By the end of my fourth year in Hyderabad, despite the bombings now seemingly endemic to major cities, the balance had still tilted dramatically in India’s favor. The Sensex almost doubled in that period, while Shanghai and Hong Kong showed respective losses of twenty-five and forty-five percent. The unsuccessful efforts of the old-guard loyalists to rein in the increasingly brazen initiatives by League hotheads made it difficult to say who really controlled China anymore—our office trade reports all forecast further upheavals as the country flailed its way towards a new political order. Before we could take much comfort in the future, though, the Mumbai bridge explosion came along to upend all the pundits’ predictions.

Much worse than the series of jolts to the market were the shockwaves that seemed to physically rip through the country. Hyderabad, in particular, dove eagerly into mayhem—perhaps due to historical grievances, or a population comparably split between Hindu and Muslim, or perhaps even because the Telangana separatists had found it beneficial to fan the flames. I stood in my balcony and tracked the plumes of smoke advancing every day—first the Old City in the distance, then the enormous emporiums along Raj Bhavan Road, and then the restaurants and bars around the lake. The city remained shut for six days, then several more when explosive-laden trucks demolished both the Birla temple and Mecca Mosque over the same weekend.

As Bhim’s forces embarked on their nationwide crusade, things started looking particularly grim for Muslims. My father announced he’d accepted a position in Geneva, and we were all moving to Europe. I quit my job (most financial companies like mine were on the verge of folding anyway) and flew back to Bombay for my visa interview, wondering how I’d fare living among the Swiss again (would they succumb to my new shikari skills?). As our plans progressed, we faced the question of what to do with the flat. The HRM had already begun clamoring for Hindu areas to be cleared of Muslims as a precaution against sabotage and ambushes. With the Siddhi Vinayak temple so nearby, our building had little chance of escaping inclusion in such a Hindu enclave. Some Muslim families set up exchanges with Hindus who owned flats in predominantly Muslim localities, but my father didn’t think it worth the trouble with us emigrating.

I decided to write one final farewell letter to Karun. With the envelope all sealed and stamped, I found I’d misplaced his Karnal address. In desperation, I wrote to his Delhi university to ask if they still might have it in their records. To my surprise, the physics department secretary wrote back. Karun, she informed me, had returned to finish his Ph.D., then moved on to Mumbai. I stared at his neatly typed Colaba address.


ZARA TELLS US THE ferry comes from Worli, close to where the sea link used to begin. “Sequeira’s offered the service for years, ever since he opened his club. We worked at the call center then, and went dancing late at night after our shift ended—he always had samosas and chutney sandwiches waiting for us. Quite a character, as you’ll see—I’ve actually come to know him quite well. Now that we’re grown up and past our call-center fun, my friends have spread out from Worli all the way to Versova. But luckily, there’s a ferry stop near each one of us, so even with this war and everything, we can still get together at Sequeira’s.”

“And the Limbus simply let you come and go as you please?”

Zara laughs. “Sequeira pays everyone off—especially the gangsters who control the waterways—the same ones who control most of Mahim, incidentally. The Limbus can’t afford to antagonize the gangsters, so they keep their distance from the upper beach. They quietly take Sequeira’s money and pretend they don’t see the ferries. This is India, after all—accommodation above everything. Besides, these Limbus don’t have quite the power they’d like you to think. Over the workers and refugees, yes—but not if you have connections or wealth.”

“Still, a nightclub? Isn’t that exactly what they’re supposed to be against?”

“Ha! See those floating lights further up the creek? They’re smaller boats, operated by the low-caste Dalits who live along the Mithi river. They’ll take you anywhere across for a fee. You know who they’ll always have as customers? Limbus crossing over secretly. Ever since the ban on alcohol, every Christian in Bandra seems to have opened up a speakeasy across the creek. Go to any of the cheaper ones and you’ll see Limbus pawing at the women and lolling around in their drink.”

Zara tells Sarita that if she wants to take her burkha off, the boatman will keep it until it’s time to return. “It’s not so difficult a compromise, I suppose. If the Limbus insist I keep myself covered in return for keeping me safe, then fine, I’ll oblige. As a Muslim, I’d be too scared to live anywhere else. Even Bandra, where they supposedly welcome all religions, where some of my younger friends, both Christian and Muslim, fled. They’ll be the first in line when the Hindus decide to expand—there’s little to separate them from Bhim’s men.”

We pass between two pylons of the sea link that still stand, like pillars of a massive nautical gate, a memorial to the ground zero where destruction began. I look up to see a section of bridge dangling directly overhead, strands of metal cable sprouting from its edges. To think the city had succeeded in this herculean battle with the sea to connect its north and south halves—will it ever be able to replicate this triumph? A light breeze from the open bay beyond ripples the water, which appears surprisingly high for low tide. Does the rise in level stem from global warming, a consequence of the cataclysmic monsoons we’ve been having? Or has the sea sensed the city’s vulnerability, flowing as it does each day around the ruptured link? Is it reconnoitering the shores of its old enemy, building for a secret assault? The final surge that will rise up to conquer Mumbai?

The night unexpectedly fills with disco music playing from speakers on either end of the ferry. “The captain figures that once we cross under the sea link, we’re out of Mahim,” Zara says. A few of the passengers even begin to dance on the deck. Zara tugs at the burkha Sarita still has on. “When will you take this off?”

So Sarita works her body out of its purple cocoon. She emerges radiant, like a butterfly. More accurate, a radioactive butterfly: her sari glows a startling red as if steeped in uranium-spiked dye. She looks at herself in horror and amazement, smoothing down the folds, brushing at the electrified pleats with the back of her hand as if she can somehow calm the fabric. “The glowing sari,” she whispers. “This must be what Guddi meant.”

