Chapter 5: Reyansh

# Chapter 5: Reyansh

## Wardha

Wardha arrives at sunset.

The sunset, which was the Vidarbha sunset, the sunset that turns the flat landscape into a painting, the painting that no gallery would hang because the painting is too large and too orange and too much, the too-much being the quality of Vidarbha sunsets: they do not do subtle. They do: orange that becomes red that becomes purple that becomes the familiar darkness that the Vidarbha plains produce when the sun goes down and the flat land has nothing to stop the darkness and the darkness arrives all at once, difference between city darkness — the all-at-once(gradual, streetlight-mediated) and countryside darkness (sudden, absolute).

Wardha. The city that Mahatma Gandhi chose. The choosing — choice that madeWardha famous: Gandhi chose Wardha for his ashram, the Sevagram Ashram, the ashram that became the headquarters of the Indian independence movement, the headquarters that said: India's freedom will be planned from a small city in Vidarbha because small cities are where India lives and India lives in small cities and the living is the truth that Gandhi understood: India is not Delhi. India is not Bombay. India is Wardha.

But Gandhi's Wardha is empty now. Gandhi's Wardha is the same as every other city: silent, still, the stillness of a city whose population of 100,000 has been reduced to, to how many? How many survived? How many Reyanshes and Janhavis sit in their flats and houses and dhabas waiting for someone to walk past?

We enter Wardha from the north, from NH44, the highway delivering us into the city the way a river delivers water into a dam: slowly, through the narrowing of roads and the thickening of buildings, the buildings, the marker of civilisation: *where there are buildings, there were people.

"Kuch dhundhe?" I say. "Rehne ke liye? Aur khaana?"

Should we find something? To stay? And food?

Janhavi nods. "Mujhe bahut bhookh lagi hai. Tu?"

I'm really hungry. You?

I am. The hunger, the hunger of eight hours of walking in 42-degree heat on four Parle-G biscuits and half a Bisleri bottle. The hunger that is not the bhookh of missing lunch but the bhookh of the body signaling: I have burned more calories than you have provided. I am depleting reserves. Feed me or I will begin to consume myself.

We walk through Wardha's main road. The main road being the road that every Indian small city has: the road that is simultaneously the commercial centre, the traffic centre, the social centre, the road where the shops are and the banks are and the mithai shops are and the medical stores are and the tutoring centres are, the road that is Wardha's spine.

The shops are closed. Shuttered, the shutters that was metal shutters thatIndian shopkeepers pulled down at closing time and that are now pulled down permanently, the permanently, which was new world's closing time: no reopening. No "kal subah aana", come back tomorrow morning. Tomorrow morning the shutters will still be down. The day after. The day after that.

But: not all shutters are down. Some are, some are half-open. The half-open being the sign: *someone was here. Military canvas, coarse-woven.

"Woh dekh," Janhavi says. "Kirana store. Half open."

There. A kirana store. Half open.

The kirana store, the Indian grocery store, the store that was India's retail backbone: not a D-Mart, not a Reliance Fresh, but the neighbourhood kirana that stocked everything from atta to batteries to hair oil to sanitary pads, the store that the shopkeeper ran from a platform behind the counter and that the shopkeeper's memory was the inventory system: haan, Parle-G hai. Nahi, Surf Excel khatam ho gaya. Kal aayega.

We duck under the half-open shutter. Inside: the kirana store's interior, the interior that smells of: masala — the accumulated smell of turmeric and red chili and coriander and cumin that every kirana store produced, the smell that was the smell of India's kitchens concentrated into a single room. The smell that, even now, even in the dead world, triggers the memory of: Aai's kitchen. Baba's dal tadka. The kirana near Saraswati Apartments where Mausaji sent me to buy dahi and I always came back with a ₹5 Melody chocolate because the buying of the Melody was the tax that a sixteen-year-old charged for the errand.

I swallow. The memory: the wound. The wound that every smell opens.

"Dekh!" Janhavi's voice. She is deeper into the store, behind the counter, in the area that the shopkeeper occupied. "Maggi hai. Bahut saara. Aur — aur Parle-G. Aur biscuits. Aur: oh my god. aam papad!"

Look! Maggi. Lots of it. And, Parle-G. And biscuits. And: oh my god — aam papad!

The excitement in her voice, the excitement that aam papad produces in a seventeen-year-old girl who has been walking for eight hours on an empty stomach. The excitement that is the new world's version of luxury: not jewellery, not phones, not clothes, but aam papad. The dried mango leather that Indian children ate and that Indian adults pretended to not eat and that both ate and that the eating was the comfort.

