Chapter 2: Reyansh

# Chapter 2: Reyansh

## The Shadow

I walk for three hours before I see her.

Three hours of: asphalt under Sparx chappals, the chappals already producing the blister that the right heel generates when the right heel meets cheap rubber for three consecutive hours. Three hours of: abandoned vehicles, the vehicles that was museum of the last day— Maruti Swifts with doors open, Tata trucks with engines cold, a KSRTC bus (the bus that had been heading to Bengaluru, the Bengaluru: the destination painted on the bus's front in Kannada and English, the destination that the bus never reached because the driver died or the passengers died or both died and the dying was the reason the bus sits at an angle on the highway shoulder, one wheel in the ditch, the angle: angle of a bus that stopped mid-sentence).

Three hours of: no human sound. Not one. The sound: crows (always crows. The crows that India's cities produced in quantities that astounded ornithologists, the crows that fed on garbage and now fed on something worse, the something-worse, which was thingI do not name because the naming makes it real and the real is the thing I am walking away from). Wind. The creak of a truck's cab when the wind hits it. The flutter of a tarpaulin. My own footsteps, the chap-chap-chap of Sparx rubber on NH44 asphalt, the chap-chap-chap that is the soundtrack of my journey, the soundtrack that will play for 700 kilometres or until the chappals disintegrate, whichever comes first.

Three hours south of Nagpur. Google Maps says I have passed Butibori: the Butibori that was Nagpur's industrial area, the industrial area that produced auto parts and textiles and the specific kind of small-factory economy that Vidarbha sustained, the economy that was neither Pune's IT glamour nor Mumbai's financial power but was the economy that worked quietly, the quietly, the Vidarbha way: we work. We do not announce.

The sun is directly overhead. 1 PM. The temperature, I don't have a thermometer but I have skin and the skin says: 40 degrees, maybe 42. The 42, which was the temperature at which Nagpur's roads shimmer, the shimmer: heat mirage that the asphalt produces, the mirage that looks like water and that is not water and that the looking-like-water is the cruelty: you are thirsty and I look like water but I am not water. I am heat. I am the opposite of water. The Parle-G biscuit crumbled between my fingers. Dry. Past its freshness.

I stop for water. The Bisleri bottle; half empty now, the half-empty, which was problem thatI have been calculating since I started walking: one litre of water, twelve hours of walking in March Vidarbha heat. The calculation: not enough. Not nearly enough. I will need to find water. I will need to break into shops, into houses, into the abandoned vehicles that line the highway like beads on a mala.

I drink two sips. Two sips being the discipline, the discipline that I learned from the NCC camp at Hislop, the NCC that my father had insisted I join ("NCC mein jaake discipline seekh, Reyansh": Go to NCC and learn discipline, Reyansh) and that I had resented and that the resenting was the son's response to the father's insistence and that the discipline was now, in the new world, the thing that might keep me alive: two sips. Cap the bottle. Walk.

I walk.

And then I see the shadow.

The shadow begins at my feet; not my shadow, because my shadow is behind me (the sun, which was ahead, the ahead, south, the south: Pune). This shadow is to my left. On the road surface. The shadow of a head. Then a body. The body's shadow stretching across the asphalt, elongated by the afternoon sun, the elongation making the shadow taller than the person who casts it.

I look up. Slowly, the slowly: caution. The caution that the new world has taught me in nine days, the nine days being enough to learn: when you see a shadow, assess the shadow before you see the person. The shadow tells you: size, position, movement. The shadow is the warning system. My phone's screen was warm from the sun. I shielded it with my palm.

I see feet first. Feet kicking against a compound wall. The wall (boundary wall of a factory compound), the factory: one of Butibori's small units, the unit that manufactured something (automotive parts, perhaps, or plastic mouldings) and that is now closed and that the wall of which is serving as a seat for the person whose feet are kicking.

I look up further. I see: legs. Jeans, faded jeans, the faded, the faded of jeans that have been washed toomany times or worn too many times, the too-many-times, the poverty aesthetic or the style aesthetic, the two: indistinguishable in Indian youth culture where expensive jeans were pre-faded and cheap jeans became faded and the result was the same: faded.

