Chapter 16: Janhavi

# Chapter 16: Janhavi

## The Descent

The Ghats descend. And the descending changes everything.

The change: the air. The air that shifts from Marathwada's dry furnace to the Ghats' damp coolness, the coolness that 800 metres of altitude provides, the altitude that the road has been climbing since Aurangabad and that the road now traverses: not climbing anymore but contouring, the contouring, road's movement along the mountainside, the mountainside that drops steeply to the left (the left, which was valley, the valley that the Ghats create between ridges, the valley that is green and deep and that the deep-and-green is the Ghats' interior: forested, misty in the mornings, the mist, the moisture that the Arabian Sea pushes inland and that the Ghats trap).

I walk beside Reyansh. The walking — different on the Ghat road, different from the plains' walking because the Ghat road has: turns (the turns that the mountain requires, the turns that mean you cannot see what is ahead until you round the bend), slopes (the slopes that the body navigates differently from flat ground; uphill requiring the calves, downhill requiring the knees, the knees that I have been abusing for eight days and that the abusing is producing: ache. The dull ache that descending produces in the joints, the joints that absorb the impact that gravity creates when the body descends).

And the change: the trees. The trees that the Ghats produce, the teak and the ain and the hirda and the bamboo, the bamboo, plant that theWestern Ghats grow in quantities that astound: groves of bamboo on the slopes, the groves, which was thick and tall and that the thick-and-tall produces the sound that bamboo produces when the wind passes through: the creaking. The wooden creaking of bamboo stalks rubbing against each other, the creaking that sounds like the forest is talking, the talking (sound that the G)hats make in lieu of the human sound that the virus has silenced. I could feel every crack, every pebble.

"Sun," I say to Reyansh. "Bamboo."

He listens. The creaking audible, the creaking that the wind produces in the bamboo grove to our right, the grove that stands on the slope above the road, the slope that the grove holds in place (bamboo's function. The holding-in-place: root systems that grip the soil and prevent the landslides that the monsoon would otherwise produce on the Ghat slopes).

"Haan. Bamboo ki awaaz."

"Aise lagta hai jaise jungle baat kar raha hai."

It sounds like the forest is talking.

"Shayad kar raha hai."

Maybe it is.

The exchange, the exchange that the Ghats produce — the Ghats that make philosophers of walkers, the walkers who listen to bamboo and hear conversation and the hearing; the Ghats' effect on the mind: the mind that has been processing death for eight days is now processing beauty and the processing of beauty is the mind's recovery.

---

The asphalt burned through his chappal soles, the heat of the NH44 in March.

The descent brings the first rain.

Not monsoon rain. Not the rain that June produces, the rain that is horizontal and relentless and that the relentless is the monsoon's personality: I am here for four months. I will not stop. I am the monsoon.

March rain. The light rain that the Ghats produce in pre-monsoon season. The rain that is not a storm but is a shower, the shower that the clouds produce when the clouds are pushed up the Ghat slope by the westerly wind and the pushing produces the condensation and the condensation produces: drops. Light drops. The drops that fall on the leaves and that the leaves channel to the ground and that the ground absorbs.

The rain falls on us. The falling —: gentle. Not drenching but dampening — the dampening that the hair absorbs and the T-shirt absorbs and the denim jacket absorbs (the denim jacket (protection that I) chose in Amravati's Deepak Garments and that the choosing is now justified: denim resists light rain. The resisting, the jacket's function).

"Barish," Reyansh says. Holding out his hand, the hand catching the drops, the drops landing on his palm with the sensation that rain produces on skin: cool. The cool drops on the warm palm, the warm-and-cool producing the contrast that the skin registers as: pleasant.

"Haan. Chhoti si."

Small.

"Lekin. Barish. Pehli barish virus ke baad."

But, rain. First rain since the virus.

The first rain. The first rain since the world ended, the first rain that we have seen, the first rain that the new world produces, the first rain being: the proof. The proof that the world's systems continue. The systems that produce rain (the water cycle: evaporation, condensation, precipitation, the cycle that the virus does not interrupt because the virus kills people, not physics, and physics continues: the sun heats the sea, the sea evaporates, the clouds form, the clouds rise, the Ghats catch the clouds, the clouds rain. The cycle that has been operating for 4.5 billion years and that the virus, the virus that is nine days old; does not alter).

The rain —: comfort. The comfort that the continuation of nature's systems provides: *the world continues. The rain falls. The cycle works.

I tilt my face up. Let the rain fall on my face, the drops landing on my forehead, my cheeks, my closed eyelids. The landing —: the touch. The touch that the rain provides: the touch that is not human but is the closest thing to human touch that the dead world offers: I am the rain. I touch your face. I do not judge. I do not leave. I fall.

