“Karun,” I repeat like a mantra over and over again, trying to lose myself in his feel, his scent, the line between his lips. No matter how hard I hug his body or press my mouth against his, though, I can’t seem to squeeze out enough reassurance, can’t seem to make up the deficit. Perhaps all the agonizing days of separation are to blame, the hours and minutes and seconds that have played out, drip by drip. Even once I’ve sated myself, I think, I might never let go of him again.

Although his embrace is tight, even frantic, I cannot feel any joy communicated by him. In fact, his entire body seems strangely wound and unresponsive. Drawing back, I’m shocked to see how miserable he looks, how agitated. He squeezes his eyes shut when I ask what’s wrong. “Jaz. They have Jaz. And I wasn’t able to do anything about it.”

His words tumble out faster than I can keep up. Something about the hotel annex, something about Bhim, something about a colleague never heard from again. “At first I was furious when I learnt you were here and Jaz hadn’t even told me about it. But now I realize he offered himself up just so we could be safe.” My confusion must show, because Karun stops and holds me at the shoulders with both arms extended. “You do know who I’m talking about? The Jaz who found me, the one who followed you, the one you came with. They’ll kill him if we don’t find some way to save him.”

Although I’m still blurry, the expression on Karun’s face is beginning to fill me with dismay. “Do you—?” A multitude of questions throng my mind and I can’t think of which one to choose. “Do you know him—Jaz—from before, then?”

I have to repeat my question a few times before it gets through, before Karun’s train of words slows, then comes to a halt. He drops his hands to his sides and stands in silence, or perhaps contrition. “It happened a long time before I met you,” he finally says. “He and I—we were—we were together.”

Together. Is that it, then? All that needs be stated? The way it’s announced these days? Together. How should I respond? What emotion should I bring to my face? Of all the reactions that flood my mind, none seems entirely appropriate to display. It’s not as if I haven’t brooded about this possibility, as if I didn’t have any warning, any time to prepare. Perhaps my defense is I’ve never encountered a Mills & Boon heroine confronting this situation, I don’t have a template to follow from Bollywood films. Shock or disappointment or horror or hurt—I wait for the spin to stop, for the arrow to point the way. “I’m sorry,” Karun mumbles.

And then the wheel bearings lock—in a surprise photo finish, anger wins. It no longer matters whether I saw this coming or not—my fury sweeps all such irrelevancies away. The rigors of my journey, the strain of the past weeks, the insecurities of our entire marriage perhaps, fill me with a desire to exact vengeance, to punish Karun for the pain he has inflicted. Sorry is not enough. Together is not enough. Vast reservoirs of indignation rage inside me, they must be tamed.

I make him start at the very beginning, tolerating no omissions, brooking no euphemisms. Each time he tries to finesse over something private, I insist he reveal every embarrassing detail. How exactly did Jaz initiate him that first time? What did he do to reciprocate? What is the physical sensation like, lying on his stomach and being penetrated? Is that it then—my spouse’s preference? What my pati-dev, my husband-god, specializes in?

At some point, Karun begins to cry, but his tears are insufficient to slake my need to humiliate. I show no expression, no vulnerability, even though my insides churn at the things I force him to relate. How many times did they do it on the library balcony? Where did they dispose of the soiled newspapers afterwards? Could they smell the bird shit as they fornicated amidst it? I ask each question as clinically, methodically, as if administering a lie detector test. This is surgery that must be performed, I tell myself, an exorcism that must be completed. Perhaps cruelty also plays a part in it.

“Stop, we have to save Jaz, don’t you understand?” Karun cries out. He has pleaded with me that he didn’t bring it up before marriage because it was all in the past, that he has never been unfaithful since, never given in to Jaz’s demands. But I remain unmoved. Why did he run away to Bandra? I ask yet again, even though he’s already explained the harassment (but really, wasn’t it temptation?) he was trying to escape. This time he simply sobs and doesn’t reply. I soldier on, trying to formulate more questions to torture him with.

Eventually, my wrath is spent, my vitriol voided. The churning in my stomach has given rise to nausea—I’m revolted by the sordidness of what I’ve wrung out of Karun, appalled at myself. I step outside, leaving him slumped on the sofa. “I’m going for a walk while Sahib sleeps,” I tell the guards.

One of them insists on tagging behind—an order he’s received. I take the steps down to the garden and sit in a beach chair by the pool. The tiles have been baking in the sun since morning, but I take off my sandals to let the heat sear the soles of my feet. The only people I see are in the distance on the stage, preparing for the devotional songs later this evening. An elephant labors amidst them, ferrying poles in its rolled-up trunk. I turn my face up to the sky—I want the sun to sublimate the anger from my body.

Perhaps the sunrays do have healing properties, because through my torrent of emotions, I am able to latch onto a single steadying thought. For the first time, I can begin to unravel the years of questions jamming my mind. All the attempts that failed in bed, all the times I blamed myself. Here, in the middle of this war, in this hotel where we wed, I start to see my marriage with Karun in a revealing new light.

What I keep returning to is whether I want to continue with Karun, whether this is something I even can do. The Jantar Mantar, the snatches of intimacy, the stars and statistics—will they still be enough? The prospect seems uncertain, now that the mystery is gone, replaced by a raw openness. How will I forgive Karun, recalibrate the delicate balance of our alliance?

On the other hand, what is the alternative? What chance do I have to start again, with the war and all its looming threats? Surely with some work I can salvage enough of my earlier contentment. Screen off what happened, since it occurred before our marriage—not let it drive us off the track.

