Chapter 14: Janhavi

# Chapter 14: Janhavi

## Aurangabad

Aurangabad is the first city that feels like a city.

Not like Wardha (too small). Not like Amravati (too personal; too many memories, the memories that sit on the streets like stray dogs: you see them and they see you and the seeing is the confrontation). Not like Akola or Jalna (too brief — we passed through, we slept, we left, the leaving, which was the relationship that transit cities have with travelers: you came, you stayed, you went. I did not know you. You did not know me.).

Aurangabad feels like a city because Aurangabad is a city. A city of eight lakh people: the eight lakh that made Aurangabad Marathwada's capital, the capital that was not the administrative capital (that being Mumbai) but was the cultural and economic capital of the region, the region that Aurangabad anchored the way Pune anchored western Maharashtra and Nagpur anchored Vidarbha.

We enter from the northeast, on the road from Jalna. The entering that was: slow. The slow of a city entrance that requires navigating the suburbs. The suburbs: sprawl thatIndian cities produce around their cores: the auto-repair shops, the tyre puncture stalls, the small factories, the godowns, the residential colonies that are neither city nor countryside but the in-between that Indian urbanization creates.

"Bada sheher hai," I say. Big city.

"Haan. Pune ke baad sabse bada hoga humari journey mein."

Yeah. After Pune, the biggest in our journey.

The biggest producing the thought — the thought that I have been avoiding: *if Aurangabad had eight lakh people, how many survived? In Nagpur (25 lakh), we saw zero. In Wardha (1 lakh), zero. In Amravati (7 lakh), zero. In Akola (5 lakh), zero. In Jalna (5 lakh), zero. The zero — the pattern. The pattern, which was: the virus killed everyone. Or nearly everyone.

But we have not met anyone alive since Parth. And Parth died.

---

We find supplies first. The supplies, which was the priority, the priority that the road teaches: before rest, before exploration, before anything: food and water. The food-and-water being the fuel that tomorrow requires.

A D-Mart. The D-Mart that Aurangabad had: the D-Mart being India's discount retail chain, the chain that Avenue Supermarts built and that Radhakishan Damani's genius created: the supermarket for the Indian middle class, the supermarket that sold everything at 10-15% below MRP and that the 10-15% being the margin that attracted the middle class and that the middle class's attraction made D-Mart the most profitable retailer in India.

The D-Mart is on the main road. Closed: the shutter down, the down: state that every retail establishment isin. But: the shutter has a gap. The gap: the gap that a crowbar or a strong pull creates, the gap that someone before us created, the someone who needed supplies the way we need supplies.

"Andar ja sakte hain?" Reyansh asks.

"Haan. Pehle bhi kisi ne khola hai."

Yeah. Someone's opened it before.

We squeeze through the gap. Inside: the D-Mart. The D-Mart being: the D-Mart being a cathedral. A cathedral of consumption. The aisles stretching in rows, the rows: organized abundance thatD-Mart provided: aisle by aisle, category by category. Biscuits. Snacks. Namkeen. Cooking oil. Atta. Rice. Dal. Soap. Shampoo. Toothpaste. The categories: the categories of Indian middle-class life, the life that D-Mart served and that D-Mart's aisles were the map of: *this is what India buys. This is what India consumes. Dry. Past its freshness.

Most of the stock is intact. The intact, which was: untouched. The someone who opened the shutter took what they needed and left the rest, the rest —: everything else. The everything-else being the abundance that a D-Mart contains. The abundance that would feed two teenagers for months.

We load up. The loading: methodical. Reyansh takes charge of the loading: the charge: the organization that his personality produces: Maggi (ten packets each), Parle-G (six packets each), Bisleri water (four one-litre bottles each: the four: backpack limit), aam papad (two boxes), mixed namkeen (four packets), glucose biscuits (for energy: the glucose (quick sugar that the body needs during wa l)king), Frooti (the mango drink, the Frooti, which was the indulgence that Reyansh allows: "Bahut din ho gaye Frooti piye": it's been days since I had a Frooti), and dal and rice and atta for cooking.

