“Please. I need to get through. To see Devi ma.”

“And what do you suppose the rest of us have gathered here for? To enjoy the sea breeze? To eat bhel puri? You’re not the only one who wants her blessing.”

“You don’t understand—”

“I understand perfectly. We’re not villagers that you can dazzle us by wearing something bright and shiny. Let’s see how you get past.” In short order, she’s organized a clutch of onlookers, arms crossed, to blockade me.

The night turns darker. “We’ll be stuck here forever,” I whisper, and Jaz can only offer a ratifying silence. I stare at the Indica in the distance—its turrets now give it the appearance of a fortress, one ensconcing an impregnable bridal suite. The thought that all my effort has been for naught, that Karun may finally be so close, and yet so excruciatingly unreachable, fills me with hopelessness. A pinpoint of light, perhaps the last floating ember from the spent fireworks, hovers hazily in the air. I turn away, unable to bear to see it extinguished.

When I look back, the speck, rather than dying out, has grown, both in brightness and size. I track its path in fascination as it homes in—could it be a firefly attracted to my sari? Except it soon gets too big to be a firefly, looking more like a seated form floating through the darkness—someone on a flying carpet, perhaps. It draws closer, and I begin to hear bells, then feel underfoot vibrations, then discern large auricular outlines that emerge from the dark to flap into life. And finally the recognizable figure, surely an apparition born of my desperation, aglow in a sari similar to mine.

“Didi, up here,” the voice calls, as the fat woman screams and her cohorts blocking my path scramble for safety. Astride the giant pachyderm lurching towards us is Guddi.

12

THE ELEPHANT IS BETTER THAN AN AIRBORNE CHARIOT, an enchanted galleon. As we bob and pitch across the beach, the sea of humanity parts before us in waves. “It’s the only way to get through such a crowd,” Guddi says. “At first I was terrified we’d trample someone. But then I realized people always find the space to squeeze away somehow. Just like insects. Isn’t that right, Shyamu?” She reaches forward and pats the elephant’s head. “Except for that one lady this afternoon. Don’t feel guilty, Shyamu, it’s not your fault. She was quite old, anyway—how long could she have lived?”

Guddi starts chattering about her adventures since we last saw her, about the journey on the other side of the tracks that brought her and Anupam to safety at the Indica the night before. “All thanks to Vivek bhaiyya. The train driver’s helper—did you meet him? He took us crawling over this big-big pipe—so big we could have probably walked through, at least Anupam and me. But Bhaiyya said it would be very dirty inside—all the kaka and susu from the city—chhi! And we had to remain completely silent—otherwise, Bhaiyya said, we’d all end up like Madhu didi.” She stops and bites her lip. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance… ?” I shake my head, and she starts crying. “I miss her. And Mura chacha. I wish they were here with us, Didi.”

In a few moments, though, she’s cheery again. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw that glow—I’d been searching the crowd all evening, praying to Devi ma with all my might. Did I tell you, Didi, they’re taking me to see her in person tonight? Anyway, Shyamu didn’t want to investigate, but I insisted—I told him the light had to be from a sari just like mine—either yours or Madhu didi’s. See, Shyamu? I was right. One has to have faith—even elephants should pray once in a while. To Ganesh, if they like—I’m sure Devi ma wouldn’t get jealous if they also asked her blessing on the side.

“You should have seen how amazed the hotel people were when I told them I sat on my first elephant at nine. That we had a whole family in our village, whom we rode all the time. That’s why they let me have Shyamu—do you think they would’ve trusted me otherwise? Sometimes I feel I must have been an elephant myself in a previous life. I knew the instant we locked eyes that we were soul mates—Shyamu, isn’t that right?” She strokes his head, but he takes no notice. “Too bad Anupam wasn’t as lucky—she’d never even sat on an elephant before, so she’s stuck in the hotel kitchen, poor thing. She’ll be thrilled to see you, if she ever finishes all the chores they’re probably loading her with. But tell me, Didi, how did you escape? You and…” She gazes quickly at Jaz, unsure how to address him. “You and Bhaiyya.”

I begin to call Jaz by his name, then catch myself. “Gaurav bhaiyya. Remember, he was the person from the second compartment when the train derailed? He’s a friend of Mura chacha. We came through Mahim, not over the pipe like you did. Without him, I never would have made it.”

Guddi’s eyes widen. “Mahim? Isn’t that where all the Muslims live? Don’t they do terrible things to virgins?”

“Yes, they eat them,” Jaz says, and Guddi recoils in horror.

Our ride atop Shyamu isn’t the most comfortable. He doesn’t have a proper howdah, just a thick blanket that’s strapped on, resulting in the constant danger of falling off. Guddi tugs his ears to make him turn right or left, and digs her knuckles into his neck to make him start or halt (her maneuvers succeed only part of the time). “Stop that, Shyamu,” she admonishes, upon hearing my startled cry as the tip of his trunk starts rummaging around in my lap. “Don’t mind him—he’s just looking for the flowers.” She pushes forward the basket of petals for him to dip into. At the end of each stop, she loops his trunk around another basket, this one empty, to collect offerings for the Devi. Fruits, garlands, currency notes, even a few wristwatches and necklaces, pour in with each haul. Most of the bananas disappear into Shyamu’s mouth, along with the odd piece of jewelry. “Look what someone put in!” Guddi exclaims, holding up a cell phone. “They don’t work anymore, so Devi ma has said we can keep these.”

Once the petals are all scattered and the large canvas bags hanging from Shyamu’s neck filled with booty, Guddi guides him towards the Indica. The ride seems to get less bumpy as soon as the beach gives way to pavement (though Guddi insists Shyamu much prefers walking on the sand). We bob past armies of Khaki guards holding back the throngs of devotees, to the main entry, situated around the corner. Shyamu curls back his trunk and trumpets—on cue, the heavy metal gates swing open. Could Karun’s van have passed through this same portal?

