Chapter 18: Reyansh

# Chapter 18: Reyansh

## Pune

Day Nine. The day I come home.

We wake at 4:30 AM. The waking: automatic. The automatic that the body produces when the body knows that today is the day: the day that eight days of walking have been building toward, the day that the text message started, the day that bhai, zinda hoon leads to.

The dhaba is dark. The dark that 4:30 AM produces. The dark that is not night but is not yet morning, the in-between that the Hindi word brahma muhurta describes: the creator's hour, the hour before dawn, the hour that the Vedas said was the hour of clarity.

I do not need clarity. I need Pune.

"Janhavi." Quietly. Through the wall.

"Jaag rahi hoon." I'm awake.

She is already packing. The packing: fast. The fast of a person who has been packing and unpacking for eight days and who the eight days have made efficient: backpack loaded in three minutes, shoes on, denim jacket on, ready.

We eat standing. Parle-G and water, the breakfast of urgency, the urgency that says *do not sit. Do not cook. Do not waste the minutes that cooking requires. Military canvas, coarse-woven.

We walk into the darkness. The darkness of the Pune plateau at 4:45 AM, the darkness that the stars illuminate (the stars that the Ghats showed us, the stars that the plateau continues to show because the plateau's electricity is dead and the dead-electricity means: starlight). The road visible by starlight and torchlight, the Eveready torch cutting a beam through the pre-dawn air.

The road: straight. The road that leads to Pune, the road that has been pointing toward Pune since we left Nagpur, the road that now points with the urgency that proximity creates: Pune is 50 kilometres ahead. Walk.

We walk. Fast. Faster than any day of the journey, the fast that the last day produces, the fast of a runner in the final lap, the fast of a student in the final exam hour, the fast of a body that knows the finish is close and that the close means: push. Push harder. Walk faster.

The kilometres falling. 50 becomes 45. 45 becomes 40. The numbers on Google Maps decreasing with the speed that fast walking produces: 5 kilometres per hour, the per-hour (pace that urgent walking achieves).

Dawn arrives. The dawn that Pune's plateau produces: the dawn that I know. The dawn that I grew up with. The dawn that is the Pune dawn: the sun rising over the plateau to the east, the rising painting the sky in the colours that the Pune sky produces in March: orange, then gold, then blue. The blue that is the Pune sky's identity — the clear March blue that Pune's residents call Pune ka aasmaan and that the calling is the pride: our sky is clearer than Mumbai's. Our sky is bluer than Nagpur's. Our sky is Pune's sky.

"Dekh," I say to Janhavi. "Yeh Pune ka sky hai."

Look. This is Pune's sky.

She looks up. The looking-up producing the sight that the Pune sky provides: the blue. The uninterrupted blue of a city that sits at 560 metres elevation and that the elevation means: less haze, less pollution (when there were cars), less the-particular-grey that Indian cities produce. Pune's sky is: clean. Even now, even in the dead world, the sky is clean. The clean — the sky's default when the sky has no factories and no vehicles and no the-particular-Indian-pollution that India's cities produce.

"Achha hai," she says.

---

The suburbs arrive at 9 AM. The suburbs, which was: Pune's outer ring, the ring that Pune's growth produced in the 2000s and 2010s, the ring that was: Hinjewadi (IT parks. The IT parks that India's software industry built, the parks that employed lakhs and that the employing was Pune's economic engine), Wakad (residential, the residential that IT workers needed, the workers who worked in Hinjewadi and lived in Wakad and that the Hinjewadi-to-Wakad commute was Pune's daily traffic jam), Pimpri-Chinchwad (industrial; the industrial that Bajaj and Tata and the automobile companies created).

We enter from the north; from the Ahmednagar road, the road that enters Pune through Shikrapur, then Wagholi, then the eastern bypass. The entering being: the returning.

That turn. I know that turn. That turn is the turn where the Ahmednagar road meets the Pune-Nagar highway, the meeting: the Y-junction that Baba used to navigate when Baba drove to Ahmednagar for work and that I sat in the back seat and watched and that the watching stored the geography in my memory.

That billboard. The billboard that says Goel Ganga Developments. Premium Residences, the billboard that I have seen from the car window a hundred times and that the hundred-times-seeing makes the billboard: landmark. The landmark of coming home.

That petrol pump. The Indian Oil petrol pump on the highway — the petrol pump where Baba stopped and said full tank and the attendant filled the tank and Baba paid with cash and the cash that was the ₹2,000 note that Baba always used for petrol because Baba said petrol ke liye cash, baki ke liye card — cash for petrol, card for the rest.

Everything is familiar. Everything is Pune. Everything is: home.

