Chapter 22: Veer

# Chapter 22: Veer

## Nigrani

The padlock broke with a jolt that ran up through the hammer handle into his wrist.

She comes back.

She comes back on a Saturday — the Saturday that Colonel Bhosale's calendar marks as August 29th, the 29th; three days after I first saw her on the retaining wall, three days during which I have been watching the wall on every patrol, three days during which the wall has been empty, three days during which I have begun to wonder if the girl was real or if the girl was the hallucination that the new world produces in the minds of people who have been surviving for too long.

But she is real. She is on the wall again. Same spot, the spot where the retaining wall curves along Lavasa's western edge, the spot that provides the vantage point: she can see the ochre building, the common room, the avenue, the people. She can see us without being among us. She can watch without being watched.

Nigrani. The watching. The surveillance that the girl performs, the surveillance that is not hostile but is cautious, the caution of a teenager who has survived alone in the forest and who has developed the watcher's instinct: *observe before you approach. Know before you trust.

I am alone this time. The alone: the evening patrol, my shift, Irfan having swapped with Colonel Bhosale because Irfan had a stomach illness (the stomach illness, which was monsoon's contribution toLavasa's medical challenges: the water that the monsoon brought also brought the bacteria that the water carried, the bacteria that Dr. Apte treated with the antibiotics from the Pune hardware store run that I had expanded to include the medical stores).

Alone except for Bholu. Bholu who sees the girl and whose body produces the same response as before: rigid tail, forward ears, focused eyes. But; but this time, Bholu's response has a variation. A variation that I notice because I have learned to read Bholu's body the way Gauri reads radio signals: by observing the patterns and noting the deviations.

The deviation is: the tail. The tail that was rigid last time is now, not wagging, not yet, but is less rigid. The less-rigid being the dog's reassessment: I have seen this person before. The previous encounter was not hostile. My assessment is: not-threat, pending further data.

I approach the wall. Slowly.

"Hey," I say.

The girl looks at me. The looking: the same calm look, the hunter's look, the look that does not blink, the look that assesses without revealing.

"Mera naam Veer hai," I say. My name is Veer. "Hum; hum yahan rehte hain. Lavasa mein. Safe zone hai. Khaana hai. Paani hai. Log hain. Tum: tum aa sakti ho. Agar tumhe chahiye toh."

We live here. In Lavasa. It's a safe zone. There's food. There's water. There are people. You; you can come. If you want to.

The girl looks at me. Ten seconds. Twenty seconds.

And then she speaks.

"Mujhe pata hai."

I know.

Two words. Two words that contain: I know about your safe zone. I know about your food. I know about your water. I know about your people. I know because I have been watching. I have been watching for days. I have been sitting on this wall and on other walls and in the trees and on the hills and I have been watching your community the way a scientist watches an experiment: with detachment, with curiosity, with the desire to understand before the desire to participate.

"Toh, toh kyun nahi aati?"

So; why don't you come?

The girl is quiet. The quiet, the quiet of a teenager who is deciding whether to answer — the deciding: do I trust this person enough to explain? Do I trust this person enough to be honest?

"Kyunki pehle bhi aisi jagah thi," she says. Because there was a place like this before.

The sentence. The sentence that lands in my chest like a stone, the stone of recognition, the recognition that this girl has been in a community before and that the community was not Lavasa and that the community was the other kind: the Satara kind. The kind that starts as a safe zone and becomes a cage.

"Kya hua tha?"

What happened?

"Bahut kuch."

A lot.

She does not elaborate. She does not need to elaborate. The bahut kuch being the sentence that every survivor who has been in a bad community produces: the sentence that covers: exploitation, violence, control, the things that communities produce when the community's leaders are not Leahs but are the other kind.

"Yahan aisa nahi hai," I say. It's not like that here.

"Yehi sab bolte hain."

That's what everyone says.

The sentence, true. The sentence, the truth that the girl has learned, the truth that every community says we are different and that some communities are different and some communities are not and the not-different is the majority and the different is the exception and the girl has no way of knowing if Lavasa is the exception.

