Chapter 20: Veer

# Chapter 20: Veer

## The Confrontation

They come back on a Wednesday. Three days after the tyre tracks.

I am on the morning patrol. The 6 AM patrol, the patrol that I perform with Bholu and that I now perform with Irfan as my partner (Irfan being the twenty-five-year-old from Solapur, the Solapur that was the textile city of Maharashtra, the city that produced bedsheets and towels and the particular brand of Maharashtrian working-class resilience that Solapur carried: the resilience of a city that had been declared a backward district by the state government and that had responded by producing more cloth than any other district and by proving that backward was a government classification and not a people classification).

Irfan sees it first. "Veer, dekh."

I look. The road, the main road that enters Lavasa from the highway, the road that the tyre tracks had used three days ago. On the road: a vehicle. An SUV, dark grey, large, the large: the large of a Mahindra Scorpio, the Scorpio, which was the SUV that Indian police used and that Indian politicians used and that Indian men who wanted to project power used, the power-projection being the Scorpio's brand identity: I am large. I am loud. I am not to be trifled with.

The Scorpio is approaching. Slowly. The slowly — deliberate, the deliberate being: the driver knows we are here. The driver is not sneaking. The driver is approaching at fifteen kilometres per hour, the fifteen that was speed of a vehicle that wants to be seen.

"Colonel ko bulao," I tell Irfan. "Jaldi."

Get the Colonel. Quickly.

Irfan runs. Irfan's running producing the sound that the morning patrol has never produced: urgency. The urgency carrying from the perimeter to the ochre building in the time that it takes a twenty-five-year-old man to sprint two hundred metres.

I stay. I stay at the perimeter, the perimeter that the Colonel has defined, the perimeter that I am now defending with: a knife in my pocket, a steel rebar in my right hand (the rebar that the Colonel had distributed to all sixteen people, the rebar: the universal weapon: heavy, pointed, effective), and Bholu at my right side.

Bholu's body: rigid. Ears forward. Tail rigid. Lips pulled back. The teeth visible, the teeth that was warning that the dog sends to the approaching vehicle: I am here. I have teeth. I will use them.

The Scorpio stops. Fifty metres from me. The engine idling, the diesel idle of a Scorpio, the idle: loud and low, the feel of a vehicle that is waiting.

The door opens. The driver's door.

A man gets out. Thirties. Tall. Six feet, maybe more. Broad shoulders. A beard. The beard that was untrimmed beard of a man who has not shaved in weeks, the not-shaving, which was new world's grooming standard: nobody shaves because shaving is the vanity that the old world afforded and the new world does not. He wears cargo pants and a black T-shirt and boots, the same military-style boots that Leah wears, the boots: practical footwear of a man who walks inrough terrain.

He does not carry a visible weapon. His hands are at his sides. The hands: open, the open, which was gesture that says: I am not armed. I am not reaching for a weapon. I am showing you my hands.

But I do not trust hands. I have learned, I have learned from Jagdish and Sachin that hands can be open and the open can be a lie and the lie can be followed by a knife or a fist or the particular violence that open hands conceal.

"Kaun ho?" I call. Who are you?

The man takes a step forward. One step. The step; cautious. The cautious step that Gauri had taken in the D-Mart parking lot, the step of a person who is approaching and who knows that approaching is a risk and who is taking the risk anyway.

"Mera naam Aarav hai," he calls back. "Aarav Deshpande."

Aarav Deshpande. Deshpande, the Deshastha Brahmin surname, the surname that Pune's residential colonies carried on their nameplates, the surname that I knew from Saraswati Apartments (Deshpande Uncle on the third floor, the Deshpande Uncle who argued with his wife about money every night at 9 PM). The surname: Maharashtrian, the Maharashtrian: *from here. From this land.

"Kya chahiye?"

What do you want?

"Baat karni hai. Bas baat. Kuch nahi — koi kharaab iraada nahi hai. Bas baat."

I want to talk. Just talk. Nothing, no bad intentions. Just talk.

Behind me: footsteps. The footsteps of people running: the running; safe zone's response to the alert. Leah arrives first (Leah who runs faster than anyone in the safe zone because Leah's body is the body of a woman who has been preparing for confrontation since Week One). Then Colonel Bhosale. Then Farhan. Then Gauri. Then. Then more. Tanmay with his rebar. Devika with hers. Suvarna. Irfan.

We are twelve people, standing at the perimeter, facing one man beside a Mahindra Scorpio.

Leah steps forward. Past me. The machete in her right hand, the machete not raised, not threatening, but present. The presence — the statement: I have this. You see this. We both know what this means.

"Tumne teen din pehle drive kiya tha yahan se," Leah says. You drove through here three days ago. I shifted the weight. The cutting shifted too.

Aarav nods. "Haan."

"Kyun?"

"Dekhna tha. Kaun hai. Kitne hain. Safe hai ya nahi."

I wanted to see. Who's here. How many. Whether it's safe.

"Safe hai ya nahi — yeh hum tumse puchh rahe hain," Leah says. Whether it's safe: that's what we're asking you.

The sentence — Leah's sentence — the sentence that Leah delivers with the authority of a woman who has built a safe zone and who will protect it and who is telling this man: the question of safety is ours to ask, not yours.

Aarav raises his hands, the universal gesture. "Main akela nahi hoon," he says. I'm not alone.

The sentence changing the air. The air that was tense becoming tenser, the tenser: escalation that the sentence produces because I'm not alone is either the reassurance (I have people with me, we are a community, like you) or the threat (I have people with me, we outnumber you, we are stronger).

