Chapter 11: Janhavi

# Chapter 11: Janhavi

## The Television

I wake to silence. The silence that Hotel Panchavati produces at 6 AM. The emptiness of a hotel that has no guests and no staff and no the-particular-hotel-morning-sound that hotels produce: the clatter of room service trays, the whoosh of shower pipes, the murmur of the reception desk's morning shift. None of that. Just: silence. The fan above me: not rotating. The curtains: the heavy hotel curtains that block the light, the light-blocking: hotel's promise: sleep undisturbed, the curtains will protect you from the morning.

I pull the curtains open. Amravati's morning enters — the morning that is already warm, the warm, which was March-in-Vidarbha warm, the warm that says the day will be 42 degrees and the 42 is not a prediction but a guarantee.

Below: Camp Area. The main road visible from my third-floor window, the road that yesterday was dark and that today is lit by the morning sun and that the morning sun reveals: cars (parked, abandoned), shops (shuttered), the cotton market's compound wall (the wall that I can see from here, the wall that I used to sit on when I was fifteen, the sitting that was same wall-sitting thatI was doing in Butibori when Reyansh found me, the wall-sitting being my signature activity: I sit on walls. I watch. I wait.).

I shower. The shower, which was: cold water. The cold water that the overhead tank provides, the overhead tank that has water but not heated water, the heated water requiring electricity to power the geyser and the geyser not working because the electricity in Hotel Panchavati is intermittent: some sockets work (the sockets on the ground floor, the sockets that we used to charge our phones), some don't.

The cold water hits my body. The hitting that was — the hitting, the sensation that my body needs. Three days of walking. Three days of sweat and dust and the recognisable grime that Indian highways produce on human skin: a layer of dust and oil and salt that cold water strips away. The stripping: relief. The water running down my skin carrying the three days' accumulation, the accumulation running into the drain, the drain accepting the evidence of the journey.

I dress. Clean clothes, the clean from my backpack, the backpack that I packed at the factory compound in Butibori. Jeans. The Zudio T-shirt, the same Zudio T-shirt because I have only two T-shirts and the two requiring rotation and the rotation meaning: wear one, wash the other, the washing that I will do today.

I walk to Reyansh's room. Knock.

"Haan?"

"Uth ja. Chai banati hoon."

Wake up. I'll make tea.

"Hmm."

The hmm being the sound of a sixteen-year-old boy who is not yet awake and who the not-yet-awake is the state that sixteen-year-old boys occupy until chai or mother's voice or cold water disrupts it. In the old world: mother's voice. In the new world: Janhavi's voice.

I go downstairs. To the restaurant kitchen. Make chai; the chai that I have now made three times and that the three-times-making has improved: the ratio of tea leaves to water to sugar to milk-powder being closer to correct, the correct, which was ratio that everyIndian kitchen calibrates through years of practice and that I am calibrating through days. I could feel every crack, every pebble.

When Reyansh comes down, the chai is ready. Two cups, steel cups, the steel cups that hotel restaurants use, the steel that holds heat and that the holding means: the chai stays hot for the ten minutes that it takes Reyansh to fully wake up.

"Thanks," he says, taking the cup. Sipping. The sip producing the face that good chai produces: the narrowing of the eyes, the slight nod, the internal acknowledgment: this is acceptable chai.

"Aaj kya plan hai?" I ask. What's today's plan?

"Bike pe aage badhte hain. Petrol hai — three-quarters tank. 100-odd kilometres mil jayenge. Aurangabad ki taraf."

We keep moving on the bike. There's petrol — three-quarters tank. We'll get about 100-odd kilometres. Toward Aurangabad.

"Achha. Lekin pehle — ek kaam karna hai."

Okay. But first; there's something I need to do.

"Kya?"

"Kapde dhundhne hain. Mere chappals toot rahe hain. Aur: aur mujhe ek jacket chahiye."

I need to find clothes. My chappals are falling apart. And, I need a jacket.

The jacket. The jacket that I have been wanting since Day One, the jacket that the March heat does not require during the day but that the March nights require: the nights that Vidarbha's countryside produces, the nights that are cool (not cold, but cool. The cool that the flat land produces when the sun goes down and the heat escapes into the sky because the flat land has no mountains to trap it). The nights that will get cooler as we move west and south, toward the Ghats, toward Pune.

"Theek hai. Dukaan dhundhte hain."

