Manil Suri - The City of Devi

He’d thought about writing back to me a few times, but one simple fact stopped him. “If you’d sunk so low as to do it with Harjeet, it stood to reason that you’d done it with others as well. Who knew what a future with you would hold? The only remedy was to look for someone else.”

I began to apologize again, but he held up his hand. “An even more chilling thought struck me—how could I ensure this ‘someone else’ wouldn’t be just as unreliable? For all I knew, this might be business as usual for you and your friends. That’s when everything my mother had been pushing for over the past months began to make sense. She knew, of course—she could see right through me. She recognized the risk, which is why she wanted me to try the other sex.”

The Jazter listened to it all in stoic silence—how Karun met his wife three years after we broke up, how they dated and fell in love. Cruel and unusual punishment—being subjected to a list of the ten million angelic qualities this Sarita had. “I see now the gift my mother bequeathed me—a chance at fulfillment, at tranquillity. The opportunity to be a father, to give someone the childhood I never had. I’ve discovered myself, Jaz; I’ve discovered who I’m meant to be. More than that, I’ve found the one person who’s perfect for me. I can only wish you get as lucky, Jaz—that you find someone as right for you in Switzerland.” Not quite satisfied with his speech, Karun thrust a wedding album into my hands.

Let’s just settle the most burning question right away—in the looks department, the Other Woman simply did not make it to the Jazter’s league. (And we won’t even mention fashion sense—whom did she take along to help select that wedding sari, her cleaning lady?) Perhaps I’m being too prejudiced, perhaps she had some plain and mousy kind of appeal—hadn’t Karun mentioned, after all, that she was an analyst or librarian or something? Snarkiness aside, I noticed something quite intriguing—Karun’s strained expression in several of the photographs. I knew him well enough to recognize the forced cheer, the eyes that didn’t smile—in a flash, everything he claimed about his discovered utopia seemed suspect.

But how to confront him? I could probe into his sex life, but that would be too intrusive. Asking point-blank if he’d mentioned me to his wife might simply make him hunker down in defense. Threatening to tell her if he didn’t comply with my wishes would be blackmail. And then a perfectly devious strategy struck me. “Let’s have a final dinner together. That way I can meet Sarita before I leave.”

He hemmed and hawed about schedules and availability, but I suggested we call Sarita right away to see when she was free. We agreed tentatively to meet at my flat in a week—with Pakistan recently joining the war, not to mention the continuing terrorist attacks, a restaurant seemed unnecessarily risky. The fact that my parents would be there reassured him. We exchanged phone numbers—as expected, he gave me his personal cell number, not the one for his home landline.

THE RE-SEDUCTION OF Karun Anand commenced at seven p.m., when he arrived alone at our flat (Sarita had to go again to her mother’s, he lamely explained). His nervousness pleased me—hadn’t Casanova himself attested to the ease of conquest once the fear of being seduced is already present? “How many years has it been, my physicist friend?” my father boomed as if on cue, dissipating some of Karun’s skittishness. My parents left soon after on their goodbye rounds, leaving us alone in the flat.

At first, we simply talked about how China had been forced to withdraw four days ago to avoid a massive embargo. “Did you hear them rage against the UN? The Youth League must be gnashing its teeth—I’m sure the entire invasion was at its behest.” The Pakistani communiqué threatening nuclear attack had surfaced within hours, but we both thought the war would end well before their announced D-day. I nodded when Karun wondered if my parents would be safe going around in the blackout. “They know how to take care of themselves.”

One should never really risk Phase Two in the bedroom, but that’s where I led Karun. His apprehensions all melted (as per plan) upon seeing the train set assembled on the floor. “Do you still have the boxcars with the candles?”

“Of course. I packed every piece myself in Delhi when I moved.”

We sat amidst the tracks and set up our first collision in years. Not only did the candles ignite the paper we crumpled under the bridge, they also launched the wave of nostalgia I’d counted on (Phase Three). Once I figured he’d been sufficiently softened, I pulled him in a friendly hug to myself.

“No,” he said, stiffening and moving away.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be gone soon. I’m not after anything, so just relax.”

Except I was after him, which meant it was time to move to Phase Three Alternative (nostalgia aborted, try alcohol instead). I took him into the kitchen. “I bought us some samosas—there’s a shop down the street which still manages to find all the ingredients. Plus my parents have been getting rid of all their wine before the move to Switzerland, so we can help ourselves.”

He sipped warily from his glass as we sat on the couch. “This one’s a Merlot. I’ll open a Cabernet so you can compare the two.” Later, I had him try a Pinot as well, wondering just how amused my father would be to see all the half-drunk bottles from his collection. “Which one do you like best?”

My man preferred the Cabernet, the most conducive choice (alcohol percentage 14.3 as opposed to the Pinot’s paltry 11.4), so that’s what I refilled his glass with. He rebuffed neither the arm that presently snaked around his shoulder nor the hand that casually patted his thigh. I tried again to kiss him, and this time he didn’t resist. The feel of his mouth transported me—through beaches and balconies, bedrooms and barsatis, all the spots I’d ever been with him. In an instant, this was no longer a farewell romp I was trying to engineer, but a replay of our entire relationship. A Broadway tribute, a Bollywood spectacular—the nights we’d spent, the years we’d shared. Karun’s face glittered from a giant screen which rose and stretched in all directions—I wanted to unhook it from its moorings and wrap it around myself.

The Fourth and Final Phase called. “Let’s go back into my bedroom,” I whispered, taking his arm to lead him from the sofa. He freed himself from my grasp, and remained seated. I tried again, saying we’d be more comfortable, it would be cozier, but to no avail. “I can tell you want to, Karun. Besides, I’ll be out of your life for good soon.”

For a while, he just sat there, breathing hard. Then he spoke in a quiet voice. “I shouldn’t have come. Even this, even what we’ve been doing—I feel so ashamed, every minute I stay.”

“So I see you haven’t forgiven me yet. Do you want me to apologize again?”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “That part I actually get, Jaz. You are who you are—there’s little more to say. I can’t claim any surprise coming here today, only a little disappointment that after all this time you still can’t think beyond sex.”

The words stung, they felt uninformed, unfair. How to get across the years of yearning I’d endured, not to mention the flood of emotion unleashed today just by kissing him? The sense of incompleteness that had dogged me, the day-to-day contentment I’d failed to regain? “So all the letters I wrote, all the efforts I made don’t count? You think they were just to get you back in bed?”

“Isn’t that where you were just trying to lead me?”

“Perhaps I only wanted to hold you. To remind myself of how your body felt. Anything further would still have been an expression of my love—it’s what completes the two of us. You have to forgive me, Karun, for missing you so much. For thinking ahead to Switzerland or wherever I end up. Perhaps you could give me something to cling on. If we’re never going to see each other again perhaps it wouldn’t be so hard.”