Free The City of Devi: A Novel by Manil Suri
Authors: Manil Suri
always talked about Devi coming to life.” Karun’s one reservation related to the Vishnu and Shiva characters who popped up in the climax to form a terrorist-exterminating threesome with Superdevi. “They should have developed those roles more, seized the opportunity to delve deeper into the concept of the Trimurti.”
As expected, sitting together in the theater brought back all of Karun’s shyness. After the first half hour, though, he started to relax, as if the darkness had begun to dissolve through his inhibitions. We even held hands on the armrest between us following the intermission—in fact, I got the distinct sense that he relished the element of covertness. After that, we began going to the movies regularly—his favorite theater was the Regal, which, curiously, he said he’d frequented quite often in college. When I asked him to tell me something about the films, he oddly couldn’t recall much of what he’d seen.
THE KHAKIS ARE on the warpath. Their commotion plucks me from my cinema reverie and deposits me back in the hospital basement. “Look at him,” their leader shouts, pointing at the man they hoisted into the air minutes ago. “Look at the condition he’s in.” The man tries to sink in deeper behind the bandages plastering his face. Someone has finally removed the noose around his neck—it lies coiled on the ground, waiting for another victim.
“A complete outrage. These cowardly Muslims who’ve almost succeeded in getting one of our own Hindu brothers killed.” He does not elaborate on how, exactly, the Muslims are to blame. “I’ve told my men to root out every last Muslim in this room so there’s never a repetition of something like this. The HRM will find them and make this shelter safe for you again.”
I should have guessed from the saffron threads: the Khakis are part of the right-wing HRM, the Hindu Rashtriya Manch organization, responsible for so much of the nation’s bloodshed. They fan out through the crowded basement, peering at licenses and ID cards—when unavailable, they demand to see an intact foreskin. “My driver carries all the papers,” the man in the tan safari suit sniffs. “When the all-clear sounds, you’re free to ask him.” He sputters in outrage as a Khaki roughly grabs his belt, then staggers to the floor bleeding after receiving a corrective punch in the face.
“No, please, stop,” the woman with the gold paisley sari shrieks, throwing herself over his body, as if she’s been watching Bollywood movies all her life precisely in rehearsal of this move. “He’s my husband, he’s Hindu—we’re both Hindu—look, here’s my mangalsutra.” A Khaki bends over to take a closer look, then rips it from her neck and holds it laughing above his head.
A figure heads towards me and I stiffen upon recognizing my would-be Romeo. Is he going to try again to strike up a conversation? Then I realize he’s actually threading his way away from the line of advancing Khakis. Our gazes meet, and something flickers in his eyes—I guess at once he must be Muslim. He’s almost past me, headed towards the dark recesses with the bottles and flasks, when the woman with designs on my pomegranate spots him. “Look, that sisterfucker’s trying to get away. Quick, catch him!”
Within seconds, two Khakis are upon him. “Let me go,” he cries as they pin his hands behind his back. The muscles strain in his arms and neck. “I’m Hindu, I tell you. My name is Gaurav.”
“Why were you trying to escape?”
“I wasn’t—I just thought it was darker back there—I had to urinate.”
One of the Khakis fishes around in Gaurav’s pockets. He finds a sheet of paper which he unfolds and stares at myopically. It’s clear he can’t read. “It’s just an old receipt,” Gaurav says.
“Where’s your ID?”
“At home. I left my wallet there to keep it safe.”
The Khaki smiles. “Actually, you’re always carrying your ID—you’re attached to it. My
As expected, sitting together in the theater brought back all of Karun’s shyness. After the first half hour, though, he started to relax, as if the darkness had begun to dissolve through his inhibitions. We even held hands on the armrest between us following the intermission—in fact, I got the distinct sense that he relished the element of covertness. After that, we began going to the movies regularly—his favorite theater was the Regal, which, curiously, he said he’d frequented quite often in college. When I asked him to tell me something about the films, he oddly couldn’t recall much of what he’d seen.
THE KHAKIS ARE on the warpath. Their commotion plucks me from my cinema reverie and deposits me back in the hospital basement. “Look at him,” their leader shouts, pointing at the man they hoisted into the air minutes ago. “Look at the condition he’s in.” The man tries to sink in deeper behind the bandages plastering his face. Someone has finally removed the noose around his neck—it lies coiled on the ground, waiting for another victim.
“A complete outrage. These cowardly Muslims who’ve almost succeeded in getting one of our own Hindu brothers killed.” He does not elaborate on how, exactly, the Muslims are to blame. “I’ve told my men to root out every last Muslim in this room so there’s never a repetition of something like this. The HRM will find them and make this shelter safe for you again.”
I should have guessed from the saffron threads: the Khakis are part of the right-wing HRM, the Hindu Rashtriya Manch organization, responsible for so much of the nation’s bloodshed. They fan out through the crowded basement, peering at licenses and ID cards—when unavailable, they demand to see an intact foreskin. “My driver carries all the papers,” the man in the tan safari suit sniffs. “When the all-clear sounds, you’re free to ask him.” He sputters in outrage as a Khaki roughly grabs his belt, then staggers to the floor bleeding after receiving a corrective punch in the face.
“No, please, stop,” the woman with the gold paisley sari shrieks, throwing herself over his body, as if she’s been watching Bollywood movies all her life precisely in rehearsal of this move. “He’s my husband, he’s Hindu—we’re both Hindu—look, here’s my mangalsutra.” A Khaki bends over to take a closer look, then rips it from her neck and holds it laughing above his head.
A figure heads towards me and I stiffen upon recognizing my would-be Romeo. Is he going to try again to strike up a conversation? Then I realize he’s actually threading his way away from the line of advancing Khakis. Our gazes meet, and something flickers in his eyes—I guess at once he must be Muslim. He’s almost past me, headed towards the dark recesses with the bottles and flasks, when the woman with designs on my pomegranate spots him. “Look, that sisterfucker’s trying to get away. Quick, catch him!”
Within seconds, two Khakis are upon him. “Let me go,” he cries as they pin his hands behind his back. The muscles strain in his arms and neck. “I’m Hindu, I tell you. My name is Gaurav.”
“Why were you trying to escape?”
“I wasn’t—I just thought it was darker back there—I had to urinate.”
One of the Khakis fishes around in Gaurav’s pockets. He finds a sheet of paper which he unfolds and stares at myopically. It’s clear he can’t read. “It’s just an old receipt,” Gaurav says.
“Where’s your ID?”
“At home. I left my wallet there to keep it safe.”
The Khaki smiles. “Actually, you’re always carrying your ID—you’re attached to it. My