"Haan," I say. "Sab bolte hain. Lekin. Lekin tum dekh rahi ho na? Tum observe kar rahi ho. Toh dekho. Jitna time chahiye. Dekho. Hum nahi jaayenge kahi. Hum yahi rahenge. Aur jab tum ready ho: tab aana."

Yes. Everyone says it. But, you're watching, right? You're observing. So watch. As long as you need, watch. We're not going anywhere. We'll be right here. And when you're ready — come.

The girl looks at me. The look lasting longer this time, the longer, the processing, the processing of a teenager who has sensed the words when you're ready and who recognises in those words the thing that the bad community did not provide: choice. The choice to enter or not. The choice to stay or not. The choice that is the difference between a safe zone and a cage.

She does not respond. She stands. She turns. She drops from the wall — the same drop, the same disappearance into the forest, the same transition from visible to invisible.

But this time, this time, before she drops, she pauses. She pauses on the top of the wall. She looks back at me. And she does something that she did not do the first time.

She nods.

The nod: small. The nod, the acknowledgement, the acknowledgement that says: *I felt you. I heard the words. I will consider the words. I shifted the weight. The cutting shifted too.

She nods. And she drops. And she is gone.

I stand at the wall. Bholu beside me. The monsoon rain beginning — the light rain that the evening produces, the drizzle that is the monsoon's whisper after the monsoon's shout.

She will come back. She will come back because the nod said: I am coming back. The nod said: not today. But soon. When I am ready. When I have watched enough. When I have decided that this is the exception.

---

The air pressed against her skin, warm and humid.

Three days later, she comes.

Not to the wall. To the gate. The security gate that is Lavasa's entrance, the gate where Aarav's Scorpio had stopped, the gate that the Colonel has established as the official approach point.

She walks through the gate at 7 AM: the 7 AM being breakfast time, the breakfast time that she has observed from the wall, the time that she knows the community gathers in the common room, the gathering, which was the moment when all thirty-seven people are in one place and the one-place that was moment that the girl has chosen: *I will arrive when everyone is together. I will arrive in the open.

She carries the bow. The bow slung across her back with the quiver. She carries a bag, a small bag, the bag; a school bag, the school bag that a teenager carries and that this teenager has repurposed from its original function (carrying textbooks) to its current function (carrying survival supplies).

She walks up the avenue. Her chappals on the wet asphalt. The chappals — Kolhapuri chappals, the Kolhapuri, the leather sandal that Maharashtra produced and that this girl wears, the wearing, the identity: Maharashtrian. From the land. The chappals that the Deccan Plateau's cobblers have made for a thousand years.

I see her from the common room window. I see her and I say: "Woh aa gayi." She's here.

Pallavi puts down the poha spoon. Gauri looks up from the Classmate notebook. Leah rises from the table. Colonel Bhosale adjusts his white kurta. I leaned harder. The roughness grounded me.

We go out. Not all thirty-seven, that would overwhelm. Five of us: me, Pallavi, Leah, Colonel Bhosale, and Bholu. Bholu who has already gone ahead; Bholu who has trotted through the common room door and down the steps and across the avenue toward the girl with the purpose of a dog who has completed his reassessment and whose reassessment is: friend.

The girl sees Bholu. The girl. The girl who has carried a bow and arrows and who has survived alone in the forest and who has hunted and built fires and navigated the Western Ghats in the monsoon, the girl sees Bholu and her face does something that the face of a teenager does when the teenager sees a dog: it softens. The hunter's face becoming the teenager's face. The watcher's face becoming the girl's face.

Bholu reaches her. Bholu's tail, the tail that was rigid on the first sighting and less-rigid on the second: is now wagging. The wagging — the endorsement: cleared. Approved. Certified by the Bholu Assessment Bureau: this person is acceptable.

The girl bends. The bending: the universal gesture of a human meeting a dog: bend, extend hand, let the dog sniff, let the dog decide. The dog decides. Bholu sniffs.

The girl looks up. Looks at me. Looks at Pallavi. Looks at Leah. Looks at the Colonel.

"Main, main andar aa sakti hoon?" she says.

Can I, can I come inside?