I look up fully.

A girl. Sitting on the compound wall; sitting the way that Indian teenagers sat on walls: legs dangling, body leaning back, the posture of someone who has chosen this wall as their throne and who will not be moved from it.

She is already looking at me. Of course she is: she saw me before I saw her, the seeing-before being the advantage of the elevated position, the wall, one and a half metres high and the one-and-a-half-metres giving her the vantage. The temple ota's stone was cool, the kind of cool that stone held even in March heat.

Her expression: half-smile, half-scowl. The half-smile being: you are a human being and I have not seen a human being in days and the seeing is interesting. The half-scowl being: you are on my road and my road is the road I have been watching all morning and you are the first person to walk down it and the first-person is either an opportunity or a threat and I have not yet decided which.

"Kya dekh raha hai?"

What are you looking at?

Her voice, the voice: first human voiceI have felt in nine days that is not my own. The voice that sounds like: Vidarbha. The exact Vidarbha Marathi that has the Hindi influence, the influence that Nagpur's proximity to Madhya Pradesh produces, the influence that Pune's Marathi does not have and that Mumbai's Marathi does not have and that Vidarbha's Marathi wears like a badge: we are Maharashtrian but we are also something else, the something-else being the central Indian identity, the identity that is neither fully Marathi nor fully Hindi but is the blend that the geography produces.

"Kuch nahi," I say. Nothing. Then: "I mean, I'm just walking."

"Just walking? Subah ki sair?" A morning walk?

I shake my head. "Nahi. Waise nahi."

She laughs. The laugh: the laugh: sound thatI have not heard in nine days. The sound that the dead world does not produce. The sound that is so alien in the silence of NH44 that I flinch, the flinch, the body's response to the unexpected: that sound. That sound is human. That sound is alive. That sound is the proof that I am not the only one.

"Mazaak kar rahi hoon," she says. I'm joking. She extends her hand, the hand that extends from the wall, the hand reaching down toward me, the gesture — both introduction and challenge: shake this hand if you dare. Touch another person's skin in a world where touch killed 1.4 billion people. The tent canvas was rough against my cheek when I turned. Military canvas, coarse-woven.

I hesitate. The hesitation —: the virus. The virus that spread through proximity, through breath, through the air that two people shared when two people stood close enough to share air. The virus that killed through contact and the contact that every survivor now fears.

She sees the hesitation. Her eyes. The eyes that are dark brown, almost black, the black, the Vidarbha eye colour, the colour that the Deccan Plateau's sun had darkened over generations. Her eyes narrow.

"Virus se darr raha hai?"

Scared of the virus?

"Thoda."

A little.

She grins. The grin, which was wider than the smile, the grin of a girl who has decided that my fear is amusing and that the amusing is the entertainment that the new world provides: you are funny because you are scared and I am not scared and the not-scared is either bravery or madness and I have not yet decided which.

"Mera naam Janhavi hai," she says. "Haath milana zaruri nahi hai, vaise. Virus-virus, na." The dal was hot in the steel thali. I felt the heat through the metal, into my fingertips.

My name is Janhavi. No need to shake hands, by the way. Virus and all.

I put out my hand anyway. Shake hers. The grip being. Firm. Firmer than I expected from a girl who is sitting on a wall in the middle of an industrial zone on a dead highway in a dead world. The firmness communicating: I am not fragile. Do not assume I am fragile.

"Reyansh," I say. "Reyansh Gokhale."

"Hi, Reyansh."

Janhavi looks at me. The looking, the assessment. The assessment that I am performing on her and that she is performing on me simultaneously, human condition, the simultaneity: we assess each other. Always. The assessing, which was the survival mechanism that predates the virus and that the virus has sharpened.

