Chapter 10: Janhavi

# Chapter 10: Janhavi

## Amravati

Amravati greets us the way Amravati greeted me two years ago: with dust.

The dust that Amravati produces in March, the dust that rises from the unpaved side roads and settles on everything, the everything: buildings, vehicles, trees, people (when there were people), the Hero Splendor's handlebars, my hair, Reyansh's Bata shoes. The dust that is Amravati's identity card, the identity card that says I am not Pune with its pleasant weather. I am not Mumbai with its sea. I am Amravati. I am dust and heat and the Melghat hills on the horizon and the cotton market that makes me rich in November and poor in March.

I slow the Splendor as we enter the city. The entering: careful. The careful that a motorcycle requires when the roads have abandoned vehicles and the abandoned vehicles require: weaving, braking, the gap-finding that city riding demands.

And the entering —: emotional. The emotional that returning to a city produces when the city is the city of your worst memories and the worst memories are the memories that you have been avoiding and the avoiding is the wall that you built and the wall is cracking because the city is real and the city is here and the city does not care about your wall. I could feel every crack, every pebble.

Amravati. The city where I was fifteen. The city where I lived with Surekha-tai and Prakash-kaka. The foster parents who were "actually alright," the alright that I described to Reyansh on the highway, the alright that was true: they were decent people. Not warm; not the warm of parents who love, but decent. The decent that fed me and clothed me and sent me to school and did not hit me and minimum that foster children calibrate as, the not-hitting "alright."

Amravati. The city where I met the gang. The city where I learned to hotwire cars and break into shops and smoke cigarettes behind the school gymnasium and drink desi daaru in the fields behind Shivaji Nagar and the drinking that was escape and the escape: the addiction and the addiction (thing that the authorities eventually cau g)ht.

I have not been back since. The not-been-back being: two years. Two years of other cities, other foster families, other schools. Two years of Nagpur (the latest placement. The placement that lasted two weeks before the virus made placements irrelevant because the virus made everything irrelevant).

"Tu theek hai?" Reyansh asks from behind me. His hands still on my waist, the waist-holding that has become normal in the thirty minutes of riding, the normal that proximity produces when the proximity is sustained.

"Haan. Bas: yeh sheher hai. Amravati."

Yeah. Just. This is the city. Amravati.

"Woh Amravati?"

"Wahi."

He doesn't say more. He doesn't need to. The not-saying being the understanding that Reyansh carries: the understanding that he developed on the highway when I told him about the gang, the understanding that says: I know this city hurt you. I will not ask for details. I will wait for you to offer them.

---

Amravati's main road is Camp Area. The Camp that the British built, the Camp that became the commercial centre, the centre that has: shops (shuttered), banks (closed), the Irwin Bridge (empty), the old cotton market (silent, the stillness that the cotton market has never known, the cotton market that in November is the loudest place in Vidarbha, the loudest because the traders shout and the farmers argue and the weighing machines clank and the money changes hands with the speed that desperation produces).

I ride the Splendor through Camp Area.

That corner. That corner is where the paan shop was. The paan shop where the gang used to meet after school, gathering that preceded the evening's act. The meetingivities (drinking, driving, breaking). The paan shop where Santosh-bhai would make the paan with his fingers stained red and his mouth stained redder and the red: the katha and chuna that paan required and that Santosh-bhai applied with the expertise of a man who had been making paan for thirty years.

That street. That street is where Surekha-tai's house was, the house that I walked past every day and that the walking-past was the rebellion: I will not go home. I will go to the gang. The gang is my home now.

That school. Shri Shivaji Vidyalaya, the school that I attended for eight months and that the eight months contained: my worst decisions, my worst friends, my worst self. The school whose gate I can see from the Splendor. The gate that is locked (of course it is locked; everything is locked) and that the locked gate triggers the memory of: walking through that gate every morning with the dread that school produced, the dread: not of the school but of the choices I would make at the school, the choices that I knew were wrong and that the knowing did not prevent because the preventing requires strength and the strength was the thing I did not have at fifteen.

"Kahan ruke?" I ask Reyansh. Where should we stop?

"Kahi bhi. Ghar dhundh lete hain — ya hotel?"

Anywhere. We'll find a house, or a hotel?

A hotel. The word producing the idea, the idea that is better than a house: a hotel. An actual hotel with beds and bathrooms and (possibly) running water and luxury that three days of walking has mad, the running-watere precious.

"Hotel dhundhte hain," I say. Let's find a hotel.

