When it’s time for her next show, Devi girl insists Jaz (who she’s christened her horse, her “Gaurav-ghoda”) carry her on his shoulders to the turret. An attendant opens a small gate at the end of the terrace beyond which a walkway runs across the top of the building along the crenulated parapet. Jaz, the merry porter, proceeds down this with his joyful load. At the turret, he personally helps the girl into a saucer-shaped stand of sorts, while a cluster of attendants stand by and watch.
“My, aren’t we the Devi’s pet?” I remark when he returns.
“All to get your husband back,” he reminds me.
The fireworks start—rockets whiz by, fire fountains burst into life all around us. With cascades of sparks tumbling from every ledge, I’m surprised the hotel doesn’t burn down. Large lotuses blossom from the Devi’s extra hands—Chitra has inserted a stem into a cleft in the left. “We’re trying to get her to memorize the words so she can address the crowd in her own voice,” she tells us, as Devi girl lip-synchs to the prerecorded words piped in through the speaker system.
Chitra gives a signal to the man at the control panel, and the saucer holding the Devi girl begins to rotate. “Watch this,” Chitra says as streams of sparks issue from the base of the saucer, which slowly lifts into the air. It occurs to me that this might be the machine from Mehboob Studios that Sequeira said he’d had to give away. I blurt out the obvious question: If Devi ma is real, shouldn’t she be able to levitate on her own? Why does she need such aids?
Guddi, shocked, urges me to renounce these blasphemous thoughts before Devi ma strikes me down, but Chitra holds up her hand. “Why, indeed, would a real devi not show off her flying powers?” She looks at me, then Guddi and the rest of the assembly, as a teacher might at a sluggish class to elicit a forgotten lesson. “The answer, remember, is simple: That’s the wrong question. Rather, ask yourself why anyone might still doubt Devi ma after she’s taken the trouble to grace us in this girl’s avatar. What’s the true test? Healing the countless invalids who seek her help, or performing tricks like a circus animal? Count again the number of arms she has, then tell me what more evidence you could want.”
I stifle the impulse to point out that not all the limbs in question are whole, that their sum doesn’t quite total up to four. The attendants all gaze raptly at the spectacle, now certified authentic, but I cannot tell where Chitra stands herself. Was her speech merely for her minions’ sake, does she truly believe in Devi ma or not?
The show ends differently than the one we witnessed from the beach. As the girl reaches her zenith, an enormous buffalo effigy, hoisted from the ground at the end of a cable, swings into view. I’ve seen these as part of the City of Devi celebrations—an enactment of the Devi myth where the goddess slays the buffalo demon. “I am the demon Mahisha, who neither Vishnu nor Shiva has been able to vanquish,” a voice intones over the speakers. “I am the lord of the three worlds, and you will marry me.” A series of threats from both sides follows, with the Devi promising to cut off the demon’s head and drink its blood. Finally, a trident appears in her hand, one that shoots laser-like rays of light through the air to ignite the buffalo. Strings of firecrackers go off in its belly, red and green flares emerge from its mouth and tail. A tremendous cheer rises from the crowd as fire engulfs the animal.
“What’s that?” Inside the metal ribcage of the buffalo, I think I make out a shadowy form, one that writhes and shivers in the flames. I point it out to Jaz, but clouds of smoke come in the way before he can see it.
“It’s the spirit of the buffalo demon,” Chitra says. “Being purified at the hands of Devi ma.”
“It looked like something trapped inside. Or someone.”
“Just a spirit. And Devi ma has liberated it.” Her face is serene in the light from the flames.
After the show, Gaurav-ghoda fetches Devi girl back on his shoulders and deposits her on the throne. It’s time for the blessing of the pilgrims, at least the wealthiest ones. Chitra points out the matinee idol Roop Kumar, who reluctantly leaves behind his entourage and bows down alone at the throne. A round and suited gentleman, who Chitra says is the owner of the Mumbai Cricket League, follows, after which the president of Mody Industries himself (instantly recognizable from the newspapers) touches the girl’s feet. By the time the nightly slot to receive less exalted devotees rolls around, the Devi is quite cranky. Most have some ailment or other that needs curing—she sends them on their way after a perfunctory laying of hands on the affected part. “Only one disease per person,” she snaps at a woman who has cancer as well as diabetes. A man who refuses to leave without a handwritten note for his crippled son at home irritates her so much that she stabs him with his own fountain pen through the arm.
“I think it’s time to end the session,” Chitra whispers. “We don’t want her to start putting people to death like she did last night.”
On Chitra’s behest Jaz hitches the Devi on his shoulders again and carries her around the terrace to restore her mood. She pulls off his turban and perches it on her own head, guffawing when it droops down to her nose. “Will Devi ma grant one more boon tonight—for her loyal horse this time?” Gaurav-ghoda asks. “Help me find the person we’re looking for, the one my friend was talking about.”
“You mean her husband—that woman who tried to poison me?”
“She brought you that chutney you liked so much, remember? Her husband is closer to me than any brother could be.” The statement sounds so heartfelt, it alarms me.
Devi girl gives me a nasty look as Jaz explains about the bus that’s picked up Karun and his colleagues. “I know Devi ma gives her blessing to so many people that it’s not possible to remember them all these days later. But with her permission, my friend and I would like to look through the hotel.”
The girl thinks for a moment, then agrees. “But first take Devi ma around the pool and the palm trees.” Jaz gasps as she grips his freshly unturbaned hair, like she might the mane of a horse, and pulls sharply. “Faster this time.”
JAZ
13
WE’VE ALMOST MADE IT TO THE DOOR WHEN THE WICKED LITTLE witch of the east calls me back. “Another ride for my Devi ma?” I say, and she nods her fat little head. I remember to brace myself as she clambers on this time—the Jazter has learnt that Devi flesh weighs more per unit volume than the heaviest element known to man. “Once more?” I ask after we’ve galloped all the way to the turret and back, and to my dismay, my divine porcinity nods yes.
The Jazter has never understood religion, but if this is what the citizens believe will save them, then maybe they deserve to be dead.
Perhaps I’m being too harsh on her Marmite-ship. Lying at her feet all night, I have listened to her tale of pauperdom to popehood, destitution to devi-nity. It behooves me as even-handed raconteur to present the sympathetic side of even the most trying characters I encounter. Who would fail to be moved by the deep scar on her left appendage? The gash where her mother tried to simply hack off the extra arm, failing only because her slum dweller’s knife was too blunt to cut through bone? Not to mention the other marks of abuse—the scars on her back, the lacerations on her neck, the cigarette burns on her legs—all of which she displays to me as proudly as stigmata. “To think I might still have been begging outside the Sion post office,” she says, choking up a little at the poignancy of her own discovery. Her tears dry quickly, though, vaporized in the heat of the rancor she has stored up inside. “All the people who spat at me, the dogs who laughed at my extra arms, not realizing these were the signs of Devi.”