Manil Suri - The City of Devi

When he looked up, though, his face was haggard. “They’ve won, Ijaz. I don’t know what we’ll do. They’ve finally taken over Islam—hijacked it completely with their threats and bombs. All our work, all our effort, all our credibility—all lost. We have to go on trying, of course, but with everything that’s happened, who’ll believe us now?” I shifted uncomfortably, unable to think of words of comfort.

“You know what makes me the most ashamed? Having to leave you in this state. Not knowing if we’ll ever see you again. I never thought I’d be the type to abandon my own son.”

“I’ll be fine. No need to worry, it’s probably only a matter of a month.”

He shook his head. “That’s been the problem, all along. We’ve never worried about you enough. Right from Switzerland, we’ve always left you to find your own path. You might have thought us disinterested, but our fault has been to trust you too much. Not interfering in your life, not asking what you liked, what you loved—we simply took it too far.” He held out his hand, and I put my palm in his. Had we enjoyed a different relationship, we might have hugged.

“Take the physicist, for instance. We could have done so much more to encourage you on. Such a sincere boy, so smart, such a relief to see you bring him home again after all these years. I told your mother we had to give you your privacy. We thought we’d stroll around while the two of you were in the apartment, but the blackout made it impossible. We ended up drinking six cups of tea at that tiny café near Lotus.”

“I had no idea—”

“I hope you’ll see more of him once we leave. Tell the neighbors he’s your cousin—it’ll be much safer with two people living here rather than just one. Plus, your mother and I will feel much better knowing you’re with someone so close.”

“But how did you know?”

My father seemed genuinely confused. “How did I know what?”

CHAOS REIGNED at the docks, the multitudes clamoring to get on the old freighter of such biblical proportions that they might have just learnt of the Great Flood. My father’s contacts had managed to procure two of the last tickets out for him, and moreover, avoid the trap of air travel which had essentially ground to a halt. Right up to the moment my parents entered the processing booth, people were offering them lakhs of rupees to buy their slots. I waited around afterwards, but couldn’t spot them in the crowd surging up the gangplank.

Watching the ship launch into the churning grey sea, I realized my odds of ever seeing my parents again were small. The Jazter would probably never succeed in migrating, never have to test Arabia’s tolerance for shikar. Back at the apartment, I could still hear my father’s words ring in my ears—get Karun to move in, live with someone I loved (I’d decided that’s what he meant after all). We could always find somewhere in the countryside to take cover, should the city situation deteriorate too much.

I called Karun—the first time since he’d left the flat in a huff eleven days ago. My news, that I would be staying behind longer in Bombay, dismayed him. “Why should you be so upset when you don’t care?” I asked, and he hung up. After that, he clicked off on all my calls.

So I decided to confront him at his institute. Nobody challenged me at the entrance—in fact, the watchman pointed the way to the correct office when I said I had an appointment. Karun stared in disbelief as I shut the door behind me. “How dare you come here?”

“I want you back, Karun. I want us to give it another shot. My parents have left for good, so we’d have the place to ourselves.”

“Are you crazy?”

“I’m not saying to move in right away. Just spend the night with me. In the morning, you can decide what you want.”

“You are mad.”

“Could you just listen? I saw it in your eyes the last time, Karun, and I can see it again standing here right now, so it would be nice if you dropped the pretense.”

I tried to kiss him, but he ran behind his desk and picked up the phone—either to call for help, or to use as a club in fending me off. “Get out of here at once.”

I began following him, both on his way to work and back. Usually, I stood at the bus stop facing his building or the phone stall right opposite the institute, but sometimes I had to conceal myself before he ventured out. A few times I accosted him along the way—springing out of the abandoned police kiosk near the church, or the ruins of the bombed-out McDonald’s, to remind him of my proposed one-night experiment. He neither slowed nor spoke, and I resisted the urge to physically restrain him. Twice, I tailed him when he emerged from the building with Sarita, but at a more measured distance. (The Jazter had to grudgingly admit she carried herself presentably enough in person. At least for a librarian.)

I ratcheted up the pressure by telephoning her at home later that week, and leaving a message for Karun to contact “Mr. Masood.” (After racking my brains on how to unearth Karun’s residential number, I had finally found it listed in the phonebook!) He called back that very evening. “Don’t you dare do that again,” he shouted, then began pleading for me to leave him alone.

“You know what I want, Karun.”

“I just can’t,” he said, and I could tell he was crying. “It’s not fair. I’ve worked so hard.”

“A single night, that’s all I’m asking.”

“Just let me go. You’re pushing me too far. You’ve had your chance.”

Although I felt Karun’s anguish, and found it more than a little loathsome playing the stalker, I knew I couldn’t ease up. I left more messages with Sarita, and surprised Karun again at his institute. One evening, I walked right up as he waited to cross Wodehouse Road, and put an arm around his shoulder. Another time, I followed him into his building elevator, and forced my lips onto his after the other passengers got off at a lower floor. I even tried his doorbell while Sarita was away, but he refused to respond.

And then, one morning, Karun didn’t emerge from his building. I thought he may have slipped by earlier than usual, but he didn’t show up at the institute gate that evening, either. Two days later, I glimpsed Sarita making a brief foray to the corner grocer and heaved a sigh of relief—they hadn’t packed up and left. She seemed distraught when I called later with my usual “Mr. Masood” alias. “He’s not here. I’ll let him know when he returns.”

That night, a series of explosions awoke me at about one. The walls in my bedroom radiated orange, and I jumped out of bed, thinking the building was on fire. But the conflagration, I saw from my window, raged further down the road, in the direction of Metro cinema. For hours, the sky flashed and popped with bursts of anti-aircraft fire.

The next morning, the air itself seemed different, as if a new and insalubrious season had swept in overnight to lay siege on the city. As I walked the deserted route towards Karun’s place, my instincts screamed for me to return to the safety of the flat with every step. Swathes of charred cotton and linen hung from the trees outside St. Xavier’s School—an explosion at the cloth merchant premises opposite had sent bolts flying everywhere. A band of people milled around the still-smoking ruins of Metro cinema. “Don’t go any further,” they warned. “The roads to the south are crawling with HRM snipers.” Trains had also stopped running, they informed me, making it impossible to detour around.

More bombing raids followed, severely curtailing my surveillance trips to Colaba. By now, the threats of nuclear annihilation had emptied the city. The fact that I never actually saw the exodus puzzled me—when had everyone slinked off? My neighborhood remained desolate, its streets free of departing hordes each time I ventured out.