Amravati's hotels are on the main road, the hotels that small Indian cities produce: not five-star, not three-star, but the unstarred hotels that Indian travelers used, the hotels that were called Hotel Rajdhani or Hotel Annapurna or Hotel Shree Krishna and that the names — gods' names because the gods' names werethe branding and the branding was the blessing and the blessing was: stay here. The gods approve.

I spot one: Hotel Panchavati. A three-storey building, the building, concrete, painted cream, the cream having faded to the characteristic off-white that Amravati's buildings achieved when the building had not been repainted in five years. A sign above the entrance: Hotel Panchavati. Veg & Non-Veg Restaurant — AC & Non-AC Rooms: Check-in 12 Noon.

"Yahan?" I say.

"Theek hai."

I park the Splendor outside the hotel. The parking: in the hotel's parking area, between a Maruti Baleno, abandoned (doors locked, windows up, the car, the last car that someone parked here and that someone did not return for) and a Bajaj Pulsar (the Pulsar, the other popular Indian motorcycle, the motorcycle that was the Hero Splendor's rival in the great Indian motorcycle rivalry: Splendor for mileage, Pulsar for speed).

We walk into the hotel. The hotel's reception being: a desk. Behind the desk: a register. The register, open; open to a page that shows the last entries, the entries, which was last guests who checked in, the guests whose names are written in the register in the handwriting that Indian hotel clerks produced: hurried, semi-legible, the handwriting that was the analog record of India's hospitality industry. Truthful-hard. No pretence of softness.

The last entry: March 14, 2026. Room 204. Name: Vilas Deshmukh. The entry — the last normal act of the Hotel Panchavati, the last guest, the last check-in, the last entry in a register that will not receive another entry.

Behind the reception desk: a board with keys. The keys hanging on hooks: the hooks: numbered, the numbers, which was room numbers. Most keys are present — the present meaning: the rooms are empty. The rooms were not occupied when the virus hit.

I take two keys. Room 301 and Room 302. The third floor — the third floor because the third floor is the highest and the highest is the safest (the safest: instinct: higher means harder to reach and the harder-to-reach is the protection).

We climb the stairs. The stairs: dark. The dark that a hotel stairwell produces when the electricity is off and the off means: no stairwell lights, no corridor lights, no the-particular-fluorescent-hum that Indian hotel corridors produced. I use the Eveready torch. The torch's beam cutting through the darkness: the cutting that reveals: stairs (concrete, chipped), walls (painted green, the green that Indian hotels painted their stairwells, the green that was the institutional colour, the colour of hospitals and hotels and government offices), and: nothing else. No bodies. No obstacles. The nothing, the relief.

Third floor. The corridor stretching left and right. Doors on both sides. The doors, which was wooden, numbered, the numbers: brass plates screwed into the wood.

Room 301. I insert the key. Turn. The lock opens. The opening producing the click that hotel locks produce, the click that says: welcome. This room is yours.

Inside: a bed (double, the double bed that Indian hotels provided in their standard rooms, the double that was default because the default guest was either a couple or a family), a bathroom (attached — the attached bathroom, which was upgrade thatIndian hotels advertised: Attached Bath, Hot Water, Western Toilet), a television (mounted on the wall; a Samsung flatscreen, the flatscreen, upgrade from the oldOnida CRT that the hotel probably had before), a window (the window looking out over Amravati's Camp Area, the Camp Area that is dark and silent below).

"Yeh tera room," I tell Reyansh, handing him the key.

"Thanks. Tu?"

"Next door. 302."

Room 302 is identical. The identical — the hotel's design: every room the same, the same, efficiency that hotel architecture produces. But I don't care about the sameness. I care about: the bed. The bed that is a real bed: not a charpai, not a mat, not a stranger's mattress, but a hotel bed with a hotel mattress and hotel pillows and the hotel bedsheet that smells of: detergent. The detergent that the hotel's laundry used and that the using has left the smell and the smell is the smell of: civilization. Clean sheets. Washed fabric. The mundane miracle of laundry. Dry. Past its freshness.

I drop my bag. Lie on the bed. The lying-down producing, the lying-down producing the relief that is so total, so complete, that my body produces an involuntary sound: a sigh. No, a groan. The groan of a body that has been walking for three days and that is now on a mattress that supports every ache and every blister and every sunburned forearm.

I close my eyes. The closing; temporary, the temporary that I promise myself: five minutes. Just five minutes on this bed. Then food. Then sleep.

The five minutes become ten. The ten become twenty. The twenty are interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Janhavi?"