My eyes. My eyes are doing something that I cannot control. The something being: water. The water that the eyes produce when the eyes see home after eight days of not-seeing home and the not-seeing, the journey that is now ending. I could feel every crack, every pebble.

"Tu ro raha hai?" Janhavi asks. Are you crying?

"Nahi. Dhool hai."

No. It's dust.

"Haan. Sure." She does not press. The not-pressing being the courtesy, the courtesy that she gives me the way I gave her the courtesy on the temple ota: I see you. I will not comment.

---

The city. The city that opens as we cross the eastern bypass, the city that spreads before us with the familiarity that home produces: I know every street. I know every turn. I know the geography of this city the way I know the geography of my own body.

Pune. Population: 35 lakh. Or; was. Was 35 lakh. The was. The past tense that the virus requires: Pune had 35 lakh people. Pune now has: unknown. Some. The radio said some. The cantonment has some.

We walk through Pune's eastern suburbs. Through Wagholi: the suburb that was IT-worker housing and that the housing is: apartments. Apartment buildings that stand like tombstones, the tombstones of the middle-class dream that Pune's IT industry sold: *buy a 2BHK in Wagholi. 45 lakh. EMI ₹32,000. Close to Hinjewadi.

The future is not here. The future died nine days ago.

Through Kharadi. The suburb that had the Eon IT Park and the malls and the restaurants. The restaurants: closed. The malls: dark. The IT park being: a glass-and-steel monument to an industry that required: electricity, internet, people. All three absent.

Through Viman Nagar, the suburb that had the airport (the Lohegaon Air Force Station, the station that was both military and civilian) and that the airport; visible from the road: the terminal building, the ATC tower, the runway. The runway, which was empty, no planes, the no-planes (dead-aviation that the dead-world produce s).

Through Koregaon Park, the suburb that was Pune's upscale neighbourhood, the neighbourhood that had the Osho Ashram and the German Bakery and the cafés that Pune's young professionals frequented. The cafés —: closed. The bakery —: closed. The ashram —: closed. All closed.

And then: the Cantonment.

Pune Cantonment. The area that the British built and that the Indian Army inherited. The area that is east of the city centre, the area that has: wide roads (the wide roads that the British built for parades and that the width now serves: access), old buildings (the colonial buildings that the Cantonment Board maintains), and: and the Southern Command headquarters.

The cantonment is not silent.

The cantonment is not silent.

I stop. Janhavi stops.

The sound. A sound that we have not heard in nine days — a sound that the dead world has not produced since Nagpur: human activity. The sound of: generators. The hum of diesel generators. The generators that the military uses, the generators that do not depend on the grid because the generators are self-contained and the self-contained is the military's design: we do not depend on civilian infrastructure. We generate our own power.

And: voices. Human voices. Faint: the faint of voices at a distance — but: human. The human sound that the ears have been starved of for nine days and that the starvation makes the ears sensitive: I hear voices. Human voices. Living human voices.

"Suno," I whisper. Listen.

Janhavi listens. Her eyes. Her eyes that I have seen in every state (armored, sarcastic, guarded, the one-tear vulnerable): her eyes are wide. The wide of: hope.

"Log hain," she says. "Zinda log."

There are people. Living people.

"Haan."

We walk toward the sound. The walking —: not fast now. The not-fast being the caution, the caution that approaching a military installation requires: *we do not know who is in there. We do not know their rules.

The cantonment gate. The main gate: the gate that has a barrier and a guardhouse and the guardhouse having: a soldier. A living, breathing, uniformed soldier. An Indian Army soldier in olive-green fatigues, standing at the guardhouse with a rifle slung over his shoulder, the rifle — the INSAS rifle that the Indian Army uses.

The soldier sees us. Two teenagers; one in Bata canvas shoes and a gamchha around his neck, one in a denim jacket and canvas shoes. Walking toward the cantonment gate with backpacks and the exhaustion of eight days on the road.

"Ruko!" the soldier calls. Stop!

We stop.

"Kaun ho tum? Kahan se aa rahe ho?"

Who are you? Where are you coming from?

"Main, main Reyansh Gokhale. Nagpur se. Yeh Janhavi. Hum — hum paidal aaye hain."

I'm Reyansh Gokhale. From Nagpur. This is Janhavi. We, we walked here.

The soldier's face. The face that changes: the change —: disbelief. The disbelief of a professional soldier hearing two teenagers claim that they walked from Nagpur to Pune. Truthful-hard. No pretence of softness.

"Nagpur se? Paidal?"

"Haan. Aath din."

Yes. Eight days.