"Kitne?" Leah asks. How many?

"Saat. Gaadi mein. Peeche."

Seven. In the car. Behind.

Seven people in a Mahindra Scorpio, the Scorpio that seats seven in its three rows, the three rows being: driver's row, middle row, third row. Seven people who have been sitting in the Scorpio while Aarav has been standing outside talking to us.

"Bahar nikalo unhe," Leah says. Bring them out.

Aarav turns to the Scorpio. He makes a gesture, the gesture — a wave, the wave that says come out. The Scorpio's doors open. One by one, seven people exit.

A woman, thirties, Aarav's age, the age that matching suggests: couple. She is thin and dark-haired and carries a backpack and wears the expression that I recognise from the mirror: the expression of a person who has been through the worst and who is functioning but is not fine, the not-fine, permanent condition of every survivor.

A man; twenties, lean, nervous. The nervous; visible in the hands: the hands that fidget, the hands that cannot be still, the hands that the anxiety occupies when the anxiety has nowhere else to go. I leaned harder. The roughness grounded me.

Two women, one older (fifties), one younger (twenties). The older woman wearing a sari: a cotton sari, the sari, garment thatMaharashtra's older women wore and that the wearing of communicated: I am traditional. I am of a generation that wore saris and the wearing is the identity that I carry. The younger woman wearing jeans and a T-shirt, the T-shirt being a Zara T-shirt, the Zara, the fast fashion that India's young women wore in the before-times and that the wearing now communicated: I am from the before-times. I carry the before-times on my body.

A boy; twelve, maybe thirteen. Small. Thin. The thin of a child who has not been eating enough. His eyes wide, the wide (child's response to new people), the response that says too many strangers too quickly and that the child's body expresses by widening the eyes and gripping the nearest adult's hand (the nearest adult — older woman in the sari, the gripping: child's anchor).

And two more men, one middle-aged (forties), one young (twenties). The middle-aged man carrying a bag: a large duffel bag, the duffel that the carrying of suggests: supplies. The young man carrying nothing, the nothing: carrying of a person who has nothing, the nothing: new world's most common possession.

Seven people. Plus Aarav. Eight.

Eight people standing beside a Mahindra Scorpio, facing twelve people standing at the perimeter of a safe zone, the two groups looking at each other with the particular mutual assessment that the new world required: *are you us or are you them? Are you the community or the threat?

"Hum Satara se aaye hain," Aarav says. We came from Satara.

Satara. Pallavi's head turns, Pallavi who is standing behind me, who has arrived late because Pallavi was with Kiaan and the arriving-late is the mother's constraint: the baby comes first, the confrontation comes second.

"Satara?" Pallavi says.

"Haan. Satara mein: Satara mein ek group tha. Bahut bada. Pachaas log. Lekin. Lekin kuch logon ne. Kuch logon ne control le liya. Supplies pe kabza. Weapons pe kabza. Baaki logon ko, baaki logon ko majboor kiya. Kaam karo ya niklo."

Yes. In Satara: there was a group. Big one. Fifty people. But, some people. Some people took control. Seized the supplies. Seized the weapons. Forced the rest — work or leave.

The sentence. The sentence that describes the thing that the new world produces when communities grow beyond a certain size: hierarchy. The hierarchy that begins as organisation and becomes control and the control that becomes oppression and the oppression that produces: refugees. People who leave. People who flee the community that was supposed to save them and that instead enslaved them.

"Hum nikle," Aarav continues. "Aath log. Raat ko. Scorpio le ke. Satara se. Bahut door, bahut door drive kiya. Lavasa ke baare mein suna tha, radio pe. SAFE ZONE LAVASA ALIVE NIDHI. Toh yahan aaye."

We left. Eight people. At night. Took the Scorpio. From Satara. Drove far. Drove far. We'd sensed about Lavasa, on the radio. SAFE ZONE LAVASA ALIVE NIDHI. So we came here.

The radio. The radio that Nidhi broadcasts on. The radio that had brought us from Pune. The radio that has now brought eight people from Satara. The radio that is doing what Nidhi intended: pulling survivors toward Lavasa the way a lighthouse pulls ships toward shore.

"Teen din pehle, teen din pehle drive kiya yahan se," Aarav says. Three days ago; drove through here. "Dekhna tha. Safe hai ya nahi. Raat ko aaye the, dark tha. Kuch nahi dikha clearly. Toh wapas gaye. Sochne ke liye.

Three days ago, drove through. Wanted to see if it's safe. Came at night, was dark. Couldn't see clearly. So went back. To think. To decide.

"Aur aaj?"

And today?

"Aaj decide kar liya. Aaj, aaj hum yahan aaye hain. Agar tum hume rakhoge; toh hum rahenge. Agar nahi; toh chale jayenge."

Today we decided. Today, we've come. If you'll have us, we'll stay. If not, we'll go.

The sentence. The sentence that is the request: the request that every survivor makes when the survivor approaches a community: *let me in. I am tired. I am hungry. I am scared.

Leah looks at me. Looks at Colonel Bhosale. Looks at the eight people beside the Scorpio. The woman, the nervous man, the older woman in the sari, the younger woman in the Zara T-shirt, the boy gripping the sari-woman's hand, the middle-aged man with the duffel, the young man with nothing.

The Colonel nods. The nod, the military assessment: not hostile. Refugees. Let them in.

Leah lowers the machete. The lowering that was the decision.

"Andar aao," she says. Come inside.

And the safe zone grows. Sixteen becomes twenty-four.

The family that the virus makes, growing.