She is — she is my age, approximately. Sixteen, seventeen. Her hair is tied in a bun. The bun: the practical hairstyle, the hairstyle that Indian girls adopted when the hair was in the way and the in-the-way was unacceptable and the bun was the solution: all hair up, all hair contained, the containment that was control. She is thin, not the thin of fashion but the thin of not-eating-enough, the not-eating-enough, which was new world's body type. She wears a kurta. A cotton kurta, the cotton that Vidarbha's textile mills produced and that Vidarbha's women wore, the kurta: garment of practicality: loose, breathable, the garment that the 42-degree heat required.

"Subah se yahan baithi hoon," she says. I've been sitting here since morning. "Tu pehla insaan hai jo is road pe aaya hai aaj. Aur main literally sunrise se dekh rahi hoon." The transistor radio was heavier than I expected. The weight of another generation's device.

You're the first person who's come down this road today. And I've literally been watching since sunrise.

I blink. Study this girl a little more. She must be around my age. Her eyes are — piercing is the word. The piercing of intelligence, not hostility. Curious and combative simultaneously, the simultaneously (combination that certain people carry): the people who want to know everything and who will fight you if you try to stop them from knowing.

"Kahan ja raha hai?" she asks. Where are you going?

"Yeh thoda pagal lagega," I say, "lekin main Pune se hoon aur:"

This might sound a bit crazy, but I'm from Pune and —

"Pune se itna pagal bhi nahi lagta," she interrupts. From Pune doesn't sound that crazy.

"Obviously woh pagal part nahi hai. Kal subah mere dost ka message aaya — Pune mein hai, zinda hai. I could feel every crack, every pebble.

Obviously that's not the crazy part. Yesterday morning I got a message from my friend — he's in Pune, he's alive. He was asking if I was alive too.

"Oh my God. Call kiya?"

"Kiya, lekin lag nahi rahi. Text bhi bheja, reply nahi aaya abhi tak."

Called, but couldn't connect. Sent a text too, no reply yet.

"Toh tu, chal ke ja raha hai? Usse dhundhne?"

So you're: walking? To find him?

"Haan."

"Achha idea hai! Lekin koi gaadi kyun nahi chura leta? In sab chhodi hui gaadiyonn mein se? Zyada jaldi nahi pahunchega?"

Great idea! But why don't you just steal one of these abandoned cars? Wouldn't that get you there faster?

"Wahi toh baat hai. Saari roads blocked hain gaadiyonn se. Gaadi se kahi nahi ja sakta.

That's the thing. All the roads are blocked with cars. Can't go anywhere by car. And besides, I don't know how to drive.

"Oh. Kitne saal ka hai tu?"

How old are you?

"Solah. Tu?"

Sixteen. You?

"Sattrah. Tu mere se ek saal chhota hai." She pauses. "Hislop?"

Seventeen. You're a year younger than me. Hislop?

"Haan, first year B.Sc. Tu?"

Yeah, first year B.Sc. You?

"Dharampeth Science. Second year."

Dharampeth Science College. The Dharampeth that was Nagpur's other college, not Hislop's rival but Hislop's neighbour, the two colleges sharing the Dharampeth neighbourhood the way siblings share a bedroom: reluctantly, competitively, with the unmistakable academic rivalry that Nagpur's college students sustained over chai and samosa at the stalls between the two campuses.

"Theek hai, toh," I say. "Mujhe chalna chahiye, jitna jaldi pahunchoon utna achha. Lekin, milke achha laga. All the best."

Alright then. I should get going, the quicker I get there the better. But — nice meeting you. All the best.

I take my first step forward. From the corner of my eye, I see her jaw drop.

"Kya?" she snaps. "Itni jaldi chhod dega mujhe?"

What? You'd just cut me loose that quickly?

This catches me off balance. "Matlab. Matlab kya?"

What; what do you mean?

"Matlab. Chaar taraf dekh. Sab mare pade hain. Aur tu mujhe akeli chhodke jaayega?"

I mean, look around you. Everyone's dead. And you were just going to leave me alone?

"Main: mujhe nahi pata. I guess —"

"Bas, chup. Ruk." She slides off the wall. The sliding; fluid: the fluid of a body that has been sitting on walls and jumping off walls for years, the years of a childhood spent on compound walls and park walls and the characteristic Indian-girl childhood that included: wall-sitting as recreation, wall-sitting as rebellion, wall-sitting as the place where you went when the house was too full and the road was too empty and the wall was the middle ground.