We load our bags. The loading that was: Maggi (six packets each), Parle-G (four packets each), aam papad (the whole box, the box that the kirana had stocked for the children of Wardha and that the children of Wardha will not eat and that the not-eating is the reason we take the box: the food will go to waste. Waste is the thing that the new world cannot afford. Take it. Eat it. Live.), biscuits (assorted. Good Day, Bourbon, Jim Jam, the Jim Jam being Janhavi's demand: "Jim Jam nahi liya toh main nahi chalungi", if we don't take the Jim Jam, I'm not walking), a packet of mixture (the savoury snack that Nagpur's namkeen shops produced and that this kirana stocked), and, and water. Water being the critical thing. The kirana has: Bisleri bottles. One-litre bottles. Twenty of them, stacked on the shelf behind the counter.

We take four each. The four, the maximum that the backpacks can carry without the backpacks becoming too heavy to walk with, the too-heavy: limit that walking700 kilometres imposes: carry what you can. Leave what you cannot. The carrying is the calculation that every step must support.

"Aur kuch?" I ask. Anything else?

"Torch. Batteries. Aur, aur first aid kit agar hai toh."

Torch. Batteries. And, a first aid kit if there is one.

We find batteries. We find a torch, a small Eveready torch, the Eveready being the Indian torch brand that every Indian household had in the drawer (the same drawer that Mausaji had: torch, Swiss knife, batteries, rubber bands). We find Band-Aids. We find Crocin. The paracetamol tablet that Indian medicine cabinets stocked for every ailment from headaches to fevers to a tujhe Crocin le le that Indian mothers prescribed for every complaint.

No first aid kit. But: enough. Enough for the road.

---

The military cot's frame was hard under his spine, the canvas stretched too tight for comfort.

"Rehne ke liye dhundhte hain," Janhavi says as we exit the kirana store. Let's find somewhere to stay.

Wardha's residential streets branch off the main road. The streets: narrow streets of anIndian small city: close-built houses, shared walls, the houses that were concrete boxes with jali windows and concrete staircases and the distinctive architecture of Indian middle-class housing: functional, unbeautiful, durable. The architecture that said: we built this house to live in, not to photograph.

Most houses are locked. The locked: iron grille gates, the gates that Indian houses used for security, the gates that are now securing nothing because the nothing is the new world's default: nothing inside. Nothing to steal. Nothing to protect. I could feel every crack, every pebble.

But one house, one house on the third street — has its gate ajar. The ajar, the sign: someone left in a hurry. Someone did not have the time or the presence of mind to lock the gate. The not-locking being the final act of a person who was either fleeing or dying and the fleeing-or-dying did not include gate-locking.

"Yahan?" I say.

"Dekh lete hain."

We push the gate open. The gate producing the creak that iron gates produce when the iron gate has not been oiled and the not-oiling is the neglect that time creates. Inside: a small courtyard. Tulsi plant in the centre, the tulsi that every Hindu household kept, the tulsi that was the sacred plant, the plant that the grandmother watered every morning and that the watering was the prayer and the prayer was the routine and the routine was the life.

The tulsi is dry. Dying. The dying of a plant that has not been watered in days.

"Ghar khali lagta hai," Janhavi says. The house looks empty.

"Pehle check karte hain."

We enter the house. The house: a ground-floor flat. Small: the small that Wardha's houses were: two rooms, a kitchen, a bathroom. The rooms containing: a bed (steel frame, Godrej mattress), a cupboard (also Godrej, the Godrej — India's furniture default, the default that said we are a middle-class family and our furniture is Godrej because Godrej is the brand that middle-class families buy), a television (Videocon. The Videocon that was old and boxy and that said this family did not upgrade and the not-upgrading was either choice or poverty), a small pooja room (the pooja room that contained: idols of Ganpati and Lakshmi, a brass diya, incense sticks, the remnants of kumkum on the deity's forehead).

No bodies. The house is empty, empty of people, living or dead. The empty suggesting: the family left. The family went somewhere, hospital, perhaps, or a relative's house, or simply: away. The away that was the impulse that the virus produced in some people: leave. Go somewhere. Anywhere. The going, the hope that somewhere else is better.

"Yahan ruk sakte hain," I say. We can stay here.

Janhavi nods. She drops her bag on the floor, the floor that was cold mosaic floor thatWardha's houses had, the mosaic that was the flooring of a previous generation, the generation that chose mosaic because mosaic was the affordable option and the affordable, which was the Wardha option.

"Kitchen check kar," she says. Check the kitchen.

The kitchen is small. A gas stove: two-burner, the two-burner that Indian kitchens used, the two-burner that was the cooking apparatus of a family that cooked dal on one burner and bhaat on the other and that the two-burner was enough because the cooking was the routine and the routine required only two burners. A prestige pressure cooker, the Prestige being the pressure cooker that every Indian kitchen had, the pressure cooker whose whistle was the timer: three whistles for dal, five for rajma, seven for chole. The whistle, which was the sound that Indian kitchens produced and that Indian children associated with: dinner is coming.