The soldier looks at us. Looks at our shoes (worn). Our clothes (dusty). Our faces (sunburned, lean, the faces of people who have been walking for eight days on Parle-G and dal chawal).

"Andar aao," the soldier says. Come in.

---

The cantonment is: a camp. A refugee camp, the camp that the military has established for survivors. The camp having: tents (military tents — the large green canvas tents that the Indian Army uses for field operations and that the field-operation tents now serve a different purpose: housing survivors), a medical station (a tent with a red cross, the red cross (universal symbol that the tent announces): medical care available), a water point (a tanker truck providing water through a tap, the tap having a queue, a queue of people. Living people. People standing in line for water, the standing-in-line, evidence of civilization: where there are queues, there is order. Where there is order, there are people.).

People. I count: I count fifteen, twenty, thirty people. The counting being: inaccurate because the counting is overwhelmed by the seeing: people. Living people. Thirty? Forty? More inside the tents?

"Kitne log hain yahan?" I ask the soldier who escorted us in.

"Lagbhag 200. Survivors. Maharashtra se."

Approximately 200. Survivors. From Maharashtra.

200 people. 200 out of; out of 12 crore. 200 out of the 120 million who lived in Maharashtra. 200 being: the remnant. The 0.0002% that the virus spared.

"Registration karo pehle," the soldier says. "Woh tent mein, registration desk hai. Naam, sheher, age. Phir medical check. Phir tent allot hoga."

Register first. That tent, there's a registration desk. Name, city, age. Then medical check. Then you'll be assigned a tent.

I walk toward the registration tent. Janhavi beside me. Walking through the camp, the camp that is organized (the organized that the military produces: tents in rows, paths between rows, the paths, which was clear and marked, the marking: military's instinct: order. Everything in order.).

And as I walk. As I walk through the camp, I look. I look at every face. Every face in the camp; every face that passes, every face at the water point, every face emerging from a tent. Dry. Past its freshness.

Looking for one face.

Shlok's face.

Bhai, zinda hoon.

Shlok. Where are you? Where in this camp of 200 survivors are you? Which tent? Which row? Which face in the crowd is your face: the face that I know as well as my own, the face that sat next to me for six years, the face that cried on Platform 1 at Pune Junction?

"Shlok!" I call. The calling: loud. Louder than my voice has been in nine days, the loud that the camp allows, the camp, the space where human sound is permitted again, the permitted (civilization that the military has restor e)d.

"Shlok! Shlok Khanvilkar!"

Heads turn. Faces look. The faces, which was: not Shlok's. The not-Shlok's being the search that produces: nothing. The nothing that the crowd produces when the crowd does not contain the person you are looking for.

"SHLOK!"

And then, a voice. From behind.

"Reyansh?"

I turn.

Shlok Khanvilkar. Standing outside a tent. Third row, second tent from the left. Standing in a T-shirt and shorts that are not his (the not-his, which was camp-issue clothing that the military provides). Standing with his hair longer than I have ever seen it (the longer — two weeks without a haircut). Standing with his mouth open, the open-mouth: surprise that the face produces when theface sees the impossible. I shielded it with my palm.

"Bhai?"

"SHLOK!"

I run. The running: the sprint that the body produces when the body has been walking for eight days and that the eight days have been building toward this moment and the moment is now and the now is: Shlok.

I reach him. I grab him. The grabbing, which was the hug. The hug that two sixteen-year-old boys produce when two sixteen-year-old boys have survived the end of the world and found each other: tight. Fierce. The fierce that friendship produces when the friendship has been tested by 700 kilometres and nine days and the virus that killed 1.4 billion people.

"Bhai," Shlok says. His voice cracking: the cracking of a voice that is trying not to cry. "Tu: tu sachchi mein aa gaya."

Bro. You, you actually came.

"Maine bola tha na. Tere text ke baad. Main chal diya."

I told you, didn't I? After your text, I started walking.

"Paidal? Nagpur se?"

Walking? From Nagpur?

"Haan. Aath din."

Shlok pulls back. Looks at me. The looking: the assessment. The assessment that a best friend makes when the best friend has not seen you for six months and that the six months plus nine days of walking have changed: *you are different. You are thinner. You are darker. You are older. But you are Reyansh.

"Tu pagal hai," Shlok says. "Sachchi mein pagal hai."

You're crazy. Truly crazy.

"Haan. Par tere liye."

Yeah. But for you.

And Shlok laughs. The Shlok laugh, the laugh that I described to Janhavi on the highway, the laugh that is natural and harmless and cute and that the laughing is the sound that I have been walking 700 kilometres to hear.

The laugh that says: you're home. You found me. The finding — the end of the journey and the beginning of whatever comes next.

I'm home.