“Besides, we have to prepare you for Mura chacha, Didi,” Guddi says. “This is not a chance you want to miss. He’s resting back there, behind that door—he’ll be getting up any minute.” She sits me down while Anupam starts shaking a vial of white liquid. “It’s good we still have Nalini didi’s outfit—we can dress you in it.”
Anupam starts to paint a series of white bridal dots along my brow, but I push her hand away. “I’m sorry. I really don’t know what you’re doing. Forgive me, but I don’t want to be dressed up for your Mura chacha—I just need to get to Bandra.”
Both Guddi and Anupam look at me in alarm. “Do you know what you’re saying?” Madhu exclaims. “It’s Devi ma we’re dressing you up for, not just Mura. The real Devi ma, the one who’s appeared at Juhu in person—not all these fakes people keep conjuring. That’s why we’re headed to Santa Cruz—haven’t you heard anything? You’re lucky to get this opportunity—only because Nalini can’t join us. Devi ma herself, you understand?—to serve as her personal maiden. Though in your case, not to be impolite, it would be more matron than maiden.”
“Please, Didi, you must agree,” Guddi says. “Devi ma can be very quick to flare up if you show her any disrespect. There was a girl in our village who made a joke about the idol at the temple—said she was much fairer, that Devi ma had too black a complexion. Within a week she was dead—not only her skin but even her eyeballs turned black. We watched as the jackals ate her body—even her parents weren’t brave enough to go near her after that.”
My skepticism must show, because Anupam starts nodding and insisting it’s all true. “Bhim kaka. Tell her about Bhim kaka,” she says to Madhu, her voice squeaky with urgency.
“You probably haven’t heard about Bhim, either, then? After all, he’s only the most important man in the city.” Madhu arches her eyebrows and stares at me until I nod—yes, I have heard of the leader of the HRM, almost mythically renowned for his bloodthirsty ways. “Think of this, then—Bhim himself, no less, has become a disciple of Devi ma. He challenged her at first, called her a pretender, but now falls at her feet at least once a week to beg her blessing. He’s dedicated every last man in his army to her, declared that without her will, even a leaf won’t drop in the city. In fact, who do you think arranges for this train, these maidens every week? It’s Bhim—Mura just works for him. So forget about trying to get off at Bandra—if you don’t fear Devi ma, at least worry about getting on the wrong side of Bhim.”
The train engine toots, and I see we have already passed the Bombay Central bridge. I can always slip away at Santa Cruz and make my way south, I think. Yes, I will audition for Mura, I say.
Guddi and Anupam squeal in delight. Even Madhu seems to thaw a little—as the other two open jars of makeup and ooh over them, she starts curling my hair with a brush. “Guddi, find that memsahib wrinkle cream. Anupam, get some water from the thermos and wipe her arms clean.” Her brush snags on grit, which she pulls out with a harsh tug. “Isn’t it difficult enough as it is, that your hair had to be snarled like this? What did you do, rub in handfuls of dirt?”
The girls want to paint my fingernails with polish, but Madhu declares it will take too long to dry. “Just do the cheeks and lips, and let’s hope for the best.” She arranges a necklace that cascades in a series of filigreed chains down my neck and threads heavy gold earrings through my lobes. They all stand back to look at me—my face feels caked with makeup. “She’ll look younger after you finish painting on the bridal dots.”
Once I’m all decorated, Madhu insists I put on the “magic” sari. “It really does glow, believe me, but only if it’s pitch-dark. In any case, your salwaar is filthy—do you really think Devi ma would tolerate anyone in such a rag?” I realize my mistake as soon as I change—neither the sari nor the petticoat underneath has a pocket, and I’m forced to wrap the pomegranate in the folds at my waist and hope for the best. As I sweat under the layers of heavy silk, Guddi and Anupam express delight at how bride-like the bright red color makes me look. Even Madhu grudgingly says that I no longer resemble their aunt. She draws the hem of the sari over my head and leads me to Mura’s door, as if it is my wedding night. Just before turning the knob, she pauses. “I almost forgot to make sure. This month—have you already had your flow? We don’t want to get Devi ma unclean.”
THE TENOR OF THE CITY OF DEVI campaign changed abruptly. We awoke one morning to find that a phalanx of fifteen-foot Mumbadevi statues had invaded Mumbai. “It’s a showcase for all the tourists coming to our city,” the new campaign chairman, rumored to be an HRM man, explained. “So they can appreciate all the splendor and magnificence of Devi ma.” The statues, however, projected more belligerence than beauty—ominous warrior figures with coarsely fashioned features, set identically in concrete. Many of them popped up next to crowded Muslim localities unfrequented by tourists, where their towering presence could cause the maximum provocation.
Soon after, the HRM-allied municipality banned the sale of meat on Fridays in deference to the mother goddess. The very next week, it issued an order directing all public establishments, including places of worship, to immediately start displaying the City of Devi logo. When churches and mosques protested that they found its image of Mumbadevi offensive, the HRM chairman, Shrikant Doshi, responded personally. “Devi ma only reveals herself to those who believe. Anyone who claims to see her in the logo can’t then claim to be a true Christian or Muslim.” His thugs issued ultimatums around the city, beating up non-compliant mullahs and priests, vandalizing their mosques and churches. In retaliation, mobs set upon Hindu temples, stabbing two priests at Babulnath and destroying some of the outer shrines at Mahalaxmi.
The riots that ensued permanently changed the character of the city. Even after they abated, an atmosphere of heightened animus, of extreme mistrust, lingered between communities.
I REMAINED ONLY passingly attentive to the City of Devi tensions, so immersed was I in my “Project Karun” diary. The milestone of our hundredth star was fast approaching. The day I logged it, I couldn’t resist some calculations. Our performance had a weekly mean of 4.35 stars over the past five months or so, with a standard deviation of 2.72. If I ignored everything before Jaipur, the mean jumped to 6.67 stars per week, with σ = 1.44. I had no idea if these statistics were good, if they agreed with what might be normally expected.
“The average seems a bit low for newlyweds,” Uma opined. “But why worry? You now know his machinery works, and that he’s probably not a homo.”
“Thanks for being so sensitive.”
“Sorry. All I mean to say is that if you’re having fun, then the numbers are right—it’s the only thing that counts.”
We were having fun. Karun still waited for me to initiate things, but I found, to my surprise, that I enjoyed taking the lead. Sarita the huntress, Sarita the tigress out to get her meat—surely there existed a goddess embodying these pursuits whom I was channeling?
More importantly, Karun had become an essential part of my life. I loved being woken up in the morning when he clambered back into bed to share his mug of cinnamon coffee. We read the newspaper over breakfast, trying to catch flaws in “scientific” polls and studies, marveling at the latest lapses in politicians’ logic. I never knew what culinary experiment awaited me on evenings I worked late—once he even surprised me with Vietnamese. His Indo-Italian fusion had actually begun to taste rather wonderful, ever since Professor Ashton had mailed him packets of herb seeds from Princeton (we now had such European plants as sage and rosemary growing on our balcony). Sometimes, I discovered basil sprigs tucked into the folds of my towel—one day, I opened my cupboard to find sachets of lavender nestling between the saris. Each night, I liked to casually brush my toe against the hairless patch on his ankle for reassurance before closing my eyes. Our sunflower sheets grew softer, acquiring a silky smoothness over time.