Chapter 9: Reyansh

# Chapter 9: Reyansh

## The Countryside

Day Three.

Day Three being the day that the countryside takes over. The countryside that has been building since we left Nagpur: building from industrial (Butibori's factories) to semi-urban (Wardha's streets) to rural (the villages between Wardha and Amravati), and that now, on Day Three, completes the transition: we are in the countryside. Pure countryside. The countryside that Vidarbha produces when Vidarbha has no more cities to offer.

The countryside is: cotton fields (harvested: the stubble remaining, the stubble that was evidence of thekharif crop that the farmers planted in June and harvested in November and that the harvesting was the last normal act of agriculture before the virus). Soybean fields (also harvested, the soybean — Vidarbha's other crop, the crop that the government encouraged and that the farmers grew and that the growing was the gamble: will the price hold? Will the monsoon come? Will the middlemen cheat us less this year than last year?). Babool trees, the babool that was Vidarbha's signature tree, the thorny acacia that grew where nothing else grew, the tree that survived drought and heat and the surviving, which was the babool's lesson: you can survive anything if you grow thorns.

Between the fields: the highway. NH44 stretching south, always south. The highway that cuts through the countryside like a scar, the scar, which was the road's identity: I am the wound that development makes in the land and the wound allows passage and the passage is the purpose.

We walk. The walking having settled into the rhythm that long-distance walking produces. The rhythm that the body finds on Day Three, the Day Three being the day that the body stops complaining (the complaining, Days One and Two: blisters, aches, sunburn, exhaustion) and starts accepting (the accepting, which was: this is what I do now. I walk. The walking is the state. The state is permanent until Pune.).

The Bata canvas shoes help. The shoes that I found in the village kirana; the shoes that support the heel that Janhavi lanced, the heel that is healing (the healing that was body's response to the treatment thatJanhavi provided: drain, bandage, protect). The shoes making the thud-thud-thud on asphalt that is the pressure of walking with purpose.

"Aaj kitna target hai?" Janhavi asks. What's today's target?

"Amravati. Shaam tak pahunch sakte hain agar tez chale."

Amravati. We can reach it by evening if we walk fast.

"Tez? Bhai, main already tez chal rahi hoon. Mere pair ki ungliyan toot jayengi aur tez chali toh."

Fast? Dude, I'm already walking fast. My toes will break if I walk any faster.

I look at Janhavi's feet. The Sparx chappals that she wears, the chappals that are her only footwear, the only-footwear that is the limitation that I addressed (with the Bata shoes) and that she has not addressed because the village kirana did not have women's shoes and the not-having was the shortage that rural India's retail produced: men's shoes in abundance, women's shoes in scarcity.

"Tere liye bhi joote dhundhne hain," I say. Need to find you shoes too.

"Amravati mein milenge. Sheher hai."

We'll find them in Amravati. It's a city.

Amravati. The city that Janhavi's story connects to, the Amravati that she mentioned when she told me about the gang, the school, the drugs, the car-hotwiring. Amravati being the city of her worst foster-family experience.

"Amravati, wahi Amravati hai na? Jahan tu —"

Amravati. That's the same Amravati, right? Where you —

"Haan." The haan being flat. The flat that closes the topic, the closing that Janhavi performs with the efficiency of a shutter coming down on a shop: this conversation is closed. No further inquiries.

We walk in the silence that the closed topic produces.

---

The cotton of her salwar was damp against her calves.

The countryside produces its own sounds. The sounds that replace human sound: the sounds that the land makes when the land is not drowned by engines and horns and voices:

Birds. The birds that Vidarbha's countryside sustains: koyal (the cuckoo — the koyal whose call is the two-note whistle that Indian poetry has romanticized for centuries, the koo-koo that is the sound of Indian spring and Indian love and Indian nostalgia), myna (the common myna, the brown bird with the yellow eye-patch that sat on fences and argued with other mynas in the high-pitched quarrel that mynas specialized in), neelkanth (the Indian roller. The blue bird that Hindu mythology said was Shiva's bird, the bird that flew with the turquoise flash that made you stop and look and the stopping-and-looking was the neelkanth's gift: I am beautiful. Acknowledge me.).

