Manil Suri - The City of Devi

Devi ma stumbles away screaming. The crenellations impede her—she almost falls off several times negotiating their treacherous topography. Reaching the turret, she realizes she has nowhere further to flee. She flaps her arms uselessly, then spots the levitation machine. She squeezes into it, pulling at its supports, wrapping its straps around her neck and torso, as if hoping it will magically transport her. But she remains earthbound. “Help me please, help your Devi ma,” she pleads to the mob below. Thousands of hands rise towards her, some with garments stretched like nets to catch her should she jump. She peers over, looking for a balcony or ledge to break her fall, but the turret has none. With Bhim only steps away, she inches up to the very edge and mewls.

She waits too long. Bhim nabs her before she can jump, hoisting her into the air like a puppet at the end of his arm. By now he has seen the turmoil below, picked up on the wrath of the crowd. “Look, she’s just an ordinary girl, that too from the slums. She’s not a real devi, so no need to work yourselves up this much.”

His words are faint, and the girl’s screams almost drown them out. He sets her down to rip off her microphone—she seizes the opportunity to squirm out of his grasp. But she’s not fast enough—he catches her by the arm and spins her around, then slams her headfirst into the parapet stone. The microphone captures the sound of impact impeccably, amplifying it for the benefit of the crowd.

I can feel the outrage from the beach rumble under my feet even where we stand. Bhim’s response is to forge on. “I’m the one who found her, installed her here for you to worship. The miracles, the fireworks, it’s all a show—I even write the lines she mouths.” He holds her aloft again, her head lolling like that of a freshly slaughtered calf. “A true devi wouldn’t be so helpless, would hardly allow me to smack her around. If she’s real, where is her holy power, why doesn’t she strike me down?”

Perhaps Bhim doesn’t see what we can from our vantage point—the angry sweep of humanity below him curling along its edge like a carpet to climb up the turret wall. “Follow me, not her. I’m the one, not she, who will save you from the enemy bomb.” Each time he shakes her rag-doll body in the air to underscore the Devi’s helplessness, the crowd presses forward, more of its members scrambling atop or trampled under the rising surge. The edifice, however, proves too tall to scale—halfway up, the embankment of bodies comes toppling down.

But the mob has also discovered the balconies forming a grid up the wall closest to the terrace. As Bhim booms on about uniting against the enemy colony in Mahim, the first devotees shinny up carved poles and swing over Rajput railings to clamber onto the walkway ledge. Khakis around us promptly shoot them down. This, however, galvanizes the long-cordoned terrace disciples, who finally manage to overpower their guards. They stream down the walkway, hauling their beach compatriots up over the parapet. “Shoot them,” Bhim commands, but even with weapons dutifully fired, the surge is already too thick to staunch.

His escape cut off, Bhim backs away to the edge of the turret. He threatens to toss the girl over, waving her body in the air. Perhaps it’s the breeze from this motion that revives the Devi. “Welcome,” she says to her army of followers, then twists around to claw at Bhim’s face.

The next moment is a blur, with Bhim shouting, devotees charging, and the Devi woozily spurring them on with snatches of her speech (“Show them no mercy,” “Nourish the land with their blood”). Seconds later, both she and Bhim hurtle down towards a mosaic of shirts and saris held aloft (together with the odd devotee pulled along). The loudspeakers continue to chronicle Bhim’s fate even after his body is swallowed from view—his screams mingling with the frenzied cries of the hordes, followed by a subtle series of pops quite distinct from the static, like knuckles cracking or a stale baguette snapped in two. It takes me an instant to realize this might be the sound a body makes when pulled apart. I look at the eddies of activity swirling in the floodlights, and although I can’t be sure, I think I spot Bhim’s head bobbing away like a coconut.

The Devi, on the other hand, seems none too worse for her tumble. Dazed but intact, she rides the adulatory swells resting on her back for a while, then sits up to test-wave each of her three hands in turn. In short order, she is presiding over a group of people pulling up loudspeaker poles and lashing them together to cant against the hotel as climbing ramps. The last glimpse I have is of her leading the charge to reclaim her abode, the arms supporting her invisibly tucked under. An airborne presence, like Superdevi herself, gliding magically over the sea of her followers.

Now that the danger from Bhim has dissipated, Sarahan and his companions finally emerge from the emergency stairwell. I shout to Karun and Sarita to follow me—the last thing we want is to get caught in crossfire between competing factions. We swim against the tide of devotees, pouring in steadily now up the various flights of stairs. As we struggle down to the second-floor landing, Sarita comes to a stop. “Would you mind waiting here? I’ve left something in Guddi’s room I need to get.”

“You can’t be serious. Not again.”

“It will just take a second.”

In the end, we all go. While Sarita rummages around the cupboard for her pomegranate, I slip into the bathroom to retrieve the gun, with which I seem to be playing my own karmic game of lost and found.

Even the detour’s five extra minutes exact a price. By the time we get to the ground floor, the entire beach seems to have crushed its way into the hotel. As we watch, the wall behind the stage ruptures open, and more devotees burst in. “The elephants,” I shout to Sarita, and we push our way towards their stables.

Where, bless her little Bride of Ganesh heart, we find Guddi, who has somehow managed to install herself in the role of chief mahout. “Their supervisor was ill, so with all my experience in the village, it seemed only natural to help them through this fix. That’s why I couldn’t return to the annex, Bhaiyya—I hope you’re not too mad for leaving you like that.”

I assure Guddi all is forgiven, but we need Shyamu and her now to convey us to safety over the throngs. She frowns at the suggestion. “But I’m in charge here. I can’t just take off—it’s much too important a job. Just look how the noise has agitated the elephants. What if I leave and something goes wrong?” On cue, one of the animals trumpets, pulling with such force at his chain that he almost yanks the peg out.

But then another wall collapses and more people gush in. The mahouts inform Guddi that the only way to protect the animals is to ride them away to safety somewhere. They start mounting their charges and leaving, despite Guddi running around protesting that nobody should go until she decides what’s best. She gets very angry when I ask some of them if they will carry us along. “Didn’t you just say you wanted Shyamu and me to take you? Are we suddenly not good enough?”

Once I’ve soothed her feelings, she lines Shyamu up at the mounting stand so we can all get on. Clambering onto his head, she aims him towards a breach in the hotel wall through which the silvery sea is visible. She feeds him a small laddoo produced from somewhere under her sari. Then, unmindful of the screams of panicked devotees underfoot, Guddi steers us out towards the freedom of the sands.

SO IN THE END, fate gives the Jazter a last-minute reprieve, another shot at the Karun sweepstakes. I would have preferred just the two of us on the elephant (or, since we’re fantasizing, on a boat to some safe and secluded island), but still. One thing that’s changed: Karun has told Sarita about us—I can tell from their silence, see it in their faces. Which is excellent news—best to have everything out in the open, should Sarita claim the moral high ground because they’re married, or Karun be tempted to choose duty over love again. The Jazter has outgrown his Mahatma phase—no longer will he cede or sacrifice, watch his love wrested away. Now that it’s down to the home stretch, he’s going to make sure this journey ends the way he wants it.