, your feet remain sticky all night with salt.”

THE INCIDENT WITH Harjeet occurred when Karun came back for a short visit before they took his mother’s new tumors out. The convalescence period would last well into the winter, so he wanted to get his sweaters and coat. He had purchased a medical garter his mother would need after the operation and was just opening the metal gate downstairs when the motorcycles pulled up. “Home, Sweetie?” Harjeet called out, and his three friends laughed and whistled.

We’d agreed Karun should simply not react when taunted, so leaving the gate open, he hurried up the path towards the house. The motorcycles vroomed in behind, right through the gate. “A present for your hubby?” Harjeet said, and still astride his bike, yanked the box out from Karun’s hands.

He couldn’t help but reply, he told me, even though he probably shouldn’t have. “Give that back.”

Harjeet pulled the garter out of the box and held it up, dangling by a strap. “Look! It’s some sort of women’s underwear. Does Sweetie get to wear it, or does Hubby?” He took a deep sniff of the material. “Mmmmm—smells good—must be Sweetie.”

“It’s for my mother.”

“Look, everyone—not just a sweetie, but a motherfucker too! And Hubby must join in—who does he fuck first—the sweetie or the mother?” Harjeet wrapped the garter over his head and, getting off his bike, started prancing and singing, “I’m a gandu and a ma-ka-chod too.”

Karun managed to get into the house, but Harjeet and his friends followed and cornered him in the stairwell. Harjeet started snapping the garter at his crotch—one of the shots hit home, making him double up in pain. “Perhaps the sweetie would like a taste of uncut Sikh instead of the same old hubby-mian every day?”