The voice. The voice of a teenager. A teenager who is fifteen or sixteen and who has been alone and who is asking the question that every survivor asks, the question that is the simplest and the hardest: can I come in?

Pallavi steps forward. Pallavi who has been here before: Pallavi who invited Gauri, who said tu safe hai, who has made the invitation that the model flat extended and that Lavasa now extends. Pallavi steps forward and does the thing that Pallavi does: she opens her arms.

Not a hug. Not yet, the not-yet: respect for the girl's space, the space that the girl needs because the girl has been alone and the alone has made the girl's space large and the large-space is the thing that trust must slowly shrink. Pallavi opens her arms in the gesture that says: *the door is open.

"Aa ja," Pallavi says. "Andar aa ja."

Come. Come inside.

The girl's face — the face that has been the hunter's face and the watcher's face — the girl's face produces the thing that the face of a teenager produces when the teenager has been alone for too long and hears the words come inside: the crumbling. The crumbling of the wall that the alone has built. The crumbling that begins at the edges, the eyes first, the eyes glistening, the glistening, the tears that the girl has not permitted herself because the alone does not permit tears, the alone permits only: vigilance, hunting, survival. The crumbling continuing to the mouth: the mouth that trembles, the trembling, which was the body's acknowledgement of the emotion that the mind has been refusing to acknowledge.

The girl steps forward. One step. Two steps. Into Pallavi's open arms.

Pallavi holds her. Holds the girl the way Pallavi holds: firmly, completely, with the weight of the arms saying I have you. You are here. You are not alone.

The girl cries. The crying: quiet. Not the loud crying of a child. The quiet crying of a teenager who has learned to cry quietly because the loudly-crying attracted attention and the attention was dangerous and the dangerous was the lesson that the alone had taught: cry quietly or don't cry at all.

Pallavi holds her and the girl cries and Bholu sits at their feet and I stand there and I feel — I feel the thing that the new world produces when the new world works: the feeling of the family growing. One more. One more person who was alone and who is not alone anymore. One more person who watched from the wall and who has come through the gate and who is being held.

"Tera naam kya hai?" Pallavi asks softly, still holding. What's your name?

The girl lifts her head. The head that has been pressed against Pallavi's shoulder. The face that is wet with the quiet tears. The eyes that are brown and large and that contain the thing that every survivor's eyes contain: everything they have seen.

"Aadya," she says. "Aadya Bhosale."

Bhosale. The Colonel's head turns, the turn: sharp, recognition of the surname: the sharp. Bhosale — his surname. The surname that the Colonel carries and that this girl carries and that the carrying of the same surname does not mean relation (Bhosale being a common Maratha surname, the common that was: millions of Bhosales in Maharashtra) but that the carrying means: same land. Same community. Same history.

"Bhosale?" the Colonel says.

"Haan."

"Kahan se?"

Where from?

"Wai."

Wai. The town near Satara, the town that was famous for the ghats on the Krishna River and for the Ganpati temple and for the film industry that used Wai's historical architecture as a backdrop. Wai being close to Satara and the close-to-Satara being the proximity that produces the question that the Colonel asks next:

"Satara wale group se thi?"

Were you with the Satara group?

The girl, Aadya; is quiet. The quiet — the answer. The quiet, which was: *yes. Yes, I was with the Satara group. Yes, I was in the community that became a cage. Yes, I escaped.

"Haan," she says. Barely audible. "Lekin, lekin main bhaag gayi."

Yes. But — I ran.

Pallavi's arms tighten. The tightening, the response; the response of a woman who understands running, who ran from Jagdish and Sachin on the Katraj-Dehu Road bypass, who knows what running costs and what running saves.

"Ab nahi bhaagna," Pallavi says. "Ab nahi."

No more running. Not anymore.

Aadya Bhosale. Fifteen years old. From Wai. A survivor of the Satara group. A runner. A hunter. A watcher.

The girl on the wall who has come through the gate.

The thirty-eighth member of the safe zone.

