All of a sudden, he stops. Noises waft down from above—metal clinks, footsteps scrape. It sounds like the tackle being attached to hooks, they must be preparing to winch us up. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, not caring that my lungs fill with gunpowder. Only one thing remains now—to wait for the buffalo to deliver us.

SARITA

15

AT FIRST, I FEEL FAINT AT THE THOUGHT THAT THE NEWS HAS been a cruel hoax. Abandoning my fruitless search of yet another hotel floor, I’ve raced back to Guddi’s room and burst through the gaggle of guards outside. But I only see Anupam. “Where is he?” I gasp, my knees threatening to buckle, my breath squeezing through in spurts.

Anupam points towards the balcony. “Over there, Didi. He’s your husband, isn’t he?” She smiles shyly and covers her head with the edge of her sari. “I’ll be outside, in case you need anything.”

I venture deeper into the room and stop. Through the balcony doors, framed by the billowing curtains, I behold the familiar silhouette. Light swirls around Karun’s body, splashing over his shoulders, dappling his hair. I feel myself transported to all those years ago at the beach picnic, watching him emerge once more from the incandescent waves. Or the mornings that we practiced yoga, lit by the sunshine streaming in from outside. For an instant I want to just stand there and drink him in incrementally, savoring every feature as I focus on it. But then he moves closer and calls out my name, and I rush up to bury my face greedily into him.

“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.