"Aaja," I say to Reyansh. Come.

"Kya?"

"Barish mein khade ho ja. Feel kar."

Stand in the rain. Feel it.

He looks at me. The look being: confused. The confused of a boy who does not understand why a girl is standing in light rain with her face tilted up and her eyes closed and the standing. Activity, the activity that makes no practical sense but that makes every emotional sense.

But he does it. He stands beside me. Tilts his face up. Closes his eyes. The rain falling on both our faces: the rain (shared experience that the G)hats provide: two teenagers standing on a mountain road in light rain, faces up, eyes closed, feeling the rain.

The rain lasts ten minutes. Ten minutes of: drops. Then the clouds pass, the passing, which was brevity of pre-monsoon showers, the brevity that says *I am a preview. The real rain comes in June.

We walk on. Damp. The damp — the state that the rain leaves, the state that is neither wet nor dry but is the in-between, the in-between that evaporates in the Ghat breeze within an hour.

---

The wood of the bench was smooth, polished by a thousand sitters.

The Ghat road descends through the afternoon. The descending: gradual. The road losing altitude, 800 metres becoming 700 becoming 600, the numbers on my phone's altimeter dropping as the road switchbacks down the western face of the Ghats.

The landscape changing with the descent: the dense forest thinning, the thinning revealing: villages. Ghat villages — the villages that the Adivasi communities built on the Ghat slopes, the communities that were the Ghats' original inhabitants: the Mahadeo Koli, the Thakar, the Katkari. The communities that lived in the Ghats before the Marathas and the British and that the living-in was the knowledge: how to farm the slopes, how to harvest the bamboo, how to collect the honey, how to survive on a mountain.

The villages, which was: small. Five houses. Ten houses. The houses: different from the plains' houses; not concrete but kachcha: mud walls, tiled roofs (the Mangalorean tiles that the Konkan's kilns produced and that the Ghat villages used because the tiles were the available material and the available, the Ghat economy: use what the mountain provides). Truthful-hard. No pretence of softness.

We pass through the villages. The villages —: empty. The empty that every settlement has been, the empty that is the universal condition. But in the Ghat villages, the empty feels different. The different, which was: the villages were already quiet. The quiet that Adivasi villages have: the quiet of communities that lived with the forest and that the living-with produced: a relationship with silence. The silence that the forest produces and that the forest's people learned to inhabit.

"Yeh gaon bahut alag hain," I say. These villages are very different.

"Haan. Adivasi gaon hain. Ghat ke log."

Yeah. Adivasi villages. Ghat people.

"Achhe lagte hain. Shaant."

They look nice. Peaceful.

Peaceful. The word that the villages produce, the word that is the correct word for the Ghat villages: peaceful. Not the peaceful of death (the peaceful that the plains' cities produce, the peaceful of absence) but the peaceful of design: these villages were designed for peace. These villages were built in the forest for the forest's peace. The peace was the intention.

---

At dusk, we find a larger village. Larger being: twenty houses, a kirana store, a school (the school, a single-room building with a chalkboard, the chalkboard that said Maharashtra Government Primary School in faded Marathi lettering), and: and a temple.

The temple —: small. A Hanuman temple. The Hanuman temple that every Maharashtra village has, the Hanuman: the god of strength and the god-of-strength, the deity that villageMaharashtra worships because the worship is the prayer: *give us strength. The strength to farm the difficult soil. The strength to survive the monsoon.

The temple has an ota: the ota being the raised platform in front of the temple, the platform that village temples provide for: sitting, gathering, the activities that the temple's ota enables. The ota being: covered. A small roof over the ota; the roof protecting from rain.

"Yahan rahe aaj?" I suggest. Stay here tonight?

Reyansh looks at the temple. At the ota. At the roof.

"Temple mein?"

"Ota pe. Bahar. Chhat hai: barish se bach jayenge agar phir se aaye."

On the ota. Outside. There's a roof, we'll be protected if it rains again.

He nods. "Theek hai."

We set up on the ota. The setting-up being: simple. Backpacks as pillows. The gamchha (Reyansh's cotton towel) as a blanket for him. My denim jacket as a blanket for me. The ota's stone surface being: hard. Harder than any surface we have slept on; harder than the charpai, harder than the hotel mattress, harder than the Wardha family's Godrej mattress. The hard of stone that has been stone for centuries and that the centuries have not softened.

