Manil Suri - The City of Devi

People marvel at their pluck, offer them chappatis and milk. But after their departure, there’s puzzlement about how they could have escaped, drinking tea on their verandah, when everything around them vaporized. Perhaps they’ve embellished things—at the very least, the bombs they saw explode couldn’t have been atomic.

By now, rumors swell unchecked by the day—pouring forth from neighboring villages, alleged radio broadcasts (even some miraculous ones on television), and most prolifically of all, people’s imaginations. Delhi lies in ruins, as does the entire belt of north and northeastern states. The Ganges has evaporated, the Deccan plateau collapsed, the heat has melted the entire Himalayan range. The center of the country has been so mercilessly bombed that seawater now erupts through a hole in the land. Only the southernmost states have been saved, the ones out of Pakistani range. Which means that for the generations to come, darkies will reign.

Vincent tries boosting his radio’s reception with an assortment of improvised antennas. The most successful of these involves a long length of downed power cable strung just so between the papaya trees in the garden. One night, he tunes in to a ham operator warning people to stay away from Delhi, which has been wiped out by at least six warheads. The next day, he chances upon a conversation between two hams in the Delhi suburbs, discussing where one might still be able to buy fresh milk. Over the next few weeks, he collects similar snippets from Calcutta, Bangalore, Hyderabad, and Chennai, pointing to contradictory fates. He even believes he “copies” England in the wee hours one morning, but the signal is so weak he can make out little beyond the British accent. Only the sign-off streams in loud and distinct. “Cheerio, old man. G6AQR clear.”

COCOONED IN OUR private loss, Sarita and I remain insulated from the prevailing disquiet. We listen to the Sequeiras argue about the radio broadcasts: despite the frequent claims of destruction, could their rising number imply the country (and by extension, the planet) has been spared? What is the significance of the clouds petering out? How harmful are the growing bouts of diffuse haze? Given that so many had already fled the cities based on the warnings, how high will the death toll rise? Questions that in our benumbed state, seem to pertain to some abstract alternative universe.

I don’t own up to my deception—Sequeira still believes I’m Sarita’s husband, Karun her brother. “Ijaz and Sarita,” he introduces us to everyone. “Getting married against religious norms at a time like this. Truly an inspiring example, a couple whose bravery will lead the way.” He has championed us so passionately to his family (direct descendants of the original Portuguese duke who set up the colony, he claims) that they have embraced us as their own.

Living with them, we must maintain our charade. At night, we sleep on thin mattresses on the floor, easy enough to separate. The little touches of intimacy that come naturally to married couples prove more challenging to simulate. Each time our hands accidentally touch at dinner, I have to remember not to pull away. We rehearse some stories together so that we can occasionally complete each other’s tales. We try to give the impression that we depend on each other to survive these distressing times, that we are true soul mates.

In fact, grief does bind us together. At first, it seems like a competition—who feels more devastated over Karun, who deserves the title of most bereft? But then our individual pools of sorrow merge to form a common lake. We each swim in this lake, see each other bathe in its melancholy chill. Our grieving body of two, though small, offers us community, nevertheless. We silently stare at each other from our mattresses, reliving memories of Karun too personal to share.

After a while, though, this bond starts to become oppressive. Night after night, we return to the same crushing fact—Karun is no longer in our midst. Like our own personal cloud of gloom, the memory of that last shared encounter on the beach hovers and clings. I wonder how much time I have left on this planet. Will I squander it all pining like this?

So I resolve to leave. Armageddon or not, I want to live again, rediscover my Jazterness, revel in it. Especially since it’s begun to appear that the world’s end might not be nigh. The doom-laden signals Vincent receives seem much too robust to originate from the midst of the devastation they detail. I could journey along the coast, avoiding hot spots along the way—surely Gujarat is a wonderful place to explore, the goût de terroir is great. Perhaps it’s safe to even paddle myself back to Bombay. Anything would be better than the stifling hours spent next to Sarita, the memories that slowly tighten around us day by day.

I tell her one morning. She almost seems to expect my announcement. “I’m pregnant,” she says.

SURELY IF THE JAZTER took a poll on what he should do next, the advice would be overwhelmingly Hallmark. Let your heart melt, O hoary old scallywag! The cannoli in the belly, the tadpole of joy all curled up—take those tiny fingers as soon as they emerge grasping for love. Pledge to stay by the mother’s side, to welcome this gurgling blessing with an open heart.

Except the Jazter has never willingly abided infants. They always look too larval, too raw, like protoplasm not cooked enough. Besides, wouldn’t it be the end of everything he stood for? The end of exploration, of discovery, of experience? All those unscaled heights, those unmapped pavilions, were he to succumb to paternity’s crew-cut call?

Sarita is astounded when I say I still plan to go. “Go? What do you mean?”

“I mean Sequeira can look after you. You know he’ll be thrilled—it’s not like you’d be having the baby all alone.”

“But you’re the one responsible.”

“What?”

“You know. That night. It never would’ve have happened. You’re the father, too, as much as Karun. If nothing else, think of what he would have wanted.”

She throws herself into the campaign to make me stay, urging me to feel her stomach, shamelessly trotting out the “Can you hear it kicking?” shtick, even though it’s months too soon to detect anything. She then claims it was Karun’s directive in his dying whisper, that he grasped for our hands at the end only because he wanted to put them together. “He saw the three of us forming a family after he was gone. He always believed in trinities, as you remember—said they represented perfection in the universe.” I tell her I don’t remember—in fact, I’m quite certain he mentioned no such notion to me. That in any case, he could have had no inkling of her pregnancy. She shakes her head sadly. “He could see. He always could. You’d do as he wanted if you truly cared about him.”

Such statements enrage me. Not only is she invoking a love she’s never even properly acknowledged, she’s trying to manipulate me with what she decrees are its responsibilities. With Karun, it had always been just him and me—we didn’t get far enough to consider something as unconventional as taking in a baby. I know she’s doing it for her child, a mother trying to ensure her blood more protection. But how dare she horn in so transparently? The more she prods, the more I want to leave.

I start looking more seriously into possible destinations. By now, Vincent has pronounced both Delhi and Hyderabad radiation-free, but getting there on foot is best left to hardened ascetics. Ahmedabad, the closest big city, also gets a safety certificate—unfortunately, it doesn’t hold any particular allure for me. My thoughts keep returning to Bombay: the land of new beginnings, of opportunity; compared to overland routes, a sea voyage might be easier. Vincent still urges extreme caution, because of the many conflicting signals received. However, the most tangible evidence of nuclear annihilation to wash up on our shores no longer incriminates Mumbai. A small, recently discovered plaque attached to the tree trunk still sprawled across the harbor playground announces (in both Urdu and English) that this is the third oldest banyan in Karachi.