Free The City of Devi: A Novel by Manil Suri Page A

colleague will take you to the back and check while you use it to urinate.”
    They are guffawing and twisting his arms behind to lead him back when I find myself instinctively stepping forward. Perhaps the bashed-in face of their previous victim spurs me—I cannot stand by again, cannot stomach another body getting broken and hanged. A smidgen of guilt at having treated my Romeo shabbily is also mixed in—for all I know, his designs may have been completely honorable. “I know this man. You can let him go. His name is Gaurav Pradhan.”
    I’m not sure from where I get the surname. The Khakis are as startled at my intervention as I am. “How do you know him?”
    “He lives in my building. He’s Hindu. I’ve run into him at Mahalaxmi temple, many times.”
    As they wonder whether to untwist Gaurav’s arms, my nemesis, the pomegranate harridan, pipes up. “She’s lying. She has to be Muslim herself—that’s why she’s trying to save him. He must be her boyfriend .” She uses the English word.
    “Don’t listen to her. You can see I’m a married Hindu woman—look at the bindi I’m wearing.”
    “Anyone can take some color and draw a dot on their forehead. If you’re married, then where’s your mangalsutra to go along with your bindi, Muslim bitch?” She spits in my direction.
    The Khakis confer with each other. The woman summons up more betel juice to aim at me. “I saw them talking to each other not five minutes ago—the sisterfucker and his Muslim whore.” She squirts, remnants dribble down her chin.
    One of the Khakis turns to me. “Why don’t you come with us to the back? We can sort it all out there.” The gleaming new interest in his eyes unsettles me. He pretends to help me by the arm through the maze of people, but his grip is so tight I can feel his fingers dig into my flesh.
    As I try to figure out how to extricate myself from the danger I’ve foolishly put myself in, the anti-aircraft guns start up. The sound of an explosion comes from outside, followed by another. The room seems to list to one side, as if the building is tipping over, as people run towards the slatted windows to peer through. A piercing whistle-like screech draws even more gawkers, and just as everyone crowds against the wall facing the street, it explodes.
    A thrill passes through my body, a wild and terrified elation: I have been bombed. Then I hear the screams, see the arms and feet sticking through the rubble. The Khakis abandon their hunting game and rush to help the victims. I join in as well, in an effort to rescue two half-buried women—the white of their dresses identifies them as nurses.
    I’m helping a doctor clear more fragments of wall when I feel a mouse-like movement in my salwaar. I look down to see grubby brown fingers easing out my pomegranate. It’s the boy with the Bimal Batak T-shirt. I try to seize his wrist, but he wriggles free. He scampers over the rubble towards the hole in the side of the building and I scrabble up after him. Squeezing through the opening, I follow him into the bright sunshine.
    He dashes down the road, but I easily outrun him. “Leave it,” I order, catching him by the collar, but he does not obey. I grab his arm as he tries to bring the pomegranate to his mouth for a bite. “Little thug,” I say, and twist so hard that he screams and lets go. He spits at me as I retrieve the fruit from the ground, then flings a fistful of gravel in my direction and runs away.
    I stand on the road to clear my head. Anti-aircraft fire still echoes in the distance, but I know the planes with the bombs have already flown away. Behind me lie the smoking remains of the Liberty, and I wonder if this is the enemy’s strategy—to destroy all the cinemas. An ancient building down the street lies in ruins as well—perhaps its tired bones have collapsed just from the trauma of witnessing the attack.
    Still numb and euphoric over my bombing and escape, I head for the Marine Lines train