I’m pondering the question of trust, about how I can be certain Karun won’t go trawling after other men in the future, when my line of thought leads me down a less than noble path. Karun’s been faithful all these years, somehow keeping his cravings in check. Perhaps it’s a consequence of his low sex drive, but he’s never gone burrowing through the muck for anything else. The only reason he acted this time was that Jaz reappeared. I feel my indignation spike towards Jaz—not only for the blatant invasion of our marriage, but also for the way he hoodwinked me into leading him here. Should I be that devastated if he gets his just deserts? Wouldn’t we be safe if this stimulus never returned? Surely it’s in my interest—our interest—for the temptation of Jaz to vanish, once and for all?

Instantly, I feel mortified, ashamed of myself. I mean no ill, I rush to reassure the life forces of the universe, to clarify for any hovering spirits. Without Jaz’s help I wouldn’t even be here—it isn’t in my nature to wish harm on him or anyone else. I think of Karun’s desperation, of his anguished pleas to save Jaz, who’s apparently ready to sacrifice himself for our sake. Despite any lingering resentment, of course I will try everything I can to rescue him.

And yet, a corner of my mind can’t help make the guilty calculation: What chance do Karun and I have against the whole of Bhim’s apparatus? No matter what our tack, the odds of prevailing look grim—I try not to let this realization run wild in my brain. It’s not my fault Jaz decided to follow me, I remind myself—I should have nothing on my conscience if we don’t find him. Which wouldn’t necessarily signify something morbid—for all I know, Bhim could have secretly released him.

Returning to the room, I find Karun hasn’t moved from the sofa. I do not reveal my decision to stay with our marriage. Instead, I go to the bathroom and wash my face, then bring out a wet towel and hand it to him. “We have to see the Devi. She’s taken quite a shine to Jaz. If anyone can save him, she will.”


THE GUARDS EXPLAIN their orders apologetically. We’re allowed to descend chaperoned to the garden, but cannot converse with anyone. An audience with Devi ma is out of the question. They’ll let me talk to Anupam, but technically, even she should be off-limits.

Before they can change their minds, I hurriedly give Anupam my message. “Tell Devi ma my husband saw her beloved Gaurav taken prisoner in the hotel annex. She has to find him and free him at once or Bhim will have him killed.”

Anupam gets very nervous—she won’t remember the message, she has to report to the kitchen for work, do I really expect anyone will allow her up to see Devi ma? I tell her she can convey it to Chitra in that case, make her repeat the lines a few times, and send her on her way.

There’s little to do now but wait. The prospect of lingering in the room with the claustrophobia of what’s passed is too grim, so Karun and I sit on a bench near the base of the steps. He will not look at me—holding his head in his hands, he rocks his body to and fro silently. Every few minutes, he gets up to pace, like an anxious relative keeping vigil outside an operation theater. I try to summon up sympathy for him, but my own self-pity keeps getting in the way.

I expect the Devi to send for us, for Chitra to appear, or even Anupam to return and tell us what happened. But nobody comes. The hotel turrets turn gold, then crimson in the setting sun, their shadows lengthen over the pool and badminton courts. An attendant brings us tea, then a plate of biscuits and samosas. The sounds of dholak and musical tongs waft across the gardens—I notice an audience has clumped around the stage. Through the darkening twilight, a large white buffalo shape glides surreally past the backdrop of the farthermost hotel wall.

Just when Karun seems to have rocked himself into a trance, and I’m despairing that everyone’s forgotten about us, the guards approach. “They’ve called you upstairs. To Devi ma’s floor.”


THE CLERKS OUTSIDE the suite are as stubborn and nitpicking as before. They want to know who Karun is, where he has appeared from, why they weren’t apprised of his visit in advance. Our escort of guards fails to impress them—only when Chitra appears and answers all their questions, do they grudgingly allow us to proceed.

“I’m glad Gaurav was able to find your husband,” Chitra says, her tone sounding anything but pleased. “Though letting him go off with Guddi has created a big headache for us. Devi ma is very upset. She keeps asking for her Gaurav-ghoda. Without him, she refuses to eat or even talk to anyone.”

“But I sent you a message. Through Anupam. Didn’t you get it?”

“Yes, yes, the girl from the kitchen who ruined her sari. She came up to say that Gaurav’s been captured—somewhere in the annex, apparently. Despite all my warnings to keep away—now you see what happens to those who don’t do as I say.”

“But haven’t you informed Devi ma? All she needs is to give the order. To have Gaurav freed, no matter where he might be.”

Chitra makes a scoffing sound. “If only it were that easy. We’re talking about Bhim’s annex—despite what you might imagine, Devi ma doesn’t control everything. If that’s where Gaurav is, we can’t just blunder in—why do you think I kept pretending it was unoccupied? Guddi seems to have vanished as well, or I’d ask her what happened, exactly.”

“You mean you haven’t done a thing to look for him?” Karun cuts in. “All this time my friend might be getting killed and you’ve kept us waiting around uselessly? I’ve already told you what happened, what more do you need?”

Chitra stiffens. “I have bigger problems to worry about, whoever you think you might be. If your friend had listened to me and not gone in there, he’d be safe. Instead of endangering not only himself, but also poor Guddi—”

“If he had listened to you, he’d have never found me—”

“What my husband means,” I interject with a conciliatory note, “is that perhaps you could at least try telling Devi ma, to see if something might come of it.”