We finish chai. Walk outside. The morning: the Amravati morning that is already dusty, the dust that the overnight wind deposited on the Splendor's seat, the seat that I wipe with my hand before sitting.

We don't take the bike. The bike — unnecessary for a clothing expedition: the expedition requiring: walking, browsing, the activities that bikes cannot support. We walk through Camp Area.

The shops on Camp Area's main road are: shuttered. The shuttered that every Indian commercial district produces in the new world. But: one shop. One shop that is not shuttered, one shop whose shutter is up, the up, state that the shop was left in when theshopkeeper left (or died, or fled) and the leaving did not include shuttering because the leaving was urgent.

The shop is: a clothing store. Deepak Garments. The name painted above the entrance in the font that Indian garment shops used: bold, red, the font that said we sell clothes and the selling is our identity. The shop's display window showing: mannequins. Mannequins in shirts and trousers and the mannequin-pose that Indian garment shops used: one hand on hip, head tilted, the pose of confidence that mannequins perform and that customers aspire to.

"Yahan," I say.

We walk in. The shop is, the shop is a treasure. The treasure that a clothing store becomes when the store's stock is intact and the intact means: racks of clothes. Racks and racks. Shirts (cotton, polyester, the fabrics that Vidarbha's climate demanded: breathable, light, the fabrics that 42-degree heat required). Trousers. Jeans. Kurtas. And; and jackets.

The jacket section. I browse — the browsing: activity that the new world has liberated: *I can take anything. There is no price. There is no shopkeeper. There is no queue.

I find it. A jacket. A denim jacket, the denim: particular blue that denim produces, the blue that is neither dark nor light but is the mid-blue that Indians call denim blue and that the calling is the identification: this is denim. This is the jacket that Bollywood heroines wear in monsoon songs and that college girls wear in winter and that I, Janhavi, am taking from Deepak Garments in Amravati because the taking is the survival and the survival is the reason.

I try it on. The trying-on producing: the fit. The fit that a denim jacket produces when the jacket is the right size, the right size: size that hugs the shoulders without restricting and that the hugging is the comfort and the comfort is the identity: this jacket is mine. I found it. I took it. It fits.

"Kaisa lag raha hai?" I ask Reyansh. How does it look?

He blinks. Once. Twice. The blinking being. I don't know what the blinking is. Assessment? Surprise? The surprise of seeing a girl who has been wearing the same Zudio T-shirt for three days suddenly wearing a denim jacket and the suddenly — transformation?

"Achha lag raha hai," he says. Eventually.

"Obviously."

I also find: shoes. Canvas shoes — not Bata like Reyansh's but a local brand, the local brand; brand thatAmravati's garment shops stocked for the women's market: affordable, functional, the canvas-and-rubber construction that walking requires. I try them on. They fit, the fitting being: snug. The snug that canvas produces before canvas stretches. But: support. The support that three days of Sparx chappals did not provide and that the not-providing produced the blisters that Reyansh had and that I was beginning to develop. Truthful-hard. No pretence of softness.

Reyansh finds himself a new T-shirt: a plain cotton T-shirt, the cotton that Amravati's textile mills produced. And a gamchha; the thin cotton towel that Indian men used for everything: wiping sweat, covering the head in sun, wrapping around the waist, the gamchha being the most versatile garment in the Indian wardrobe.

We leave Deepak Garments. New clothes. New shoes. The new-and-new being the reset that the body and the mind need, the reset that says I am not the same person who left Nagpur three days ago. I am a person with a denim jacket and canvas shoes and the jacket-and-shoes, armor that the road requires.

---

His knuckles whitened around the steering wheel.

Back at Hotel Panchavati, I make a discovery.

The discovery: the television works.

Not the television in my room. That television is dead, the dead of no electricity. But the television in the restaurant: the restaurant that has electricity (the electricity that the ground floor has and that the upper floors do not, the not-having, the wiring's hierarchy: ground floor first, upper floors if there's surplus).

I turn on the television. The television, a Samsung flatscreen, the flatscreen that the restaurant mounted on the wall for diners to watch cricket during lunch (the cricket-during-lunch being the Indian restaurant's entertainment: IPL on the screen, dal chawal on the plate, the combination that India perfected).

The screen turns on. Blue. The blue of a television that is receiving power but not receiving signal. I press the channel buttons. Up. Down. Up. Down.