But: the air. The Ghat air that surrounds us. The air that is cool (genuinely cool; not the relative cool of Vidarbha's pre-dawn but the actual cool of 700 metres altitude, the cool that the skin registers as: pleasant. The pleasant of air that does not burn.) The air carrying: the forest's smell. The teak-and-earth smell that the Ghats produce after rain, the after-rain smell that Indians call mitti ki khushboo: the smell of earth, the smell that the first rain on dry earth produces and that the producing is one of India's most beloved smells.

We eat. Parle-G and aam papad — the dinner of travelers who are too tired to cook and whose tiredness makes the Parle-G acceptable and the aam papad luxury. Dry. Past its freshness.

"Kal Pune aa jayega?" Janhavi asks.

"Kal nahi. Parson. 120 kilometres: do din."

Not tomorrow. Day after. 120 kilometres — two days.

"Parson." She says it slowly. The slowly, which was the tasting: the tasting of the word, the word that means: two more days. Two more sleeps. Two more mornings of chai and Parle-G and walking. Then: Pune. Then: Shlok. Then: whatever comes after.

"Parson," I confirm.

We lie on the ota. Side by side — the side-by-side that the ota's width permits, the width — just enough for two people to lie without touching, the without-touching that was boundary that two teenagers maintain on a temple platform in the Ghats.

Above us: the roof. The small roof that the temple provides. And through the gap between the roof and the ota's edge: the sky. The Ghat sky, the sky that is different from the Marathwada sky: darker (the darker of altitude and forest, the forest that blocks the ambient light that even dead cities produce), clearer (the clearer of the rain having washed the atmosphere), and: starred. The stars that Aurangabad's verandah showed us. The stars that the Ghats show us again, closer this time, the closer, which was altitude's gift: you are 700 metres closer to the stars and the 700 metres makes the stars brighter.

"Reyansh?"

"Haan?"

"Jab tu Shlok ko dhundhega, phir kya karega?"

When you find Shlok — then what?

The question. The question that I have been asking myself, the question that the proximity to Pune makes urgent: *what happens when we reach Pune? What happens when Reyansh finds Shlok? I shielded it with my palm.

The question that contains the fear: Reyansh has a destination. Reyansh has a person. Reyansh has Shlok. I have: nothing. No destination. No person. No text message that says 'bhai, zinda hoon.' I have: Reyansh. And Reyansh has Shlok. And when Reyansh has Shlok, Reyansh will not need me.

The fear that the foster-care girl carries: I am the temporary person. I am the person who walks beside you until you find the person you are looking for. Then I am: surplus.

"Pata nahi," Reyansh says. Then: "Matlab. Pehle Shlok ko dhundhna hai. Phir, phir sochenge. Shayad — shayad woh safe zone ke baare mein jaanta hoga. Ya kuch plan hoga."

Don't know. I mean — first, find Shlok. Then; then we'll figure it out. Maybe. Maybe he knows about a safe zone. Or has some plan.

"Aur main?"

And me?

The question. The direct question that I have not asked until now, the question that the ota and the stars and the proximity to Pune force out: what about me?

"Tu? Tu mere saath hai. Tu mere saath rahegi. Jab hum Shlok ko dhundhenge, tu bhi wahi rahegi. Main tujhe chhod ke nahi jaunga."

You? You're with me. You'll stay with me. When we find Shlok, you'll be there too. I'm not leaving you behind.

The sentence. The sentence that I play back in my mind. Replay, replay, replay: main tujhe chhod ke nahi jaunga. I'm not leaving you behind. Military canvas, coarse-woven.

The sentence that no one has said to me. Not the Nashik family who gave me back when Aunty got pregnant. Not the Amravati family who gave me back when the authorities caught me. Not any of the seven foster families who took me and returned me and the taking-and-returning (cycle that my life has been).

Main tujhe chhod ke nahi jaunga.

I do not respond. I cannot respond because the responding requires a voice and the voice is trapped behind the thing that is building in my throat, the thing that is not a word but is a sound, the sound that the body produces when the body is trying not to cry and the trying is failing.

I turn on my side. Away from Reyansh. Face the temple wall. The wall that is stone and that the stone does not judge.

The tear falls. One tear. On the stone of the temple ota.

One tear. Then: nothing. The wall going back up. The armor reconstructing itself. The reconstruction that was: fast. Practiced. The practice of a girl who has been rebuilding walls since she was four years old.

"Good night," I say. My voice steady. The steady that the wall provides.

"Good night, Janhavi."

I close my eyes. I sleep.

On a temple ota in the Western Ghats. Under the stars. Beside the boy who said he would not leave me behind.

100 kilometres to Pune.