“That’s so cool!” Zara exclaims. “It reminds me of my friend Rashida. Her wedding headdress had a thousand tiny bulbs flashing on and off during the whole ceremony. But tell me, how does it work?—do you have batteries hidden somewhere in the petticoat?” Zara feels the material, then examines her fingertips as if to check whether the fluorescence has rubbed off. “I promised not to pry, so I won’t even ask why you’re dressed in this particular red.”

But she can’t quite shake off her curiosity. She keeps alternating her gaze between the two of us, commenting on what a “cosmopolitan” couple we make, how bride-like Sarita appears, in a “temple” sort of way. Finally she blurts it out. “You’re Hindu, aren’t you? And he’s Muslim! That’s why the Limbus were chasing you—they caught you in the middle of your elopement!”

Sarita starts to dispel this notion, but I smoothly cut her off. “It’s correct, more or less, what you’ve guessed. But promise not to tell anyone—we have to keep it a secret to be safe.”

Zara actually squeals in delight. “I knew it! And the sari? Don’t tell me you went and actually got married?”

“We did. Just this morning.” It’s too tempting an opportunity, too wicked a prospect—the Jazter and his lover’s wife, linked together in matrimony. Besides, it seems the perfect way to explain away Sarita’s flamboyant getup, not to mention our presence in Mahim. I proceed to weave such a rousing tale of childhood sweethearts yearning to unite across the religious divide that stars light up Zara’s face, tears tremble at the corners of her eyes. Sarita looks on in consternation as I describe risking life and limb to venture into the Hindu area where she lived. “If the bomb killed us, I wanted to at least die married. Even her mother melted when she saw our resolve—she found a last-minute priest to marry us in the temple downstairs.” My mistake, I said, was to sneak back into Mahim for my father’s blessing. “He was so outraged he set the local Limbus on our tail—we’ve been on the run ever since.” Our only hope now was to make it to Bandra, where Sarita’s brother might take us in.

“All we have is the clothes on our back. That, a little money, and a love no longer afraid to speak its name.” I take my sweetheart’s startled hand in mine and kiss it.

Zara wants to call her friends around so I can relate my story to them, but I remind her again about the need for discretion, for safety’s sake. “You’ll have to tell Sequeira, though,” she says. “He’ll be absolutely thrilled. He’s always trying to get different religions together—says it’s the very spirit of Bandra. Just ask him, and I’m sure he’ll personally take you to your brother’s in the morning.”

Once Zara shimmies away to the dance music, I apologize to Sarita. “I hope that didn’t upset you. It seemed the best way not to get her suspicious about your outfit.”

“It’s OK,” Sarita says, though the chagrin hasn’t quite cleared her face. “I wouldn’t have thought all those stories were necessary, but what difference does it make? We’ll all be going our separate ways soon enough anyway.”

The ferry docks beside a floating gangplank. The boatman collects the fares as we exit—a whopping two thousand per person, which includes entry to Sequeira’s. As I count out the money, I mentally give thanks to Auntie Rahim for the financial help.

Although we can hear the nightclub, feel the pulsing throb of its music through the air, we can’t see it. A man with a flashlight leads us along a path marked out with white rope. Sarita glides along at my side, casting a soft red radiance on the rocks, like a luminescent creature from the deep taking its first magical steps on land.

The club materializes from the darkness, a large, faceless structure with the looming air of a warehouse. “Sequeira used to have his disco right next to the water,” Zara explains. “But then Mehboob Studios down the road sold him this place. It might not look like much, but they filmed parts of Superdevi in it.” The cavernous space inside is broken up into a series of recycled movie sets. People sip drinks in the seats of an Air India plane, they climb the sweeping staircase of a palatial mansion, lounge around the gardens of a Mughal palace. In the center, I even see what looks like the surface of the moon. “Remember the famous scene from the movie? When Baby Rinky voyages to the moon to get the magic crystal from the goddess there and attain the powers of a devi?”

The lunar surface is actually a dance floor—about two hundred people, in their twenties and thirties, gyrate to the tune of a remixed disco version of “I am Superdevi.” As we watch, a woman takes off her top and dances in bra and shorts among a group of shirtless men. “It’s a rebellion against the burkha,” Zara says, as another woman, also down to her bra, joins in. “A few months ago, nobody would have dreamt of something like this. But now people just want to thumb their noses at the Limbus. And Bhim as well. If the younger set doesn’t do it, who will?”

The Air India bar has a price list—Zara notices me wince at the thousand-rupee beers, the fifteen-hundred-rupee martinis. “Sequeira’s been jacking up the tab every week. He thinks everyone our age must have made so much money in the boom years that he’s doing us a favor by giving us a chance to enjoy it before it gets too late.”

Just then, Sequeira himself appears in a spotlight on the balcony above the Mughal garden. He’s dressed in vintage Bollywood—silver suit and top hat, white gloves and a bejeweled cane—something Amitabh Bachchan might have worn in one of his potboiler films, circa the seventies. “Welcome to the end of the world,” Sequeira says, swinging and wheeling jauntily, like old people do to show they’re still spry. He raises his cane to acknowledge the catcalls and cheers that rise from the dance floor. “You’re the brave ones, the ones who haven’t abandoned Bombay despite the rumors, despite all the efforts to tear us apart. This evening, Sequeira’s is going to be your reward. Whether or not the bomb falls, the most important thing tonight, like every night this week, is to dance as if tomorrow will never dawn!”