I add my own selections: Band-Aids (a full box — the box that the blister on Reyansh's heel requires and that future blisters will require), Dettol (the antiseptic, the antiseptic that India's first-aid kit requires: "Dettol lagao" being the Indian mother's universal prescription for cuts and scrapes), a new torch (the old Eveready running low on batteries), batteries, and. And sanitary pads. The sanitary pads being the thing that I have been thinking about since Day One and that the thinking has been the anxiety: when will my period come? I have not had supplies. The not-having being the problem that the road forces: you cannot plan for biology when the planning requires a pharmacy and the pharmacy is closed.

I take three packets. Stash them in my bag. Reyansh does not notice. Or if he notices, he does not comment. The not-commenting being the courtesy, the courtesy that boys who have been raised by decent mothers produce: *I will not remark on this. This is not my territory. I shielded it with my palm.

---

We find a place to stay: a guest house. Kailas Guest House, the guest house that Aurangabad's tourists used, the tourists who came to visit Ajanta and Ellora, the Ajanta and Ellora being Aurangabad's claim to fame: the cave temples that UNESCO declared World Heritage Sites, the caves that the Buddhist and Hindu and Jain monks carved into the basalt hills two thousand years ago, the carving; achievement that time has preserved and that the virus has not touched because the virus touches people, not stone.

Kailas Guest House is on the road to Ellora, the road that leaves Aurangabad's city centre and heads northwest toward the caves. The guest house being: a two-storey building with a verandah, the verandah having the plastic chairs and the steel table that Indian guest houses provide for guests to sit and drink chai and look at the view (the view being: the Aurangabad countryside, the countryside that is greener than Marathwada's interior because Aurangabad has the Jayakwadi Dam and the dam provides irrigation).

We take two rooms. Ground floor — the ground floor because the ground floor has water (the overhead tank supplying the ground floor first) and electricity (intermittent — but present, the present: enough to charge phones and run the fan for the hours that the electricity cooperates).

I shower. The shower —: the luxury. The luxury that Aurangabad's guest house provides that Akola's house and Jalna's house did not: running water from a showerhead, the showerhead, the upgrade from the bucket-and-mug thatIndian bathrooms provide as the default. The running water hitting my body, the body that has been walking for six days and that the six days have transformed: thinner (the thin of calorie deficit), darker (the dark of Marathwada's sun on uncovered arms), stronger (the strong of legs that have walked 400 kilometres and that the walking has built: calves, thighs, the muscles that walking develops when walking is not a choice but a necessity).

I look at myself in the bathroom mirror, the mirror that the guest house bathroom provides, the mirror that is small and spotted with age but that reflects: me. Janhavi. Seventeen. In a guest house in Aurangabad, 300 kilometres from Pune, in a world where everyone is dead except me and a boy named Reyansh who is walking to find his best friend.

The face in the mirror is the face that the road has made: leaner. The baby fat that fifteen-year-old Janhavi had (the baby fat that the gang's diet of cigarettes and desi daaru and skipped meals had already thinned) is gone. The face in the mirror is: angular. The angular of a face that has been eating Maggi and Parle-G for a week and walking twelve hours a day.

But the eyes. The eyes are different. The eyes that were. What were my eyes before? Before the virus, before the road, before Reyansh — what were my eyes? I try to remember and the remembering produces: nothing. The nothing, the absence of self-knowledge that foster care produces: I do not know what my eyes looked like when my eyes were not survival-eyes. I do not know what my face looked like when my face was not the road-face. I have been surviving for so long that the surviving is the only face I know.

I dress. Denim jacket. Jeans. Canvas shoes. The outfit that Deepak Garments in Amravati provided and that has become: my uniform. The uniform of the road. Military canvas, coarse-woven.

---

Dinner. Reyansh cooks tonight. The cooking, his turn, the turn that we have established: Janhavi cooks breakfast, Reyansh cooks dinner. The arrangement, the arrangement that two people who cannot cook have made with the practicality that the road produces: we both need to learn. We both take turns. The turns, the education.

