The day my father suffered his heart attack, Karun held my hand all the way in the taxi to the hospital, his face as flushed, his knuckles as white as mine. “I’ve been through this when I was eleven,” he whispered. “I know what it feels like.” On the nights I kept watch, he insisted on staying behind with me—we sat till Uma relieved us at dawn, in adjoining chairs by my father’s bedside. At home, he nursed me as if I were the patient, fortifying me with minestrone and vitamins, assuring me everything would be fine. Perhaps these ministrations did have some trans-curative effect, because my father was back to walking around at home in a fortnight.
I realized how much I’d come to depend upon Karun, to love him, to know him since we married. He was too reserved to reveal himself to everyone—one had to be chosen for this opportunity. Even then, I felt like a bee burrowing into a tightly closed flower bud, each whorl of petals yielding to reveal another nestling inside. Despite how deep I advanced, I could still sense some mystery enfolded at his core. A secret, a treasure, an inadvertent lure, waiting for me to discover in time.
Perhaps true consummation, the traditional way, was part of this promise, this enticement. The huntress would have to persevere longer to earn her four-star trophy. I was willing to wait, to proceed only when Karun signaled his readiness. Until then, our limited repertoire of “Jantar Mantar” (as we’d begun to call it) would be enough to sustain me.
Uma’s pregnancy forced me to rethink my strategy. How would we ever form a trinity if Karun never got any closer to impregnating me? I reminded myself it wasn’t a pressing issue—although we’d discussed the family question before our wedding, it hadn’t arisen since (somewhat surprisingly). Once Uma delivered, though, the sight of my tiny new nephew at her bosom filled my own breast with longing. I had just crossed thirty-three—how close was the expiry date on my biological battery?
So I broached the topic unambiguously one night. “It’s been a year and a half—perhaps we should try it differently? The usual way other couples do so—what do you think?”
Karun colored immediately. “So that we can be a family of three,” I added to take away any sting.
Despite his unease, Karun agreed to my proposal of working towards it over the next few weeks. Each night, with his eyes closed, he embarked on this new exploratory mission. I tried not to make any movement that would startle him, even stifling the impulse to look down, much less stroke him or guide him. Instead, I mentally transmitted welcoming vibes his way—my encouragement, my appreciation, my empathy.
The barrier I needed to help Karun cross seemed mostly psychological. Sometimes he wilted too quickly, but on most nights he stopped even though physically still primed. Uma told me to try pomegranates. “It’s the desi alternative to the oysters they prescribe in the West. The Kama Sutra says to boil the seeds in oil, but in my experience, a glass of juice right before works just as well.” Karun seemed puzzled by all the freshly squeezed nightcaps I began serving, so I extolled their antioxidant benefits, telling him a bedtime dosage worked best. Hazy on the Kama Sutra instructions, I erred on the safe side by also downing a shot myself.
I shopped for pomegranates at the market near work—red ones rather than gold, because they clearly displayed the ardor I felt befit an aphrodisiac. I learnt to distinguish between the different varieties—the “Mridula” with its voluptuous crimson interior, the “Bhagwa” with its smooth and glossy skin (fruits from Satara were always the juiciest). I became an expert at separating the arils from the bitter white pith, at squeezing out every last drop of succulence. In a pinch, I brought home the bottled variety of juice one evening—it tasted flat and spiritless, nothing like the fresh.
We both got addicted to our bedtime tonic. Perhaps Karun guessed its purpose, even though I didn’t confess. Each night, we tasted pomegranate on our first kiss—a few times, I noticed my nipple was tinged red. I wondered if the scent mixed with my own after Jantar Mantar, if I left telltale traces on Karun as well. Sometimes I saved a few kernels to sprinkle on our cornflakes the next morning, to carry over the spell.
Surely the same lovemaking associations must have evolved in Karun’s mind as well. Perhaps this was the subliminal conditioning the Kama Sutra intended, because I did notice progress. Karun’s explorations grew keen enough for me to cautiously anticipate success. I lay in bed under him every night waiting patiently for the next increment. Images from his past drifted through my mind—the photos and toy planes, the moral instruction citations, the fantastical Lego shapes. Soon the breakthrough would arrive to complete my assimilation of him. The planes taking off, the Lego flying through the air, like so many quarks and electrons, planets and Milky Ways. The two of us enveloped by the sweet smell of pomegranates as our very own supernova blossomed across time and space.
I SMOOTH OVER my sari to make the bulge of the pomegranate at my waist less conspicuous as Madhu leads me into Mura’s section of the compartment. It is surprisingly shabby. Areas of fresh white paint compete with expanses of peeling railway-regulation green, as if someone abandoned a renovation project midway. One entire side still has sleeper berths stacked two high running along its length, and the floor shows gaping holes where walls and dividers have been yanked out. Could this really be the den of someone working for the great and mighty Bhim?
Mura sits in one of the lower berths, cracking open peanuts. He does so with the fingers of only his left hand, extracting the kernels and tossing them into his mouth in a single compulsive arc. He is small but bulbous, with a head larger than his body, as one might expect of someone employing a lot of brainpower—an accountant, perhaps. I notice an unhealthy sheen to him, an oiliness that oozes out of his skin and glistens on his scalp. Perhaps he has too many peanuts in his diet.
Madhu explains my presence and withdraws, closing the door behind her. The makeup must have worked, because Mura does not question me about my age. “Can you dance?” he asks instead.
“A little. Guddi said she could teach me.”
“Ah, Guddi. She’s so innocent, isn’t she? Do you know, when I went to fetch her, she asked if she could bring her five-year-old brother along to meet Devi ma as well? These villagers—they’re all so child-like. One can’t even begin to explain the ways of the world to them.” Mura takes off his thick accountant glasses and wipes his face with a handkerchief, and I wait to find out what he is getting at.
“Of course, you, being from the city, must know things work a little differently. For instance, despite whatever blemishes your layers of makeup might be trying to hide, suppose I choose you for Devi ma. The question then arises, what would be in it for me?” Mura’s eyes bulge a little behind their lenses, like those of a child reminded of a favorite treat.
“I don’t have much money, if that’s what you want.”
“Oh, no—I meant nothing so crass. But you do see my point, don’t you? City people are different from villagers—more willing to be a little guileful if it gives them an advantage. With them—with us—there’s no shame in asking for fair give-and-take.” He pats the seat beside him. “Why don’t you come here and sit with me on the berth? If nothing else, as a small reward in recognition of all I’m doing for our community?” He breaks open a peanut and holds out the kernels in his hand, as if I’m a bird he’s trying to attract.