Chapter 17: Reyansh

# Chapter 17: Reyansh

## The Radio

Day Eight. The day the radio speaks.

We leave the temple village at dawn: the dawn that the Ghats produce differently from the plains' dawn: not the sudden sunrise of Vidarbha but the gradual emergence of light through mist, the mist that the Ghats' valleys produce overnight and that the morning sun burns off in layers, the layers —: first the treetops emerge, then the road, then the valley below, the emerging: the Ghats' slow reveal: I do not show you everything at once. I show you in stages. The stages are my gift.

The walking is easier today. The easier: downhill. The Ghat road descending from 700 metres toward the plateau's edge. The edge where the Ghats become the foothills and the foothills become the plains and the plains become: Pune. The descending producing the opposite sensation from yesterday's climbing: the legs moving faster, the gravity assisting rather than resisting, the body covering ground with less effort.

Janhavi walks beside me. She has been quiet since last night, the quiet that followed the conversation on the temple ota, the conversation that ended with main tujhe chhod ke nahi jaunga and the one tear that I did not see but that I felt: the small sound of a tear hitting stone.

I do not mention it. The not-mentioning being the respect: the respect that grief requires, the respect that says: *I sensed you. I will not comment.

---

The steel glass was hot against her fingers.

At 9 AM, we pass through a small town — the small town that the Ghat road produces at the transition between the Ghats and the foothills: a town with a bus stand and a temple and a government office and the government office having: a police station.

The police station being: a single-storey building with a verandah, the verandah having a board: Junnar Police Station, Pune Rural. The board, the information that changes everything.

Pune Rural. We are in Pune district.

"Dekh," I say, pointing at the board.

Janhavi reads it. "Pune Rural."

"Haan. Hum Pune district mein aa gaye."

We've entered Pune district.

The sentence. The sentence that carries the weight of eight days and 600 kilometres, the sentence that says: we are here. Not in Pune city yet: Pune city is still 80 kilometres south; but in Pune district. In the administrative boundary that says: this land is Pune's land. This soil is Pune's soil. This air is Pune's air.

Janhavi's face changes. The change —: not a smile (Janhavi does not smile at progress: Janhavi smiles at absurdity) but a softening. The softening of the jaw, the softening of the eyes, the softening that says: *we are close. The close: the almost. I could feel every crack, every pebble.

"Chal," she says. "Ruk mat."

Let's go. Don't stop.

We walk. Faster. The faster that proximity produces: the proximity to the destination making the legs move quicker, the quicker, body's response to the mind's urgency: Pune is close. Walk faster. Get there.

---

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

The radio speaks at noon.

We are walking through the foothills. The foothills that are the Ghats' last territory before the Pune plateau begins. The foothills: gentler than the Ghats. The slopes softer. The vegetation sparser. The teak giving way to scrub, the scrub; transition vegetation that theGhats-to-plains boundary produces.

A house. A house on the roadside. The house that the foothills' scattered settlements produce: a single house, not part of a village, the single-house being the Ghat farmer's home: isolated, self-sufficient, the house surrounded by fields (terraced, the terraced fields that Ghat farming requires on slopes).

The house is, the house is different from the other houses we have entered. The difference: a sound. A sound coming from inside the house.

A voice.

Not a human voice, not the voice of a living person. A broadcast voice. The voice of a radio.

"Sun!" I grab Janhavi's arm. "Radio."

She listens. Her eyes widening: the widening that indicates: she hears it too. The radio's voice being faint, the faint of a radio that is playing at low volume, the low volume suggesting: battery conservation. The conservation that someone is practicing: play the radio at low volume. Save the battery. The battery is the lifeline.

We approach the house. Quietly. The quietly that the sound demands: do not scare whoever is playing the radio. The whoever —: a person. A living person. The first living person we have encountered since Parth.

The door is ajar. We push it open.

Inside: a room. A room with a charpai, a table, a kerosene lamp (unlit. The unlit, which was daytime), and: on the table, a radio. A transistor radio, the transistor radio that India's previous generation used, the radio that Doordarshan's AM broadcasts served and that FM radio supplemented and that the transistor (technology that brought the world to I)ndia's villages before television did.

The radio is on. The radio producing: a voice. A male voice. Speaking in Hindi. The Hindi: clipped, formal, the formal Hindi that newsreaders use:

"— yeh All India Radio hai. Aapko suna raha hai emergency broadcast. Agar aap yeh sun rahe hain toh aap jeevit hain. Hum Pune mein hain. Pune ke military cantonment mein ek safe zone sthapit kiya gaya hai. Agar aap Maharashtra mein hain. Agar aap kahin bhi hain. Pune ki taraf aaiye. Hum yahaan hain. Punah: yeh All India Radio hai,"

, this is All India Radio. You are hearing an emergency broadcast. If you are hearing this, you are alive. We are in Pune. A safe zone has been established in the Pune military cantonment. If you are in Maharashtra, if you are anywhere: come toward Pune. We are here. Again: this is All India Radio —

The broadcast loops. The loop, the repetition, the emergency broadcast that someone in Pune has set up on a loop, the loop playing on All India Radio's frequency, the frequency that transistor radios can receive because the frequency is AM and the AM is the old technology that does not require the internet or the cell towers or the infrastructure that the virus has destroyed. AM radio requires: a transmitter and a receiver. The transmitter — in Pune. The receiver, this transistor radio on this table in this house in the foothills.