Nothing. No channels. Not even static — not even the white noise that old televisions produced when the signal was absent, the white noise that was the television's way of saying I am trying but there is nothing to receive. This television produces: nothing. Blue screen. The blue, the void, the void that the broadcast infrastructure's collapse produces: no Doordarshan, no Zee TV, no Star Plus, no the-particular-Indian-television-landscape that 1.4 billion people consumed, the consuming; activity that definedIndian evenings: television after dinner. The serial. The news. The cricket. The television: the companion that the Indian household relied on.

No television. No broadcast. No signal.

"Kuch aa raha hai?" Reyansh asks, coming up behind me.

"Nahi. Kuch nahi."

Nothing.

He looks at the blue screen. I look at the blue screen. The blue screen looking back at us: the screen that reflects our faces, the faces that are lit by the blue glow, the glow that is the only light that the television produces and that the only-light is the metaphor: this is all that remains of television. A blue screen. A glow. The glow of an industry that employed millions and entertained billions and that is now: blue.

"No more Bigg Boss," I say.

"Small mercies," Reyansh says. Dry. Past its freshness.

I turn off the television. The blue screen disappearing. The restaurant returning to: silence. The silence that is the new world's broadcast: silence. Always silence.

---

The earth was cracked and dry under her chappal.

We leave Amravati at 10 AM.

The leaving that was: on the Hero Splendor. Janhavi riding (me, Janhavi riding, because Reyansh still does not know how to ride and the not-knowing is the limitation that the Splendor exposes: you are a Pune boy who took buses and your father's car and the bus-and-car life did not include motorcycle training and the not-including is the gap). Reyansh on the back. Hands on my waist. The waist-holding that has become normal, the normal that Day Four produces.

We ride south. Out of Amravati. Through the cantonment area: the cantonment that the British built (the British building cantonments in every Indian city that the British occupied, the occupying producing the cantonment and the cantonment producing the wide roads and the stone buildings and the careful British-India architecture that survived the British and survived independence and survived the virus).

Past the cotton market, the cotton market that is Amravati's heart and that the heart is now still. Past the railway station, the station that is Amravati's connection to the world and that the connection is now severed. Past the last roundabout: the roundabout that marks Amravati's southern boundary and that the southern-boundary is the exit. I shielded it with my palm.

And then: the highway. NH6 south. The highway that will take us toward Akola, toward Jalna, toward Aurangabad, toward Pune. The highway that is the spine of western Vidarbha, the spine that connects the cotton cities (Amravati, Akola, Washim) to the Marathwada cities (Jalna, Aurangabad) and that the connecting is the geography's gift: one highway, one direction, south-southwest.

The Splendor's engine humming. The put-put-put of the 100cc engine that is the soundtrack of our acceleration, the acceleration from walking-speed (5 km/h) to motorcycle-speed (50 km/h), the 50: Janhavi's comfortable speed on a highway with occasional obstacles.

The countryside blurring. The cotton fields becoming streaks of brown. The babool trees becoming flashes of green. The flat horizon becoming the endless line that speed makes of distance.

Reyansh's hands on my waist. The hands that are warmer than yesterday; warmer because the warmth is the familiarity and the familiarity is the trust and the trust is the thing that four days of walking and riding together produces: *I trust you to hold me while I ride.

Amravati disappearing behind us. Amravati, the city of my worst memories, disappearing in the Splendor's side mirror, the side mirror showing: the city shrinking, the city becoming smaller, the city becoming a dot on the horizon and then: nothing. The nothing, the disappearance. The disappearance — the closure that I did not know I needed until the closure happened.

Goodbye, Amravati. Goodbye, Surekha-tai and Prakash-kaka. Goodbye, Shri Shivaji Vidyalaya. Goodbye, the paan shop and the gang and the girls who were my friends and the friends who were my ruin.

Goodbye.

The highway ahead. South. Toward Akola. Toward Aurangabad. Toward Pune.

Toward Shlok.

Bhai, zinda hoon.

The text that is not mine but that has become mine: the text that has become the reason that I, Janhavi, who has no one to walk to and no one to ride to, am riding toward Pune on a Hero Splendor with a boy who has someone to walk to. The someone: Shlok. The Shlok, which was the destination.

And maybe: maybe the destination is also mine. Maybe Pune will be the city that is not Amravati. Maybe Pune will be the city that does not have a gang and a school and a suspended sentence. Maybe Pune will be the city where I start over. Military canvas, coarse-woven.

The starting-over being the hope. The hope that the Hero Splendor carries south at 50 kilometres per hour.

500 kilometres remaining.