Inside, the driveway winds up towards the majestic arch of the entrance, with its golden Mughal domes and alternating baby gopurams. Lights blaze everywhere, profligately so, perhaps to underscore the contrast with the power-starved city outside. The compound is still lush with thickets of Hawaiian shrubs and bushes, though the elephants seem to have chomped off several of their tops. Three of the animals stand in line, like unwieldy planes on a runway, waiting to take off. “The left ramp is too steep—some of them go halfway and get stuck,” Guddi explains. “Even with this longer ramp, they can only go up one by one.” She starts cooing into Shyamu’s ear upon getting the signal to launch. He takes his first tentative steps up the incline, but slows noticeably two-thirds of the way up. By the time we near the top, Shyamu is trumpeting anxiously, pausing between each doddering step. “Come on, you can do it—keep going, don’t stop.” But Shyamu refuses to go any further. All of a sudden, Guddi jabs her elbows sharply into the sides of his neck. With a startled bellow, Shyamu staggers up the remaining distance and barrels through the entrance.

The lobby still retains a hint of tuberose fragrance, barely discernible under the cloying earthiness of dung. The Anish Kapoor chairs lie jumbled with the front desk in a corner, cleared away to make a path for the elephants. Even the metal detector’s two halves have been separated to pachyderm breadth—the machine beeps resentfully as we sail through, indicating it’s still plugged in for some reason. The Khakis have been busy redecorating—splashing religious slogans over the panels showing the history of zero, imprinting the Hussain mural with crude likenesses of Hindu gods. A Mumbadevi amazon deployed at a focal point of the central atrium looks curiously stunted by the elephants lumbering past.

Shyamu barges into the Sensex bar, where quotes for long-defunct stocks still whirl around the walls. A huge round metal trough stands on the floor—with a shock I recognize it as the polished torus sculpture that hung over the lobby. Three elephants root through the vegetation mounded in its center, searching with their trunks for rotting cabbages. Guddi tries to steer Shyamu away, but it is the dung-clearing attendants, following us since we entered, who finally coax him back with their brooms and scoops. As we pass through the atrium, he tries to hook onto the plants spiraling down from the cascade of balcony levels above. But their ends are all out of reach—other elephants have already pulled or bitten them off.

Hundreds of people crowd the rear of the atrium, where it widens into the “Stomach of India” restaurant. Some sit listlessly at tables, like diners despairing of ever catching the attention of a waiter, others doze on the floor, curled up under cream-colored tablecloths. “The whole world has come for a glimpse of Devi ma,” Guddi says, and I notice the dosa grill converted into a check-in counter of sorts. Apparently, the sight of an elephant tromping through the dining room no longer engages—even the children are too inured to look up.

We ride directly into the garden, through a large opening of dismantled panels in the rear glass wall. The lateral wing of the hotel stretches along our left—somewhere from the third floor, a bridal suite beckons for me to investigate. Except who is to say I might not spot Karun simply walking around? Strolling the hibiscus-planted terrace, ambling by the outdoor Soma Bar, watching a game at the badminton court? I peer at the people we pass, but do not find the face I seek. Cleaning crews, rifle-toting guards, waiters bearing trays—where have all the guests gone?

The floodlit pool offers a smattering of swimmers who do not look like staff. I feel a sharp stab of nostalgia for the morning after our wedding when Karun and I came down here. Our first married dip—could everyone tell this was my husband I swam with? The kiss underwater when I almost lost my nerve, and barely touched his lips.

Shyamu interrupts my reverie, by swinging so sharply that he clips one of the pillars lining the path. “No, Shyamu, no, you can’t go in there—the stable’s up ahead,” Guddi shouts, and I see he is aimed directly for the pool. None of her ear-pulling and elbow-jabbing tricks work, nor do her screams for him to stop. Lounge chairs buckle and pop underfoot as swimmers scramble towards the edges. Nodding his head sagely and curling his trunk up as if to prevent it from getting wet, Shyamu descends a few of the ghat-like steps, then loses his balance and launches us all into the drink.

“I’m still learning how to handle him,” Guddi says apologetically afterwards, as we stand dripping at the edge of the pool. Behind us, Shyamu wallows about happily, using his trunk to squirt water over his back and at the attendants trying to coax him out. “Come, Didi, you won’t believe where Anupam and I live now. Afterwards, we can dry off.”

She takes us up some stairs and through one of the carpeted hotel corridors. I look at each door we pass, wishing I had X-ray vision to check if Karun is behind any of them. “Namaste, Bhaiyya,” Guddi says to a gun-toting Khaki outside her room, then throws open the door. “Isn’t this amazing? So big—like a whole house, just for the two of us.”

Guddi scampers around inside, bouncing on the bed, sliding open the closet door, showing me her comb and her kohl and the five discarded cell phones she’s accumulated (six with the new one), all stored in a corner of the nightstand drawer. “Just look at the size of this television, Didi—our own private cinema once we learn how to turn it on.” She bows reverentially to the Buddha over the bed, then pulls me into the bathroom. “See this? It looks like a chair, but it’s the toilet, believe it or not!” She sits on it to demonstrate, then flushes it excitedly. “All that water—I think it automatically washes your bottom, but I haven’t figured out how.” She inhales deeply. “Just smell, so clean. Like roses, like chameli. Close your eyes—would you ever guess we’re in a latrine?”

Jaz stays behind to use the bathroom while Guddi takes me out on the balcony. “This is where Gaurav bhaiyya can live—that way, we won’t have to share the room at night, and he’ll have enough space to stretch out. It’ll be nice to snuggle with you, Didi—the bed is so huge that last night, Anupam and I felt lost.”