Reyansh makes: khichdi. The khichdi being the dish that requires: rice and dal cooked together in a pressure cooker with turmeric and salt. The khichdi being the simplest Indian dish, the dish that Indian mothers make when the family is sick and that Indian bachelors make when the bachelor cannot cook anything else and that Reyansh makes because the making is within his capability.

The khichdi is, the khichdi is fine. Not good. Not bad. Fine. The fine that khichdi achieves when the proportions are approximately correct and the cooking time is approximately right: neither too dry nor too wet, neither too bland nor too salty. Fine.

"Achha hai," I say. Because: encouragement.

"Sachchi?"

"Nahi. Lekin effort ke liye marks milte hain."

No. But you get marks for effort.

He laughs. The laugh that six days of road has made familiar, the laugh that is not loud (Reyansh does not laugh loudly. The not-loudly that was personality: reserved, contained, the containment that Pune's middle-class boys carry as the default) but is warm. The warm that the laugh produces in the room, the warm of two people eating khichdi in a guest house in Aurangabad in a dead world and laughing about the khichdi.

After dinner, we sit on the verandah. The verandah's plastic chairs. The steel table. The view, the view of Aurangabad's outskirts at night, the night that is darker than Nagpur's night and Wardha's night because Aurangabad's electricity is less reliable and the less-reliable means: fewer lights, more dark, the dark that is the stars.

The stars. The stars that the dead world reveals. The stars that the old world's light pollution hid and that the hiding meant: Indian cities could not see stars. Indian cities saw: orange sky, the orange of sodium-vapour street lights reflected off the clouds. But now, now the street lights are off and the clouds are lit by nothing and the nothing reveals: stars. Thousands of stars. The Milky Way. The Milky Way that Indian mythology calls Akash Ganga, the celestial Ganga, the river of stars that flows across the sky.

"Dekh," Reyansh says. "Stars."

"Haan. Kabhi nahi dekhe the itne."

I've never seen this many.

"Main bhi nahi. Pune mein nahi dikhte the. Nagpur mein bhi nahi."

Me neither. Couldn't see them in Pune. Not in Nagpur either.

We sit and look at the stars. The looking, which was: the activity. The activity that requires nothing: no walking, no cooking, no finding, no climbing. Just: looking. The looking that was the rest that the body and the mind need and that the stars provide.

"Ek baat batao?" I say. Tell me something?

"Kya?"

"Tera sabse achha memory kya hai? Virus se pehle. Sabse achha wala."

What's your best memory? Before the virus. The very best one.

He thinks. The thinking — visible, the thinking that his face shows: the brow furrowing, the eyes narrowing, the face of a person who is sorting through memories and comparing them and the comparing producing the ranking.

"Sabse achha. Hmm." He pauses. "Shayad, shayad woh ek din. Class 9 mein. Annual Day function tha school ka. Aur hamari class ne ek play kiya tha, Andher Nagari. Woh Bharatendu Harishchandra wala. Aur main raja tha. Aur Shlok woh pagal shopkeeper tha — 'takiye bees takiye, daal bees takiye, sab bees bees takiye.' Aur Shlok ne itna funny kiya ki puri audience has rahi thi; teachers, parents, sab. Aur baad mein, baad mein hum backstage mein baithe the, costume mein, aur Shlok ne mujhe bola: 'Bhai, hum dono saath mein bahut kuch kar sakte hain. Tu aur main.' Aur usne haath milaaya. Aur maine haath milaaya. Aur. Woh moment. Woh moment jab do Class 9 ke ladke backstage mein baithe hain, costume mein, aur ek dusre ko bol rahe hain ki 'hum saath mein bahut kuch kar sakte hain', woh moment mera sabse achha memory hai."

