Manil Suri - The City of Devi

As the wonder of the spectacle subsides, Jaz articulates the question that clutches at my heart. “How are we going find your husband among all these people?” The absurdity, the sheer impossibility of this task paralyzes me. Jaz must notice my despair, because he tries to come up with a course of action. “What we need to do is locate this Devi ma—that’s where the guesthouse manager said Karun will be.”

But although everyone is here for a glimpse of the Devi, nobody really seems to know her whereabouts. Ahead , they all gesture with excited smiles, so we follow the general stream up the beach, looking vainly for a stage or other venue where she might appear.

We manage to make our way to the plumes—three tall spouts of water that erupt each time a wave comes in. Smaller ones spring forth randomly all around—people shriek as they get sprayed. The runoff accumulates in a large pond that blocks our path ahead. Skirting it brings us closer to the sea, where a border of devotees squat along the beach’s edge. At first I think they are praying, but then realize they are simply relieving themselves. As I watch, a rogue wave churns in to ambush those who have strayed too far off the dry sand.

By the time the Indica Hotel comes into view, our pace has slowed to a near standstill. The dying light burnishes the familiar terraces and turrets, but the Statue of Liberty has vanished from its perch. I strain to make out the faraway windows, to spot the balcony where Karun and I breakfasted the morning after our wedding. Despair clasps at me once more. Will I ever sit with Karun to gaze together at the waves again? Is he even in the vicinity, anywhere on this beach, anywhere near Juhu? Given the way the crowd has swallowed up all the roads, could his van have really made it through?

Jaz tries to bolster me again. “They came several days ago—there must have been a lot fewer people then. I’d say they drove right to wherever this Devi’s holding court.”

The elephants turn out to be real, not mirages. Young women dressed in red float astride their backs carrying wicker baskets filled with flower petals. Every so often, the women stop the animals, which reach into the baskets with their trunks and scatter petals over the crowd. Bells around the elephants’ feet warn of their approach. I find myself jammed against a wall of bodies as one of the animals lumbers through within touching distance.

We barely manage to worm ahead a few paces in the time it takes for dusk to deepen into night. My sari begins to glow again, creating a clot of curiosity around me, which further impedes our progress. At first, people content themselves with pointing or staring, but soon the bolder ones start caressing the fabric, rubbing it to see if it’s genuine. I slap and shoo them away, but a girl held in her mother’s arms yanks the end off and wraps it around her own head. In an instant, the crowd is pressing in from all sides, hands reaching out to touch me, stroke me, grab at my sari. My flailing and screaming only stimulates their frenzy. Jaz plunges in for a rescue attempt, but is powerless against the onslaught of clawing fingers, thrusting arms.

Just as I feel I will be smothered, the Indica starts to glow as well, in a shade close to a candy version of my sari’s. Music wafts from its turrets—the ubiquitous theme from Superdevi , reorchestrated this time as a devotional bhajan. The next instant, the entire hotel erupts in fireworks: rockets zoom from its towers, strings of crackers explode on its terraces, flaming waterfalls cascade down its walls. The smoke clears, the hands retract from my sari, and an electric rush sweeps through the crowd. There on the highest turret, from where the Statue of Liberty formerly presided, stands the Devi.

For a moment, I gape with everyone else, my trauma forgotten. Bedecked in gold, the Devi is strikingly visible, yet tiny. I think she holds lotuses in her hand, but it’s too far to be sure. What I can make out, even at this distance, is that she has four arms—though she engages only the lower pair to wave to her audience. Revolving smoothly like a trinket on a turntable, she bestows benevolence in each direction equally.

“Welcome,” she says, and the throngs roar in response. “I’m so gratified you have come to see me.” Her face is a bright, shining gold, her voice sweet and reassuring even through the distortion of the loudspeakers. “Do you know the one cure for all the unhappiness in this world, for all the fear and strife you have seen?”

“Devi ma,” erupts the reply from the beach, so thunderous, so passionate, I feel like an interloper for not joining in myself. Waiting for the response to subside, the Devi continues to rotate silently.

“What has brought you here today?” she asks, and begins to list the war, the bomb, all the other dangers the audience faces. “Dark forces are at work against your Devi ma, people who do not believe in me.” She urges the crowd, in the same honeyed voice, to flush out her enemies and exterminate them without mercy. “Nourish the land with their blood, just like seawater nourishes the beach.”

Bursts of acclamation continue to rise from the crowd. She negotiates them perfectly, as if she has premeasured the seconds required for each pause, programmed them into her speech. Her tone never varies too much—she remains equable, immune to the fervor of her admirers’ outpourings. “I am your protector, your savior. Once your feet have touched these sands, I will forever keep you safe under my shield.”

At the end of her speech, the volume of her voice increases sharply. “To all my charges, to all my beloved children, Devi ma just says, Come to me.”

The crowd surges towards the hotel, a few figures even manage to clamber some feet up the tower that bears the turret. The Devi extends her lower arms in benediction and sparks begin to drizzle from her fingertips. Her body rises—almost imperceptibly at first, and then in a more visible corkscrew motion, until she levitates, still rotating, several feet above the turret. The drizzles turn into showers, drops of fire begin cascading from her feet as well. I strain to make out a rope or other support, but can’t. She coruscates in the air, like a comet or shooting star, magically pinned mid-flight.

Fireworks burst forth again from the terrace. This time, the night blooms not only with their flashes, but also with the white parachutes released by exploding rockets. Thousands of heads turn up to watch the armada’s floating descent—hands point excitedly at the lit Devi idols dangling at each parachute’s end. The struggle to snag the figurines gets so frenzied that the airdrop might have been engineered from heaven by god herself. By the time the smoke clears, the Devi has vaporized. The beach roils with excitement for a few more moments, after which the audience settles down to await her next appearance.

“At least we have a destination now,” Jaz says, as I stare at the still-smoking terraces, unable to pull my gaze away. Could this be some sort of divine coincidence? The Devi appearing at the very hotel where Karun and I got married? I try to tamp down the irrational optimism billowing up inside. All I need do is make it to our bridal suite, and Karun will be still reclining on our wedding bed, the Buddha looking down benevolently.

My exuberance is short-lived. Sighting the Devi is very different from actually getting to her. The crowd remains as impenetrable as toffee, slurping around to pull us back each time we discover a new foothold. Jaz has an idea: “Perhaps we should try capitalizing on your sari.”

He starts announcing I am Devi ma’s helper, who needs to reach the Indica urgently. Unfortunately, the enthrallment over my sari has dissipated, people seem quite blasé about my glow after witnessing the Devi’s pyrotechnics. A woman stands stoutly in my path, observing me as she might an insect struggling in a web. “Where do you think you’re going?”