The Age of Shiva by Manil Suri

to Nizamuddin.

chapter five
    T HE ELECTRICITY WAS OUT ON DEV’S STREET. “IT’S GONE FOR THE NIGHT,” Hema announced cheerfully. “We’re one of the first ones they cut when the city runs out of power.” She held a lit match under a candle to soften its base, then stuck it upright on the arm of a chair. “We’re just a government colony, after all, not like the wealthy area where your father has his house.”
    I sat perched on a charpoy in the only bedroom in the flat, the long gunghat of my sari draped over my face like a veil. It was difficult to maintain the pose Dev’s mother had taught me—the sagging of the charpoy ropes kept threatening to topple me. But the position felt as centering as a yoga asana—by concentrating on keeping steady on the bed, I was able to take my mind off the despair closing in on me.
    â€œYou can speak now, you know, even take your gunghat off. All the guests have gone. Though you’ll have to show your face sooner or later—all those people who’ve been saying it’s your sister who’s the prettier one.” Hema held up a candle near my head, filling the inside of my gunghat with light and trying to peer through. “Besides, you must be dying under there—not being used to having the fans all off. Tell me, is it true—Dev bhaiyya said you had an air conditioner at your house?”
    We had two, one in the drawing room, and one in Paji’s library, but I remained silent.
    â€œWell, you at least had lots of servants, didn’t you? Dev bhaiyya said your father made a lot of money as a publisher. Not that we don’t have servants, mind you. Well, maybe not a servant exactly, but we do have a ganga—she comes in to clean the pots. No cook, though. Don’t worry, we won’t make you work. Not while you’re a new bahu, anyway. When Sandhya didi was a new bahu, just married to Arya bhaiyya, she didn’t have to step into our kitchen even once for the first month. Now Mataji makes her do all the cooking, of course—though between you and me, her rice clumps so much the ganga could do it better. I suppose we shouldn’t expect you to be good either, being a rich man’s girl and everything. I’ve already told my parents. When I get married, it’s going to be to the wealthiest man they can find. Marry for comfort, that’s what I want, not for love like you. Tell me though, is it true what you two did in the tomb? They were quite outraged, the Muslims, they’re saying you defiled the grave. Even the stationmaster, Mr. Ahmed, said it was an insult to one of their Muslim saints.”
    I kept my gaze focused at my feet, willing my body to be absolutely still. Sweat trickled down my face and neck under the gunghat, but I didn’t draw it back or take it off.
    â€œYou can tell me, I promise not to repeat it to anyone. Pushpa down the street says that you both were naked.” Hema giggled. “Were you really? Babuji was called into Mr. Ahmed’s office, you know. Given quite a firing.”
    â€œHema, stop bothering the bahu,” Dev’s mother called out from the other room. “You’ve lit the candles, now come out here.”
    Hema dropped her voice to a whisper. “Even Arya bhaiyya was upset. He said Babuji should never have agreed to the marriage. He called you”—again, Hema giggled—“a tramp. He said your sister was trying to mesmerize his brother, was doing magic on him, and casting tantric spells. And when that didn’t work, the family set you instead upon poor Dev bhaiyya.” Hema’s eyes widened. “Do you really know magic? Will you teach me your tricks?”
    â€œHema,” my mother-in-law called again. “Stop that Dehradun Express tongue of yours and come right out.”
    â€œComing, Mataji. But it was Dev bhaiyya who stood up for you. He was so kind, so brave. He said he felt pity for