Wind. The wind that the flat land produces: the wind that has no obstacles (no buildings, no hills, no trees tall enough to block it) and that therefore blows steadily, the steadily: constant breeze thatVidarbha's fields experience, the breeze that dries the cotton and carries the dust and makes the babool branches sway. I could feel every crack, every pebble.

Insects. The insects that March's heat produces, the buzzing of flies (always flies, the flies that India's countryside generated in quantities that the WHO would document), the chirping of crickets in the field stubble, the droning of bees near the few flowers that the pre-monsoon landscape permits.

And: silence. The silence beneath the sounds: the silence that is not the absence of sound but is the absence of human sound, the absence, the thing that makes the other sounds audible. In the old world, the koyal called and the calling was drowned by traffic. In the new world, the koyal calls and the calling is the loudest thing on the highway.

"Suno," Janhavi says. Listen.

I listen. The koyal; the two-note call, koo-koo, from somewhere in the fields to our left.

"Koyal," I say.

"Haan.

Yeah. My Aai — my real Aai: she used to say that when the koyal calls, the rains are coming.

The sentence. The sentence that contains the word that Janhavi does not use: Aai. Her real mother. The real mother that she has told me not to ask about. The real mother whose mention she avoids the way I avoid the mention of the mounds on the balcony.

And yet, she mentioned her. Voluntarily. The voluntarily —: the countryside's effect. The countryside that opens the mind the way the countryside opens the landscape: wide, flat, no hiding places.

I do not respond. I do not ask. I let the sentence sit between us like a stone on the highway; present, acknowledged, not examined.

We walk.

---

Noon brings the heat. The heat that Day Three's walking body expects but that the expecting does not reduce. The 42-degree heat that Vidarbha produces with the reliability of a factory, the factory's product being: suffering. The heat-suffering that two litres of water and a banyan tree's shade can partially address but cannot eliminate.

We stop under another tree, not a banyan this time but a neem tree, the neem that was India's pharmacy tree: neem for toothbrush (the neem twig that India's villagers used before Colgate and that the using was the dental care that predated dentistry), neem for mosquito repellent (the neem leaves that burning produced the smoke that mosquitoes avoided), neem for; for everything. The neem being India's answer to every ailment, the answer that the grandmother provided when the grandmother was asked "iska kya ilaaj hai?"; what's the cure for this?. And the answer was always: neem.

Under the neem tree, we eat. Parle-G biscuits and aam papad, the aam papad that Janhavi rations with the discipline that the road has taught her: two strips each. Two strips being the allocation that makes the box last.

"Ek cheez batao," Janhavi says, chewing her aam papad. Tell me something.

"Kya?"

"Shlok ke baare mein. Tera best friend. Kaisa hai woh?"

About Shlok. Your best friend. What's he like?

I smile. The smile, the first smile that Shlok's name produces: the name that has been the text on my phone, the text that has been the reason for the walking, the text that has been the beacon. But the name has not produced a smile until now because until now the name has been: mission. Goal. Destination. Now — now, under a neem tree, with aam papad in my mouth and Janhavi asking; now the name produces: memory. And the memory produces: smile.

"Shlok," I say. "Shlok Khanvilkar. Woh, woh aisa ladka hai ki; tu jaanti hai na woh log jo kisi bhi situation mein joke dhundh lete hain?"

You know those people who can find a joke in any situation?

"Haan. Main bhi waise hi hoon."

Yeah. I'm like that too.

"Nahi. Tu alag hai. Tu dark humour karti hai. Tu joke banati hai cheezeon ko handle karne ke liye. Shlok, Shlok sirf: sirf funny hai. Naturally. Bina try kiye. Class mein teacher kuch bol rahe hote the, Shlok side se ek comment karta tha, puri class hasti thi. Aur teacher bhi. Kyunki Shlok ka joke kabhi mean nahi hota tha — hamesha harmless, hamesha cute."