I stand. Janhavi stands. We stand and we listen to the broadcast loop, the loop playing the same message, the same voice, the same Pune ke military cantonment mein ek safe zone sthapit kiya gaya hai:

A safe zone has been established in the Pune military cantonment.

Pune military cantonment. The cantonment that I know, the cantonment that every Pune person knows: the area on the eastern side of the city, the area that the British built and that the Indian Army inherited and that the inheriting meant: barracks, parade grounds, the Southern Command headquarters, the headquarters that was the Indian Army's second-most-important command centre.

"Shlok," I say. "Shlok wahi hoga."

Shlok. Shlok must be there.

"Haan." Janhavi's voice: not flat, not sarcastic, not armored. Just: yes. The yes of a person who has heard the broadcast and who understands what the broadcast means: there are people in Pune. Living people. Organized people. People who have a safe zone and a radio transmitter and evidence of organization and the organiza, the radio-transmittertion being the hope.

I take the transistor radio. The taking, which was: not theft. The taking —: necessity. The radio is the compass that will guide us to Pune. Truthful-hard. No pretence of softness.

The radio is small. Palm-sized, the palm-sized that transistor radios achieve. Battery-powered. I check: the batteries are AA. We have AA batteries: the batteries from the D-Mart resupply. The batteries that will keep the radio alive.

I put the radio in my backpack. The radio beside the Bisleri and the Parle-G and the Band-Aids. The radio — the most valuable thing in my backpack, more valuable than water (water can be found), more valuable than food (food can be found), more valuable than first-aid (injuries can be endured). The radio is the confirmation: Pune is alive. Someone is there. The someone has a radio and the radio says: come.

---

We walk. Faster than before, the faster that the radio produces, the radio that has transformed the walking from walking toward hope to walking toward certainty. The certainty that the broadcast provides: there are people. In Pune. In the cantonment. They are waiting for you.

The foothills descending into the plains. The plains that are the Pune plateau, the plateau that is different from the Vidarbha plateau and the Marathwada plateau: greener (the greener that the Ghats' proximity provides: Pune gets more rain than Marathwada because Pune is closer to the Ghats and the closer-to means: more rain), more developed (the more-developed that Pune's economy produces: better roads, more buildings, the infrastructure that India's IT capital generates).

The road straightening, the road that curved through the Ghats now straightening as the Ghats release it onto the plateau. The straight road producing: speed. The speed that straight walking provides, the speed that curves do not, the curves requiring: slowing, looking, the caution that straight roads do not demand.

"Kitna aur?" Janhavi asks. The question that has become the question. The daily question, the hourly question, the question that measures the remaining distance between here and Pune.

"80 kilometres."

"Ek aur din."

One more day.

"Haan. Kal. Kal Pune."

Yes. Tomorrow. Tomorrow Pune.

Tomorrow. The word that has been abstract for eight days. The word that meant another day of walking, another day of Maggi and Parle-G, another day of the road. Tomorrow now means: Pune. Tomorrow means: Shlok. Tomorrow means: the cantonment. The safe zone. The broadcast's promise.

We walk through the afternoon. Through the Pune plateau: the plateau that reveals: signs. Road signs that say Pune and the saying, which was confirmation that the geography provides: *you are on the right road. The right road leads to Pune. Dry. Past its freshness.

Signs: Pune. 75 km. Then: Pune, 60 km. Then: Pune, 50 km.

The numbers decreasing. The decreasing, which was the countdown — the countdown that the journey has been waiting for: the countdown from 700 to 50, the 50: the number that says you can reach Pune tomorrow morning if you start walking at dawn.

We stop at dusk. 50 kilometres from Pune. We stop at a dhaba — another dhaba, the dhabas that have been our shelters and our kitchens. This dhaba being: a highway dhaba on the Pune-Ahmednagar road, the dhaba that Pune's long-distance truckers used.

We cook. Dal chawal. The dal chawal that Janhavi makes with the competence that eight days of cooking have produced: the competence that repetition builds, the repetition, the teacher that cookbooks cannot replace.

We eat. Quietly. The quietly of anticipation — the anticipation that tomorrow produces: *tomorrow we arrive. Tomorrow the walking ends. I shielded it with my palm.

After dinner, I turn on the transistor radio. The radio broadcasting the loop, the same voice, the same message: Pune ke military cantonment mein ek safe zone sthapit kiya gaya hai.

I listen. Janhavi listens. The broadcast being: the lullaby. The lullaby that the radio provides to two teenagers in a dhaba 50 kilometres from Pune: you are close. You are almost there. Sleep. Tomorrow you arrive.

"Good night," Janhavi says.

"Good night."

I sleep. The sleep that is the last sleep before Pune. The last sleep of the journey. The last sleep of the road.

Tomorrow: Pune. Tomorrow: Shlok. Tomorrow: the cantonment.

50 kilometres.

Bhai, zinda hoon.

Tomorrow, Shlok.