---

That evening, after Aadya has eaten (the eating —: three plates of rice and dal, the three-plates, which was hunger of a teenager who has been hunting for her meals and whose hunting has not always been successful and whose not-always-successful meant: days without food, the days-without being visible in the thinness of her arms and the sharpness of her cheekbones). After Aadya has been given a room (the room — a flat on the second floor, the flat next to Gauri's). After Aadya has been introduced to the safe zone (the introduction that was: thirty-seven people who say their names and who do not ask questions because Leah's instruction is: don't ask. Let her tell when she's ready). After all of this —

I go to the balcony. The balcony of my flat on the third floor. The balcony that faces Warasgaon Dam and the monsoon sky and the hills that are green with the monsoon's gift.

Pallavi comes out. Kiaan in her arms; Kiaan who is six months old now, who rolls and reaches and babbles and who has begun the developmental milestone that Suvarna's textbook calls sitting with support (the sitting-with-support that was milestone that says: the spine is strengthening, the strengthening (preparation for the crawling that will co m)e next and the crawling: the preparation for the walking that will come after and the walking, the thing that humans do: they walk toward the future).

Pallavi stands beside me. Kiaan between us.

"Kya soch raha hai?" she asks. What are you thinking?

"Soch raha hoon ki: soch raha hoon ki yeh kya hai. Yeh sab. Lavasa. Safe zone. Aadya. Sab log. Yeh kya hai?"

I'm thinking. I'm thinking about what this is. All of this. Lavasa. The safe zone. Aadya. Everyone. What is this?

"Yeh ghar hai," Pallavi says. This is home.

"Nahi. Nahi ghar. Ghar toh Kothrud tha. Saraswati Apartments. Woh ghar tha."

No. Not home. Home was Kothrud. Saraswati Apartments. That was home.

"Woh purana ghar tha. Yeh naya ghar hai."

That was the old home. This is the new home.

The sentence. The sentence that Pallavi delivers with the simplicity that Pallavi brings to every truth, the simplicity that does not argue or explain but states: *this is what it is. Accept it or argue with it.

The new home. Lavasa. The half-finished hill city that was supposed to be India's Portofino and that became, instead, the thing that India needed more: a refuge. A safe zone. A place where thirty-eight people eat dal on a chulha and argue about Sanskrit grammar and wake at 6 AM because the Colonel says so and watch the monsoon rain fall on the coloured buildings and hold babies in the rain and hold teenagers who cry and hold each other.

The new home.

I look at the sky. The monsoon sky, the grey that is not the grey of sadness but the grey of the rain that makes things grow. The grey that says: more is coming. More rain. More people. More life. The monsoon is not finished. The monsoon is never finished. The monsoon returns. The monsoon always returns.

"Pallavi."

"Haan?"

"Thank you."

"Kis liye?"

For what?

"Sab ke liye. Khurpi ke liye. Kiaan ke liye. Model flat ke liye. Lavasa ke liye. Sab ke liye."

For everything. For the khurpi. For Kiaan. For the model flat. For Lavasa. For everything.

She looks at me. Looks at me with the eyes that I first saw on the Katraj-Dehu Road bypass — the eyes that were terrified and ferocious and that said come closer and I will kill you; the eyes that are now different, that are not terrified and not ferocious but are something else: steady. The eyes of a woman who has survived the worst and who has built the best and who is standing on a balcony in the monsoon rain with a baby and a man and a dog and who is. Who is not happy (happy being the old word) but is: enough.

"Chup kar," she says. Shut up.

And she smiles. The smile: Pallavi's smile. The smile that I have seen exactly four times since the virus; four times in six months, the four-times, rarity that makes each smile precious, the precious (new world's currency): not rupees, not gold, not likes, not followers, but smiles. Pallavi's smiles. Given four times. Each time: earned.

The fifth smile. Given on a balcony in Lavasa. In the monsoon rain. With Kiaan between us and Bholu at our feet and thirty-six other people in the building below and a girl named Aadya who has come through the gate and a woman named Nidhi who broadcasts the signal and a woman named Leah who carries the machete and a Colonel who keeps the calendar and a nurse who reads the baby book and an auto-rickshaw driver who fixes engines and a teenager who argues about movies and all of them; all of them being the family that the virus made.

The family that the new world made.

The family that watches over each other.

Nigrani.

The End.