No. You're different. You do dark humour. You make jokes to handle things. Shlok, Shlok is just; just funny. Naturally. Without trying. The teacher would be saying something in class, Shlok would make a side comment, the whole class would laugh. Even the teacher. Because Shlok's jokes were never mean, always harmless, always cute.

"Achha. Toh woh tera opposite hai."

Okay. So he's your opposite.

"Matlab?"

"Tu serious hai. Woh funny hai. Opposites attract; friendship mein bhi."

You're serious. He's funny. Opposites attract, in friendship too.

I think about this. She is right. Shlok and I are opposites. The opposite that friendship requires: the serious one who provides the anchor and the funny one who provides the lightness and the anchor-and-lightness: balance that six years of friendship sustained. Truthful-hard. No pretence of softness.

"Haan," I say. "Shayad. Aur woh, woh achha insaan hai. Sachchi mein achha. Jaise. Jab Baba ka transfer hua Nagpur, aur mujhe jaana pada — Shlok ne mujhe station pe chhoda. Platform pe. Aur woh roya. Mujhe aaj tak kisi ladke ne nahi dekha tha rote hue. Lekin Shlok roya. Platform pe. Rajdhani chal padi, aur main window se dekh raha tha, aur woh ruk ke haath hila raha tha, rote hue."

Yeah. Maybe. And he, he's a good person. Genuinely good. Like. When Baba got transferred to Nagpur, and I had to go: Shlok dropped me at the station. On the platform. And he cried. I'd never seen a boy cry until then, but Shlok cried. On the platform. The Rajdhani started moving, and I was looking out the window, and he was standing there waving, crying.

The memory. The memory that I have not accessed in six months, the memory that the moving-to-Nagpur had sealed in the compartment of the mind that says too painful, do not open. The memory that the neem tree and the aam papad and Janhavi's question have unsealed.

Shlok on the platform. Pune Junction. Platform 1. The Rajdhani Express pulling away. Shlok standing there. Standing in his usual outfit (the outfit: jeans, a graphic T-shirt with some anime character, the Nike shoes that his father bought him for his birthday), standing and waving and crying. The crying, the honest emotion of a sixteen-year-old boy who is losing his best friend and who does not hide the loss because the hiding is the thing that society tells boys to do and Shlok does not listen to society.

"Woh achha insaan lagta hai," Janhavi says softly. He sounds like a good person.

"Hai. Isliye main chal raha hoon."

He is. That's why I'm walking.

Bhai, zinda hoon.

The three words. The beacon. The reason.

---

We walk through the afternoon. The afternoon, the slog: the slog that Day Three's walking produces: the legs heavy, the feet sore (even in Bata shoes), the sun relentless, the water running low.

Google Maps says: Amravati — 22 kilometres.

22 kilometres. Four hours of walking at our pace. Four hours that will take us to Amravati at sunset.

The highway produces a surprise. A surprise being: a vehicle. Not an abandoned vehicle, an abandoned vehicle with potential. A motorcycle: a Hero Splendor, the Hero Splendor being India's most popular motorcycle, the motorcycle that every Indian small-town family owned, the motorcycle that was India's transportation backbone: cheap, reliable, fuel-efficient, the three qualities that India's middle class demanded. Dry. Past its freshness.

The Hero Splendor is parked on the highway shoulder. Parked. Not crashed, not abandoned mid-drive, but parked. The parking suggesting: the rider stopped. The rider got off. The rider did not return.

"Janhavi," I say.

She sees it. "Bike."

"Haan."

"Petrol hai?"

Is there petrol?

I approach the motorcycle. Check. The check —: the fuel gauge (the gauge that Hero Splendors have on the handlebar, the gauge that is a simple float mechanism). The gauge shows: three-quarters full.

"Three-quarters."

"Key?"

I check the ignition. The ignition has, the ignition has the key. The key that the rider left in the ignition because the leaving was the carelessness of a person who stopped "for a minute" and who did not return because the not-returning was the virus.

