Nothing grew here, except the gando baval and its vicious thorns. Jumbled nests of it, gray and dried, snagged his pant cuffs. It was an illness, this tree. It erupted from the ground, green tentacles leaching what little sustenance lay in the soil. The residents of Lakhpat fought its slow creep, cutting trees at the root and leaving the branches in the sun to desiccate, but its spread could not be halted, only maintained. It sent seedpods into the floodwaters, spreading itself across the breadth of the landscape.
Dev wondered if any of his patients had come here, to Lakhpat. He knew of many, too many, who had come to Delhi for work, contracted HIV, and then returned to their towns of origin, often remote, rural locations, where no one knew of their infection, rather than continuing in his care.
Not that he blamed them. He remembered, R___, twenty-eight years old. R___ had died in the hospital after five days of high fever and respiratory problems. In his final hours, he was delirious, speaking nonsense, spittle frothed on his lips. The nurse, who for weeks had cared for him, now refused to approach, not even to lay a wet cloth across his forehead. Dev could feel R___’s body heat from the doorway, unnatural, radioactive. His situation is declining, Dev told R___’s wife, and you must make arrangements. She said, Yes, yes, as if she’d understood, but when he died, no one came to claim the body. Shame and fear overwhelmed even grief. Dev summoned the other HIV-positive patients with whom R___ had grown close. It was decided: as a group, they would give him last rites. The next day, the others—devadasis, homosexuals, hijras, unlucky wives — arrived. Why Dev felt a kinship with them, he could not say. Dev listened to their breaths and knew who had acquired thrush and who had only recently recovered from pneumonia. In the mortuary, the staff stood back. We know why his body is covered in plastic, they said. This man has died of AIDS. The driver to the temple demanded three times the normal fare. I have a family too, the driver said. What will happen if I catch it?
S___, whom Dev suspected was the man’s male lover, said, We should wrap the body in a bedsheet, so that it looks—and S___ paused. The very word, unspoken momentarily, seemed absurd. Normal, S___ said.
What if the priest sees the plastic sheet? someone asked. What if he asks about it?
The whole day, Dev had been silent: his relationship with these people was professional; he wasn’t religious, and yet, here he was, with R___ and his friends. Dev said, at last, Once we reach the cremation ground, I will ask the priest to hurry.
Padma reached the first boat, set off the ground on rocks. The anchor, a thin hook of rust, was mired in the ground, stretching the rope tied to the prow taut. Someone had taken pride in this vesseclass="underline" roses and twining vines were carved in the wood. It had once been painted blue, but all that remained were flakes of color on the knobs that never touched water. Padma seemed disappointed that this boat was intact — she pointed at the plastic bottles for ballast, the discarded work gloves in the center, the old tire that someone used as a seat.
— Those farther out look more interesting, she said.
And if by interesting, she meant decrepit, then she was correct. She found something beautiful in their decomposition: the curved wood, a rib cage; the planks, rotted and bleeding rust where they had been nailed together. Mud had seeped through the hull. These boats had long been abandoned. Perhaps the owners had sacrificed them, scuttling them to beg the Indus to return. We will give you our livelihood, they said, if you return ours. Even Padma had her superstitions. She kept a bottle of Ganges water in the kitchen — filtered, purified, deionized — and added a squeeze from an eyedropper to every pot of rice.
Three figures moved along on the horizon, black dots like fleas. Goat herders, Dev thought. Nomads. They walked as if time had already forgotten them. Padma was busy taking snaps; every now and then, she halfheartedly tugged at a piece of wood to see if it would come loose. Perhaps she understood these artifacts belonged stuck in the ground, or perhaps she could think of no way to salvage them. Or perhaps she was simply bored.
As the figures drew closer, Dev saw they were not herders after all. Their clothes were not loose drapes and turbans, but fitted and regimented. They carried not sticks, but guns.
— Padma, he said. — People are coming.
She hmmed, still in reverie. But when she saw the men, she said, quickly, — We’re not doing anything.
One soldier waved; another beckoned them to come closer; the last held out his hand as if to hold them in place by sheer will. Two Sikhs: an older one with his nylon turban shimmering in the sun, the other with a beard as bristly as a scrub brush. The younger jawan who had been waving had a sparse mustache. None were Gujarati, as far as Dev could tell. They had been stationed here, perhaps against their will. Lonely men, scattered about the country, far from what they knew. Anything could happen to them.
— I’m sure it’s nothing, Padma said.
The letters BSF were stitched in brown on their epaulets — Border Security Force.
— What are you doing here? the elder Sikh asked. — ID cards.
Dev reached for his wallet, and the other Sikh called in on his communications radio: —We’ve found some people. He waited for a reply.
The elder looked at their papers and held them up as if he’d be able to see a watermark reading “Counterfeit.” —What’s your address? he asked.
— We just married, Dev said. — We live in Delhi.
— I study ancient architecture, Padma interjected. She gave him a business card. — I wanted to study the buildings here.
He shoved the card into his pocket without looking.
— You’re not supposed to be here. How do I know you’re not trying to sneak across the border? How do I know you’re not spies?
— We’re not, we’re not, Dev said, and Padma said, — We weren’t doing anything wrong. Her voice intensified. Her hand balled into a fist, a petty gesture, like a woman diverting the flow of a river with a teacup.
— Do you know how close to Pakistan you are?
— I read we’d just signed a cease-fire, Padma said.
The Sikh laughed. The young man squatted on his haunches, and the butt of his rifle dug into the ground like a flag. A piece of camouflage cloth was wrapped around the muzzle, and the magazine cartridge was transparent. The bullets inside were sharp-tipped, severe. The other soldier still couldn’t raise anyone on the radio.
— We are never at peace, the older Sikh said. — What would you know? Living in Delhi. He opened a canteen, took a swig, and spit onto the ground. — Why do you have a camera? he asked.
— I’m taking pictures. Of the buildings. And the boats.
— I have to confiscate it, he said.
— That’s preposterous, she replied.
— We can’t allow pictures of our border stations circulating. Who knows what people are planning.
— It’s just of the old buildings, she said.
— You, he said, menace in his voice, — are in no position to argue.
— But— said Padma, and the young man cut her off.
— Hey! he called to Dev. — Control your woman.
This caught Dev unawares. Here was a clause in their marriage contract that he had not thought to exercise. They were far from the modern world. This was a hopeless place. Dev had sought to appeal to the soldiers’ sensibility, but now he knew he had to appeal to their brutality.