Reyansh's voice. Through the door. The voice that has become familiar in three days, the familiar of a voice that you hear all day, every day, the voice that you know the cadences of and the inflections of and the way it says your name: Janhavi. The J soft. The h barely aspirated. The Marathi pronunciation, not the Hindi. I shielded it with my palm.

"Haan?"

"Khaana? Neeche restaurant hai."

Food? There's a restaurant downstairs.

Food. The word activating the hunger that the bed had temporarily suppressed: the hunger that returns with the force that hunger always returns with: you forgot about me? I did not forget about you. I am here. Feed me.

I get up. Open the door. Reyansh stands in the corridor: Reyansh who has washed his face (the washed face being: clean, the clean that the hotel bathroom's water produced, the water that still flows from the taps because the overhead tank has water and the overhead tank does not require electricity to deliver water to the third floor, the delivery being: gravity. The gravity that the overhead tank uses and that gravity does not require electricity).

"Chalo," I say.

We go downstairs. To the restaurant: the restaurant that is on the ground floor, the restaurant that Hotel Panchavati's sign advertised: Veg & Non-Veg. The restaurant being: a dining hall. Tables with white tablecloths: the tablecloths (upgrade from the)dhaba's steel-top tables, the upgrade that says this is a hotel, not a dhaba, and the distinction matters (or mattered, when there were people to observe the distinction).

The kitchen is behind the counter. The kitchen has: what hotel kitchens have. Gas stoves (three, the three that was restaurant's capacity: three dishes simultaneously, the simultaneously, the lunch-rush requirement). Pressure cookers. Tawas. And: ingredients. The ingredients that the hotel's kitchen was stocked with when the virus shut it down: rice, dal, vegetables (onions, potatoes, the survivors, the vegetables that last), paneer (in the fridge, the fridge that still works because the electricity in this building still works, the working. Luck), atta, oil, masala.

"Main banaungi," I announce. I'll cook.

"Pakka? Tu bahut thaki hui hai."

Sure? You're exhausted.

"Tu bhi. Lekin mujhe banane de. Tujhe rice banana nahi aata." The grin: the grin that I deploy when the grin is the armor. "Aaj dal chawal theek se banaungi. Aur sabzi bhi."

You too. But let me cook. You can't make rice. Today I'll make proper dal chawal. And a sabzi too.

I cook. The cooking, which was: better than the dhaba. Better because the hotel's kitchen has proper utensils and proper ingredients and the proper-and-proper allowing me to make: dal (without the excess chili this time. The learning that each meal teaches), rice (washed three times, the three-times-washing that Reyansh told me about on the highway: "Aai hamesha teen baar dhoti thi", Aai always washed it three times), and a sabzi. aloo-pyaaz, the simplest sabzi that Indian kitchens produce, the sabzi that requires: potatoes (cubed), onions (sliced), turmeric, chili, salt. The sabzi that is the fallback, the safety net, the dish that every Indian home makes when the home has nothing else.

We eat at a table. With tablecloths. With steel plates and steel katoris that the hotel's kitchen provides. The eating that was — the eating: civilized. The civilized that three days of road-eating has made us miss: the sitting at a table, the eating from proper plates, the organized meal that hotels provide and that the road does not. Military canvas, coarse-woven.

"Achha hai," Reyansh says.

"Obviously."

"Nahi — sachchi mein achha hai. Dal mein mirchi perfect hai aaj. Aur rice, rice theek hai."

No. It's genuinely good. The chili in the dal is perfect today. And the rice. The rice is right.

I feel, I feel the thing that cooking produces when the cooking is successful: pride. The pride that is small and quiet and that the smallness-and-quietness is the pride's nature: I made this. I fed someone. The someone ate and said it was good and the good is the validation that I need.

The validation. The word that I told Reyansh about — the validation that I chased with the gang, the validation that was the addiction. But this validation is different. This validation is: earned. The earned validation of a person who cooked a meal and the meal was good and the good was the achievement.

After dinner, Reyansh goes to his room. I go to mine.

I lie on the hotel bed. The bed that is the best bed I have slept in since — since. The since, the gap that my memory does not fill because the filling requires accessing the memories that I do not access.

I close my eyes. And for the first time since the virus; for the first time in the nine days since the world ended: I feel something that is not fear or anger or the numbness that fear and anger produce when fear and anger are sustained for too long.

I feel: safe. The safe that a hotel room produces. The safe that a locked door produces. The safe that the knowledge produces: there is someone on the other side of the wall. Reyansh is on the other side of the wall. He is there. I am here. We are both alive. The alive, the thing that matters.

I sleep.