"Key hai."

"Start kar."

I hesitate. "Mujhe bike chalani nahi aati."

I don't know how to ride a bike.

Janhavi looks at me. The look, which was: disbelief. The disbelief of a seventeen-year-old girl who grew up in foster homes where sixteen-year-old boys rode Hero Splendors to school and the riding was as natural as breathing. I shielded it with my palm.

"Tujhe bike chalani nahi aati? Sachchi mein?"

You don't know how to ride a bike? Seriously?

"Nahi. Pune mein — Pune mein hum bus se jaate the. Ya Baba drop karte the car mein. Bike ki zarurat nahi padi."

No. In Pune — we used to go by bus. Or Baba would drop me in the car. Didn't need a bike.

"Unbelievable." She shakes her head. "Kheir. Mujhe aati hai."

Unbelievable. Anyway. I know how to ride one.

"Tujhe?"

"Haan. Amravati mein, woh gang, yaad hai? Bike bhi churate the. Woh bhi ek skill hai."

Yeah. In Amravati — that gang, remember? We used to steal bikes too. That's also a skill.

The skill that the gang taught her. The skill that the suspended sentence was given for. The skill that is now, the skill that is now the asset. The skill that will carry us from this highway shoulder to Amravati in one hour instead of four.

Janhavi swings her leg over the Splendor. The swinging, the fluid motion of a person who has ridden motorcycles before and who the riding is the muscle memory that the body retains: I have done this. I know how to do this. The knowing is in my hands and my legs and my balance.

She turns the key. The ignition engaging — the click of the ignition, the whir of the starter motor, the cough of the engine catching. The Hero Splendor's engine coming to life: the engine that produces the sound that India's highways know: the put-put-put of a 100cc single-cylinder engine, the put-put-put that is the heartbeat of India's small-town mobility.

"Chadh," she says. Get on.

I get on. The getting-on being: awkward. The awkward of a person who has never been a pillion rider on a motorcycle and who is sitting behind a seventeen-year-old girl who is about to ride a stolen (borrowed? Inherited? What is the moral category of taking a dead person's motorcycle?) Hero Splendor down NH44. Military canvas, coarse-woven.

"Meri kamar pakad," she says. Hold my waist.

I hesitate. The hesitation: the proximity. The proximity of two teenagers on a motorcycle: the proximity that the old world would have scrutinized (two unmarried teenagers, male and female, touching on a motorcycle, the aunty network would have produced the gossip in minutes) and that the new world does not scrutinize because the new world has no aunty network and the no-aunty-network is the freedom that the dead world provides.

I hold her waist. The holding: light. The light that says I am holding for balance, not for intimacy, practical need and the practical need bei, the balanceng the only need.

Janhavi kicks the gear into first. The Splendor moves: the moving (acceleration that the 1)00cc engine provides: not fast, not slow, the speed of a vehicle that was designed for Indian roads and Indian speed limits and Indian patience.

The wind hits my face.

The highway opens. NH44 opening before us like a book, the book that we are reading at speed, the speed; 40 kilometres per hour (Janhavi's speed, the cautious speed of a rider who is riding on a highway with abandoned vehicles and who the abandoned vehicles require: caution. Weaving. The gap-finding that motorcycle riding on a blocked highway demands).

The countryside blurring. The cotton fields and babool trees and flat horizon that walking had made slow and detailed now becoming: fast and impressionistic. The fast-and-impressionistic being the motorcycle's gift: you walked for three days. I will carry you for one hour. The one hour equals three days of walking. The mathematics being: speed is time and time is survival.

Amravati approaches. Amravati, the city that is Janhavi's Amravati, the city of the gang and the drugs and the suspended sentence. The city that Janhavi has not returned to since the authorities removed her.

The city that we now approach at 40 kilometres per hour on a Hero Splendor with three-quarters of a tank and the wind in our faces and the evening sun turning the Vidarbha countryside into gold.

22 kilometres.

Thirty minutes.

Amravati.