Manil Suri - The City of Devi

The lobby still retains a hint of tuberose fragrance, barely discernible under the cloying earthiness of dung. The Anish Kapoor chairs lie jumbled with the front desk in a corner, cleared away to make a path for the elephants. Even the metal detector’s two halves have been separated to pachyderm breadth—the machine beeps resentfully as we sail through, indicating it’s still plugged in for some reason. The Khakis have been busy redecorating—splashing religious slogans over the panels showing the history of zero, imprinting the Hussain mural with crude likenesses of Hindu gods. A Mumbadevi amazon deployed at a focal point of the central atrium looks curiously stunted by the elephants lumbering past.

Shyamu barges into the Sensex bar, where quotes for long-defunct stocks still whirl around the walls. A huge round metal trough stands on the floor—with a shock I recognize it as the polished torus sculpture that hung over the lobby. Three elephants root through the vegetation mounded in its center, searching with their trunks for rotting cabbages. Guddi tries to steer Shyamu away, but it is the dung-clearing attendants, following us since we entered, who finally coax him back with their brooms and scoops. As we pass through the atrium, he tries to hook onto the plants spiraling down from the cascade of balcony levels above. But their ends are all out of reach—other elephants have already pulled or bitten them off.

Hundreds of people crowd the rear of the atrium, where it widens into the “Stomach of India” restaurant. Some sit listlessly at tables, like diners despairing of ever catching the attention of a waiter, others doze on the floor, curled up under cream-colored tablecloths. “The whole world has come for a glimpse of Devi ma,” Guddi says, and I notice the dosa grill converted into a check-in counter of sorts. Apparently, the sight of an elephant tromping through the dining room no longer engages—even the children are too inured to look up.

We ride directly into the garden, through a large opening of dismantled panels in the rear glass wall. The lateral wing of the hotel stretches along our left—somewhere from the third floor, a bridal suite beckons for me to investigate. Except who is to say I might not spot Karun simply walking around? Strolling the hibiscus-planted terrace, ambling by the outdoor Soma Bar, watching a game at the badminton court? I peer at the people we pass, but do not find the face I seek. Cleaning crews, rifle-toting guards, waiters bearing trays—where have all the guests gone?

The floodlit pool offers a smattering of swimmers who do not look like staff. I feel a sharp stab of nostalgia for the morning after our wedding when Karun and I came down here. Our first married dip—could everyone tell this was my husband I swam with? The kiss underwater when I almost lost my nerve, and barely touched his lips.

Shyamu interrupts my reverie, by swinging so sharply that he clips one of the pillars lining the path. “No, Shyamu, no, you can’t go in there—the stable’s up ahead,” Guddi shouts, and I see he is aimed directly for the pool. None of her ear-pulling and elbow-jabbing tricks work, nor do her screams for him to stop. Lounge chairs buckle and pop underfoot as swimmers scramble towards the edges. Nodding his head sagely and curling his trunk up as if to prevent it from getting wet, Shyamu descends a few of the ghat-like steps, then loses his balance and launches us all into the drink.

“I’m still learning how to handle him,” Guddi says apologetically afterwards, as we stand dripping at the edge of the pool. Behind us, Shyamu wallows about happily, using his trunk to squirt water over his back and at the attendants trying to coax him out. “Come, Didi, you won’t believe where Anupam and I live now. Afterwards, we can dry off.”

She takes us up some stairs and through one of the carpeted hotel corridors. I look at each door we pass, wishing I had X-ray vision to check if Karun is behind any of them. “Namaste, Bhaiyya,” Guddi says to a gun-toting Khaki outside her room, then throws open the door. “Isn’t this amazing? So big—like a whole house, just for the two of us.”

Guddi scampers around inside, bouncing on the bed, sliding open the closet door, showing me her comb and her kohl and the five discarded cell phones she’s accumulated (six with the new one), all stored in a corner of the nightstand drawer. “Just look at the size of this television, Didi—our own private cinema once we learn how to turn it on.” She bows reverentially to the Buddha over the bed, then pulls me into the bathroom. “See this? It looks like a chair, but it’s the toilet, believe it or not!” She sits on it to demonstrate, then flushes it excitedly. “All that water—I think it automatically washes your bottom, but I haven’t figured out how.” She inhales deeply. “Just smell, so clean. Like roses, like chameli. Close your eyes—would you ever guess we’re in a latrine?”

Jaz stays behind to use the bathroom while Guddi takes me out on the balcony. “This is where Gaurav bhaiyya can live—that way, we won’t have to share the room at night, and he’ll have enough space to stretch out. It’ll be nice to snuggle with you, Didi—the bed is so huge that last night, Anupam and I felt lost.”

I look down at the gardens and pool, at the attendants trying to cajole out Shyamu, who still cavorts in the water. Unlike the bridal suite, where Karun and I could gaze out at the beach, we now face the interior. I think of all the occupants in the hotel, of the hundreds of windows and balconies overlooking the same courtyard—a few lights even illuminate the small buildings by the pool. The odds of locating Karun may have improved tremendously, but it’s still going to require a lot of luck.

“Listen, Guddi, I’m trying to find my husband. He came with three friends some days back in a van. They’re all scientists—sent for personally by Devi ma. Think, now—have you heard anything of such a group staying in the hotel?”

Guddi scrunches up her forehead in concentration. “What’s a scientist, Didi?” she finally asks. I try explaining it to her, but she gets more and more confused, especially after Jaz returns from his inordinately long time in the bathroom and joins the interrogation. “I’ve only been here since last night,” she says, her voice quivering, her chin slumping, her eyes tearing up. Then she brightens. “I know who you can ask. Although we’ll have to check with Chitra didi first.”

“Chitra didi?”

“She’s the supervisor. I’m sure she’ll allow you to come along upstairs after we dry off.”

“What’s upstairs?”

Guddi gives me a startled look. “Why, Devi ma, of course. She knows everything—without her knowledge, not even a leaf can drop.”

WITH THE WHISTLE around her neck and white sneakers on her feet, Chitra, the Devi’s most senior assistant, looks like an angry coach. “Didn’t I say you had an audience with Devi ma this evening?” she scolds Guddi, paying little attention to Jaz or me. “How could you have gotten yourself all wet? As it is we’ve lost all the Ooper-devi saris in the train wreck—do you know how difficult they were to get?”

“It’s not my fault, Didi. Shyamu jumped into the swimming pool.”

“And who gave you permission to go outside on him? I told you to practice in the garden, didn’t I? Did you think you could just walk off with him on your first day?”

“But in the village I used to—”

“Yes, I’m sure you have a thousand tales from your village—for all I know, the elephants there rocked you to sleep every night. Now take off that sari so we can try to iron it dry. As it is, the first thing Anupam did in the kitchen was splatter herself—her sari looks dyed in a vat of potato curry. So it’s going to be just you, which means Devi ma will be furious. We promised to have all of you glowing and ready like Ooper-devi’s maidens to accompany her next appearance.”