If you can spare ten minutes from your glorious quest, maybe I can go inside and pack a bag?

"Kya? Matlab, tu mere saath aana chahti hai?"

What? You mean, you want to come with me?

"Nahi, main sachchi mein is bakwaas ghar mein apne mare hue foster parents ke saath baithna chahti hoon jinhe main do hafte se jaanti thi. Kya lagta hai?"

No, what I really want to do is sit in this dump of a house with my dead foster parents who I knew for two weeks. What do you think?

The sentence. The sentence that contains: information. Truthful-hard. No pretence of softness.

Foster parents.* Janhavi is — Janhavi is not from here. Not from this factory compound. Janhavi is a foster child. A child placed with a family by the system, the system, which was India's child welfare system, the system that placed children with families and that the families sometimes kept and sometimes returned and that the keeping-or-returning was the lottery that foster children played: *will this family want me? Will this family keep me? Or will this family decide, after two weeks or two months or two years, that actually, I am not their dream child, and the dream-child is the biological child that the family wanted and that the foster child is the substitute and the substitute is never quite right?

Foster parents. Dead. Two weeks.

"Main, haan — I guess. Theek hai."

"Great!" She grins at me, the grin that I saw when she laughed, the grin that is too wide for the dead world, the grin that belongs to the old world where grins were permitted and the permitting was the luxury that the old world afforded. "Survivors ko saath rehna chahiye. Jaise maine bola, bas dus minute. Aur bhagne ki himmat mat karna. Mujhe pata hai tu kahan ja raha hai."

Survivors should stick together. Like I said, just ten minutes. And don't you dare sneak off on me. I know where you're going.

As Janhavi disappears through the factory compound gate, the gate that leads not to the factory but to the quarters behind it, the quarters where the factory supervisor lived and where Janhavi's foster parents had lived — I take her now-vacant seat on the wall.

Then I try to get my head around what is happening.

To be fair; was it not thirty minutes ago that I had considered how good it would be to have some company on this journey? Even if the ideal companion had not quite been someone like Janhavi...

But she seems sharp. She can make a joke. Maybe it will be good to have her around.

As I decide to not run away very quickly indeed, she reappears. She has changed into jeans and a T-shirt — the T-shirt being a Zudio T-shirt, the Zudio, which was the Tata Group's budget fashion brand that had conquered India's Tier 2 cities, the conquering —: ₹299 T-shirts that looked like ₹999 T-shirts and that India's teenagers wore because the wearing was the affordable fashion that Zudio had democratised.

She has a backpack on her back. A grey Skybags backpack, smaller than mine. She is smiling, and she looks eager, even though we've known each other for five minutes. Dry. Past its freshness.

"Extra kapde pack kiye, kuch khaana aur paani bhi," she says. Packed extra clothes, some food and water. "Aur kuch chahiye?"

"Phone charger? Maine woh galti pehle ki thi."

Phone charger? I made that mistake before.

"Already pack kiya. Waise mujhe zarurat bhi nahi. Kise call karungi? Koi hai hi nahi." She pauses. "Lekin agar kisi reason se hum alag ho jaayein, toh number hona achha hoga, na?"

Already packed. Not that I need it. Who would I call? There's nobody. But if for some reason we get separated, it'd be nice to have each other's number, right?

We swap numbers. Tapping our numbers into each other's phones, the phones — the instruments that the old world used for connection and that the new world uses for navigation and hope: *the text from Shlok on my phone. The Google Maps route on my phone. I shielded it with my palm.

"Chalen?" I ask.

She nods. "Chalein. Maine kabhi Pune nahi dekha."

Let's go. I've never been to Pune.

We set off. Already, it feels odd to not be alone, odd and jarring and also, somewhere beneath the odd and the jarring, warm. The warmth of: another person. Another heartbeat. Another pair of footsteps on NH44.

The two of us. Walking south. Toward Pune. Toward Shlok.

Bhai, zinda hoon.