Maybe. Maybe this one day. Class 9. The Annual Day function at school. Our class did a play: Andher Nagari. The Bharatendu Harishchandra one. And I was the king. And Shlok was the crazy shopkeeper, 'pillows for twenty, dal for twenty, everything twenty-twenty.' And Shlok did it so funny that the whole audience was laughing; teachers, parents, everyone. And afterwards — we were sitting backstage, in costume, and Shlok said to me: 'Bhai, you and me can do so much together. You and me.' And he shook my hand. And I shook his. And, that moment. That moment when two Class 9 boys are sitting backstage in costume, telling each other 'we can do so much together', that moment is my best memory.

The story. The story that makes my chest ache, the ache that stories produce when the stories are about friendship and the friendship is real and the real is the thing that I have not had.

"Achha hai," I say. "Bahut achha."

"Tu? Tera sabse achha memory?"

You? Your best memory?

I think. The thinking requiring the same sorting. But my sorting is harder because my memories are not organized by good and bad but by bearable and unbearable, the bearable being the memories that I can access and the unbearable being the memories that I have locked. I could feel every crack, every pebble.

"Mera. Shayad, Class 4 mein. Tab main ek foster family ke saath thi: Nashik mein. Yeh bahut chhoti thi, lekin. Woh family nice thi. Uncle aur Aunty: woh mere se pyaar karte the, sachchi mein. Ya toh; ya toh aise hi lagta tha. Kya pata."

Mine; maybe; Class 4. I was with a foster family: in Nashik. It was brief, but, the family was nice. Uncle and Aunty — they loved me, really. Or; or it seemed like it. Who knows.

"Achha? Kya hua?"

"Unhone, unhone mujhe Trimbakeshwar le gaye the. Woh Shiva ka mandir. Nashik ke paas. Aur hum teeno, Uncle, Aunty, aur main, hum sabne saath mein pooja ki. Aur baad mein, baad mein hum temple ke bahar baithe the, aur Uncle ne belpuri kharidi, aur hum teeno khaa rahe the belpuri. Aur maine socha: 'Yeh mera ghar hai. Yeh mere Mummy-Papa hain. Main yahan rehna chahti hoon.'."

They, they took me to Trimbakeshwar. The Shiva temple. Near Nashik. And the three of us; Uncle, Aunty, and me. We all did pooja together. And afterwards, we sat outside the temple, and Uncle bought belpuri, and the three of us were eating belpuri, and I thought: 'This is my home. These are my Mummy-Papa.

"Aur, phir?"

And, then?

"Phir: phir Aunty pregnant ho gayi. Aur jab unka apna bachcha aaya, toh meri zarurat nahi rahi."

Then, Aunty got pregnant. And when their own child came, they didn't need me anymore.

The sentence. The sentence that I have not said to anyone, the sentence that has lived inside me since Class 4, the sentence that is the wound that the Trimbakeshwar temple visit created: I had a home. I lost the home. The losing was because I was replaceable. The replaceable — the foster-child's identity: you are the temporary child. The real child is the biological one. The biological one arrives and you are: surplus.

Reyansh is quiet. The quiet of a person who has heard the wound and who does not know what to do with the wound and the not-knowing, correct response: *there is nothing to do. There is nothing to say. The wound is the wound. The wound does not require fixing.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"Nahi. I said, sorry mat bol."

No. I said, don't say sorry.

"Theek hai. Toh, toh main yeh bolunga: tu replaceable nahi thi. Woh log galat the."

Okay. Then — I'll say this: you weren't replaceable. Those people were wrong.

I look at him. The looking, the looking: same look thatI gave him in Marathwada when he said tu akeli nahi hai. The look that is longer than a glance and shorter than a stare. The look that contains the thing that I cannot name.

"Thanks," I say. Quietly. The quietly: the volume that the word requires when the word carries weight: thanks, the English word that carries less weight than the Hindi shukriya or the Marathi dhanyavaad and that the less-weight is the protection: I am grateful but I will express the gratitude in the lighter language because the lighter language is the armor.

We sit. Under the stars. In Aurangabad. In the dead world.

Two teenagers on a verandah. Looking up. The stars looking back.

300 kilometres to Pune.