I check the fridge. The fridge has: vegetables (old, wilting, but not yet rotten — the not-yet-rotten that was week-old state, the state that says take what you can), dahi (curdled, unusable), eggs (four — the four (survival food): protein, cookable, edible), and paneer (a block of Amul paneer, still in its packaging).

"Eggs hain. Paneer hai. Aur sabziyaan, thodi purani lekin chalegi," I report. There are eggs. Paneer. And vegetables, a bit old but usable.

Janhavi appears at the kitchen door. "Gas chalu hai?"

Does the gas work?

I turn the knob. The hiss of LPG — the hiss that Indian kitchens produced, the hiss that preceded the click of the lighter and the blue flame and the cooking. The gas works. The gas working because the gas cylinder is the stored energy that does not require the grid, the grid that the electricity depends on and that the gas does not.

"Chalu hai."

"Brilliant. Main banati hoon."

I'll cook.

"Tujhe banana aata hai?"

You know how to cook?

"Kal tak nahi aata tha. Aaj se aata hai. Survival skill."

Until yesterday, no. From today, yes. Survival skill.

Janhavi cooks. The cooking, which was: eggs scrambled (the scrambling; vigorous, the vigorous that was technique of a person who has never scrambled eggs before and who is compensating for inexperience with enthusiasm), paneer cut into cubes and fried with the remnants of the masala that the kitchen cupboard provides (turmeric, red chili, salt. The trinity of Indian cooking, the trinity that every Indian kitchen had and that every Indian dish required as a minimum).

The cooking fills the house with a smell. The smell of: cooking. The smell that is the smell of life: the smell that the dead city has not produced and that the producing is the statement: *we are here. We are alive. We are cooking.

We eat sitting on the floor. The floor (traditional eating position), the position that Wardha's families would have occupied: cross-legged on the mosaic, steel thali on the floor (the thali being the round plate that Indian families ate from, the thali that the family had left in the kitchen and that we use because the using is the borrowing and the borrowing is the new world's commerce: take what the dead have left. Use it. They would not mind. They are past minding).

The food is, the food is the best food I have eaten in nine days. The nine days of: Parle-G, Maggi, water, the diet of a boy alone in his uncle's flat. The eggs and paneer being the protein that my body has been demanding and that the Parle-G diet did not provide. The food, the fuel that will carry me tomorrow and the day after and the day after.

Janhavi eats with the same intensity. The intensity of a seventeen-year-old girl who has been walking for eight hours and who has discovered that cooking is a skill she possesses and that the possessing is the pride: I made this. I fed us. The feeding is the contribution.

"Achha hai," I say. Good.

She grins. "Obviously."

---

The concrete was rough under her fingertips.

After dinner, we explore the house further. Two rooms, we take one each. Janhavi takes the room with the Godrej cupboard (the cupboard, which was room's landmark— the landmark that Janhavi chooses because the cupboard has a mirror and the mirror is the thing that Janhavi wants: "Bahut din ho gaye apna chehra dekhe", it's been days since I've seen my own face). Truthful-hard. No pretence of softness.

I take the other room. The room with the bed, the steel-frame bed with the Godrej mattress, the mattress that is firm in the way that Indian mattresses are firm: not the soft of a hotel mattress but the firm of a mattress that supports the back and that Indian mothers preferred because the preference was the health choice and the health choice was the Indian mother's jurisdiction.

I lie down. The lying-down producing the sensation that the body produces when the body has been walking for eight hours and is now horizontal: the relief. The relief that is not just physical but is the relaxation of every muscle that has been clenched for eight hours: the calves, the thighs, the back, the shoulders that carried the backpack, the feet that bore the weight.

The ceiling above me: white, cracked, the cracks that time and Wardha's heat produce in plaster. A fan, a Crompton Greaves ceiling fan, the fan that is not rotating because the electricity is off and the off is the permanent state. A calendar on the wall: a Kalnirnay calendar, the Marathi calendar that every Marathi household had, the calendar that showed the date in three scripts (Devanagari, English, Shalivahana Shaka) and that was the time-keeping of Maharashtra's homes.

The Kalnirnay shows: March 2026. The month that the world ended.

I reach for my phone. Check for messages. Nothing from Shlok. The nothing: the condition: the network that flickered enough to deliver one text and that has not flickered since.

But the text is there. On my screen. Bhai, zinda hoon. The text that is the beacon. The text that I read before I sleep and that the reading is the prayer and the prayer is: Shlok, main aa raha hoon. Ruk. Main aa raha hoon.

Shlok, I'm coming. Wait. I'm coming.

I think about Janhavi. In the other room. On her mattress. Looking at the ceiling. Thinking about — what? Her foster parents? Parth? The gang in Amravati? Her real parents, whoever they were, wherever they are, whatever happened?

For a second, I consider getting up. Knocking on her door. Talking. But — but something stops me. The something: exhaustion. The exhaustion that pulls my eyes closed and that says: sleep. Tomorrow is 660 kilometres. Sleep.

I sleep.