We all run up to this human barricade, where Chitra tries to cajole the Devi out. The devotees chant and raise fists in response—the plates must be spent, because only a few odd pieces of cutlery come sailing out. A cry of pain shudders up from behind the cordon—through the shifting thicket of legs, I catch a glimpse of an attendant lying ashen-faced on the ground. Red stains the collar of his beige uniform. The Devi lies stretched atop him, her face buried deep into his neck, as if engaged in something carnal. The legs shift again, and now she looks up. Blood drips from her mouth, like from a feeding animal’s snout.
“Get them away,” Chitra shouts, and the guards get busy using their rifle butts to knock devotees down. But each time one falls, two more surge in, their passion so strong that first one, then another Khaki gets swallowed by the crowd. Somewhere in the melee, the supine attendant manages to crawl away, his neck awash in blood, as if punctured repeatedly by a fledgling vampire just learning to suck. I catch a glimpse of a woman disciple eagerly take his place—she unbuttons her blouse to bare her neck, a look of beatific anticipation on her face.
Eventually, though, the rifle butts prevail—the gauntlet is penetrated, the Devi exposed. Startled, she springs off her new and freshly bitten donor, landing cat-like, on her hands and feet, in a crouch. She hisses at the advancing guards, then rises to her full height and growls. “Careful,” Chitra cautions. “Remember that touching Devi ma is not allowed.”
“Yes, remember touching me is not allowed,” the girl mocks, lunging at the guards, forcing them to back away. She raises her good arms above her head, then flaps them up and down, as if chasing after birds or pretending to be a plane taking off. It’s a move I remember from Superdevi, used by the heroine each time she wanted to change herself into a particularly fearsome avatar. Nothing happens—the Devi girl remains untransformed. “Kneel down and touch your foreheads to the ground,” she commands, apparently undaunted by this deficiency in her transmogrification powers.
One by one, the guards and attendants obediently prostrate themselves, with the devotees (those not already knocked down) enthusiastically joining in as well. Chitra looks on tight-lipped as Devi ma steps on the nearest Khaki, mashing his face into the floor with her foot. She zigzags across the arrangement of backs as if playing a sprawling game of hopscotch. “Why are you still standing?” she demands, coming to a stop before us. She beats her arms vigorously—perhaps a last-ditch effort to give her metamorphosis a kick-start.
Chitra draws back a bit but Karun stands his ground. “Because I have something to tell you. I know where your Gaurav is.”
“Who are you?”
“His friend. The one he came to find. We were together when Bhim captured him.”
No sooner has Karun pointed the finger when Bhim himself walks through the terrace doors.
I’VE SEEN BHIM in photographs and videos, but never in person, nor in full regalia. Locks cascade from under warrior headgear, gold breastplate and armguards gild him as splendidly as Devi ma, the fringe of his tunic billows in a brocaded swirl. He strides across the floor, decked out like an emperor of yore. Despite quibbles about appropriate heft and height for one so powerful, the awe he commands is palpable. Khakis and devotees alike jump back guiltily to their feet, as if caught playing games in class by a roving principal. And yet his manner, as he bends down level with the Devi’s face, is gentle. “Is something the matter?” he asks.
I expect her to curse or stomp or whir her arms, but instead, she calms right down. “Gaurav-ghoda. You took my Gaurav-ghoda. I want him back.” She bursts into sobs.
“Gaurav-ghoda? Who’s Gaurav-ghoda? Bhim kaka doesn’t have any Gaurav-ghoda.” He turns to Chitra. “What’s she talking about? Didn’t I tell you to keep her in a good mood at all costs?”
Chitra starts to apologize, to explain about Jaz, when Karun cuts in. “Don’t believe what he says, Devi ma—ask where he’s hidden Gaurav.”
“Ah, so you’re the one filling her head with this. The wife no longer quite satisfies your urges, I see—still pining for your friend.” He leans down again to the girl and holds out his open arms. “The man’s right, Dev ma, forgive Bhim kaka for having forgotten. I do have Gaurav-ghoda, all safe and sound, more special to me than any guest. We’ll go see him at once, right after your show is done.”
“He’s lying, Devi ma, listen to me—he’ll have your Gaurav-ghoda killed, he told me so himself. Go right now and save your friend, or you may never see him again.”
But the Devi girl has already allowed herself to be picked up in Bhim’s arms. She snuggles against his chest, her stunted right hand playing with his locks, the nubs on the left stroking his neck. “He gave me a present,” she says, producing the empty Marmite jar from a pocket and forlornly turning it over for Bhim to see. “The chutney inside was so tasty, I licked it clean.”
“And you didn’t save any for Bhim kaka? We’ll get some more, don’t worry.” He kisses her forehead. “As for your Gaurav, I promise not to touch a hair on his head.”
“Don’t trust him!” In desperation, Karun tries to clutch at the girl’s shoulder to get her attention. She screams as his fingers slip past and wrap around her malformed appendage instead.
“How dare you touch Devi ma! I’ll have you put to death. Guards, you heard what I said. Right now, this instant, in front of me. Slice off his head.”
The guards look at each other and I nervously draw closer to Karun. Bhim starts laughing. “Now, now, Devi ma—that’s quite a drastic punishment. Perhaps you can show some mercy, because I need him and his wife tomorrow, at breakfast.” He lifts her up on his shoulders so that she sits straddling his neck. “Bhim kaka has never seen you summon Kali quite like that before—he’s very impressed.”
The praise pleases the girl. She waves away the Khakis from atop her perch and makes a big show of granting Karun a pardon. “It’s almost time for your appearance,” Bhim reminds her, patting her leg. “Today’s the big night, isn’t it, to speak your lines yourself? Bhim kaka hasn’t forgotten—let’s go get the gold on your face touched up and fit a microphone around your neck.”
He carries her away, walking at first, and then, as the girl says “Bhim-ghoda,” breaking into a gallop.
THE CROWD ERUPTS in euphoria the instant Bhim appears on the walkway with Devi ma. I now understand the ostentation in Bhim’s outfit—it connects him to the girl, echoing her golden splendor, conferring upon him the same supernatural aura: if she’s the anointed daughter, he must be the divine father. He deposits her atop the Superdevi machine and raises his arms high in the air to elicit even more roars from the beach. Then, taking off his helmet, he bows with folded hands for her formal endorsement. By now, the stand has risen just enough for her feet to be conveniently within reach without him having to stoop too inelegantly to touch them. The Devi bestows her blessing on his head, the transaction smooth and choreographed, except that as she straightens back up, the lotus in her right appendage pops out from its slot. The crowd doesn’t care—its cheering grows twice as loud, its exultation swells. Bhim basks in the adulation as long as he can, until behind him, the Devi starts levitating in earnest. As the spotlight leaves him, he hesitates, then makes his way back to where we stand.
“Welcome. I’m so gratified you have come to see me.”