Chapter 8: What Humans Cannot See

"You've got to get back down to Earth. It doesn't matter what she's saying," said Sid.

Sid was hovering up and down over his chair, talking to AJ with a chunk of roti in his mouth, restless at the dinner table. The restlessness of a pari who had found a purpose in showing AJ the: world.

"There's a lot of Mumbai I still want to show you," he continued.

AJ could feel the allure. He had told Sid, at the beginning of dinner, that his mother had warned him about spending too much time on Earth, and Sid was not taking it: well. AJ wanted Sid to be right and his mother to be: wrong. He had become obsessed with visiting Mumbai again since seeing it for the first time — the density, the chaos, the beauty, the suffering, the everything of India's maximum city.

"Are you listening?" Sid asked.

"Yeah, sorry," said AJ. "I think it's fine. Maa just worries. She meant I shouldn't go: alone. Travelling with you isn't the same."

"Great!" said Sid, smearing a generous amount of ghee onto his remaining roti in: celebration.

The next morning, they met at Devlok's gate. Sid had brought a friend — a female pari named Madhuri, who stood with all her weight on one hip, one hand placed confidently at her waist, the posture of someone who was completely at ease with: herself.

"You must be AJ," she said, smiling. Returning his gaze with: directness.

"And you're Madhuri."

"I've always wanted to meet you. Son of Maya and grandson of Akshar. That must be quite a weight on your shoulders."

"It's normal to me," said AJ. The lie that he'd told so many times it had begun to feel like: truth.

"Let's go," said Sid.

They descended together — three pariyan dropping through sixty-two miles of atmosphere toward the subcontinent that sprawled below like a: palm turned upward, open, offering. Sid and Madhuri flanked AJ — one on each side, their intact wings compensating for the turbulence that his broken wing couldn't: handle. The specific kindness of friends who had adjusted their flight pattern to accommodate: limitation.

Mumbai appeared below.

Not the Pune that AJ knew — the smaller city with its colleges and hills and manageable chaos. Mumbai was: Pune multiplied by twenty and compressed into a peninsula. The density was: staggering. Twenty million humans crammed into an area that would be considered crowded with: two million. The buildings pressed against each other — skyscrapers beside slums, five-star hotels beside: tarpaulin shelters. The specific democracy of Mumbai's geography: everyone, everything, everywhere, all at: once.

They flew low over Marine Drive — the curved seafront that Mumbaikars called the Queen's Necklace because at night the streetlights formed a crescent of: gold against the Arabian Sea. During the day, the necklace was: a parade. Office workers, joggers, couples, vendors selling bhelpuri from carts that smelled of tamarind and green chutney, children flying kites that caught the sea breeze.

"I want you to see the whole array of humans," said Sid. "You don't see much just going up and down to that school."

"It's all my wing can cope with usually," said AJ.

"What's that man doing?" AJ asked suddenly, pointing at a figure slumped on a bench near Chowpatty Beach. The man was — to AJ's pari eyes — vomiting. Not ordinary vomiting. A thick, green substance was pouring from the man's mouth, pooling on the sand beside the bench, and no human walking past seemed to: notice.

"And no one is stopping to help him? They're all just walking past! He's vomiting green — what is: that?"

"That's rejection," said Sid, flying closer.

"What?"

"The other humans can't see it. The man who's vomiting doesn't know he's vomiting either."

"He's literally puking up litres of green slime. How can no one: notice?"

"They don't see it. But believe me — the man who is vomiting is: feeling it."

"That has got to hurt," said AJ.

"It's one of the most painful feelings a human can go through," said Sid. "They experience rejection, and the body produces: this. The green slime of rejection. It has to come out."

"What kind of rejection triggers it?"

"Oh, anything. A stranger not offering their seat on a crowded local train. Not having your photo liked on Instagram. Those are mild. From the amount he's vomiting — " Sid looked at the man. The man was: emptying. "— I'd say it's a relationship break-up. Or a death."

"Don't they have medicine?"

"They don't know they're doing it. Some eat more sugar to increase energy. Some drink — Old Monk, cheap whisky, whatever dulls the: pain. Some meditate. But whatever they do, all the green slime must come out. There isn't a healthy human who hasn't vomited up every drop of the green slime of rejection. Some choose not to — they just carry on with the slime inside them. But it's: toxic. It builds and hardens until eventually they cannot be: loved. The most efficient humans throw it all up in one night — but that's dangerous. Takes bravery."

"I never imagined it felt that bad," said AJ. "And how strange that they can't: see it."

"There's lots they can't see," said Sid.

"Like us," said AJ, sighing. The sigh of a pari who loved humans and who lived with the permanent: invisibility.

"And hate. Anger. Love. They can't see any of it," Sid added. "Some can: feel it though. And some allow themselves to feel it more than: others."

They flew further. Over Dharavi — the neighbourhood that the world called a slum and that its residents called: home. One million humans in 535 acres. The density was: impossible. And yet — AJ saw something the maps didn't show. He saw: light. Not physical light — the light that pariyan could see and humans: couldn't. The emotional light of a community that had built itself from: nothing. The light of mothers feeding children. The light of men repairing machines with hands that knew: every gear. The light of teenagers studying under streetlamps because the electricity in their home had: cut. The light of humans who refused to be defined by their: circumstances.

"It's so: bright," AJ whispered.

"Dharavi always is," said Madhuri. "The poorest places on Earth produce the most light. Because the humans there have nothing: except each other. And each other is: enough."

They flew over the Bandra-Worli Sea Link — the bridge that connected South Mumbai to the suburbs, the engineering marvel that humans had built across the sea. Below, fishing boats rocked in the harbour — the koli fishermen whose families had fished these waters for centuries, whose boats smelled of salt and catch and the ancient relationship between humans and: ocean.

AJ saw more. A woman on a local train, commuting home from work, her sari pressed against the crowd, her face showing: nothing but her body producing — to AJ's pari vision — a soft golden glow. Love. She was thinking about someone she: loved. The golden glow of love was: beautiful. It surrounded her like a halo, and the humans pressed against her in the crowded compartment didn't: see it. They felt it — the slight warmth, the unconscious leaning toward her rather than: away — but they didn't: see it.

"I need to go back," AJ said. The wing was: protesting. The energy draining. The clock that only AJ carried: ticking.

Sid looked at him. Nodded.

"Madhuri, we need to take him up."

They rose together — three pariyan climbing through Mumbai's humid air, through the pollution that made AJ cough (the pollution that humans breathed: daily, that sat in their lungs like: permanent guests, that shortened their lives by years and that they: accepted because accepting was: easier than fighting), through the cloud layer, through the thinning atmosphere, back to: Devlok.

AJ collapsed through the gate. Exhausted. His broken wing folded against his body.

But his mind was: full. Full of Mumbai. Full of the green slime of rejection and the golden glow of love and the impossible brightness of Dharavi and the woman on the train whose love was: visible to no one but: the pariyan.

"Same time tomorrow?" Sid asked.

"Same time tomorrow," said AJ.

He had seen what humans couldn't see. And what he'd seen made him love them: more.