The Death of Vishnu (14 page)

Eventually, Jeev could not hide his feelings. He started becoming ill-tempered the four days he was not with Arjun. He refused to eat anything, and pecked at fingers if Arjun’s brothers tried to stroke him. His greatest ire was reserved for Arjun’s mother, whose directive had been a curse for him, and could never be taken back. He began leaving droppings on her bed and pecking at her head while she was asleep. The brothers tried mollifying Jeev, but the rage he felt would not be controlled.

The day came when Arjun put Jeev in his cage and started out for the forest. They journeyed for many hours, past unfamiliar trees and streams. As they traveled, Jeev kept his eyes on Arjun’s face, and tried to understand the sadness in it.

They reached a clearing, and Arjun opened the door of the cage. Jeev hopped onto the finger Arjun offered, and felt himself buoyed through the air.

“Each creature has its own karma to follow, little sparrow,” Arjun said, and kissed him lightly on the side of his head. “Today, it is time for you to find yours.”

For a moment, Jeev saw the face he loved so much right next to his, gazed at the mouth, the lips, that had just pressed into his feathers. Then it all disappeared in a blur as Arjun whisked his finger into the air. Despite himself, Jeev found his feet letting go of their perch, found his wings unfurling, found the muscles in his breast begin to pump. He found himself rising, rising above Arjun, rising above the plants and the trees, rising above the forest, until he could look down and see a sea of green, and in the distance rivers cutting through, and further beyond, the mountains, and beyond them even, the trinity, with Brahma reclining in the chariot of the seven swans, and Vishnu rising in all his brilliance into the sky, and Shiva at the edge of the world, getting ready to do his dance.

D
URING THE NIGHT
, Mr. Jalal had a vision. A vision that seemed much too intense to Mr. Jalal to have been a dream—a vision he was convinced was a revelation, a visitation. Mr. Jalal spent part of the night tossing and thrashing in its throes, and as he rolled about, the sheet and dupatta covering Vishnu’s body were pulled off and wrapped around Mr. Jalal instead.

In his vision, Mr. Jalal was sitting on the step above the landing, still dressed in his pajama suit. Vishnu, looking quite recovered, was seated next to him. Between them was a bowl of walnuts.

Vishnu picked up a walnut from the bowl and set it on the landing. He brought his fist down and smashed the shell, then sifted through the pieces to extract the kernel.

Mr. Jalal tried the same, but his walnut did not break, and his fist bounced back painfully from the shell.

“It’s not so easy,” Vishnu said, laughing. “Only I can do it.” He thrust some of his walnut bits into Mr. Jalal’s hand, who stared at them uncertainly. “Don’t worry, they’re safe. I’m quite well now—you won’t catch anything from me.”

Mr. Jalal put the pieces in his mouth. They tasted very nutty, as if fried in oil to bring out their flavor. He looked at the bowl and hoped Vishnu would break open some more, even though it probably wasn’t a good idea to eat walnuts so close to bedtime.

“I see you’ve come to sleep down here tonight,” Vishnu said, smashing open another nut and handing over the entire kernel to Mr. Jalal. “Tell me, what do you hope to find? Besides walnuts.”

Mr. Jalal felt the soft crispness of the kernel under his teeth. Thick walnut juice oozed out and coated his tongue. He tried to recall why he had come.

“Enlightenment,” he said, remembering. “I’ve come for a sign.”

Vishnu laughed. “And what do you think—this enlightenment that you’re seeking—it comes in a nut? That it’s waiting for you in one of these shells—for me to crack open, and you to swallow?”

Mr. Jalal bristled. “I’ll have you know I’ve been sleeping on the ground for months now.”

“And look, you even came down tonight without a pillow. Surely that merits something.” Vishnu broke open another walnut and offered it on his outstretched palm. “Here, maybe this is the one you’ve made your pilgrimage for.”

Mr. Jalal’s face turned red. “I’ve starved myself. I’ve beaten myself. I may not be the Buddha, but that should count for something.” He pushed away Vishnu’s hand. “All I’m asking for is a sign, not an entry into heaven.”

“If signs were so easy, people would be lining up and down the stairs for these nuts. I would be selling each one for a fortune.”

“You don’t understand,” Mr. Jalal said. “You don’t know. How long I’ve been trying. I’m not just any person, you know—all this time, I’ve thought of nothing but this.” Mr. Jalal’s voice rose to a whine. “If anyone deserves enlightenment, it should be me.”

“You and a million others. It’s not so simple. I’ve already told you. Maybe you should come back some other time. Perhaps in a few more years. Yes, come in a few years. Maybe you’ll be more ready then.” Vishnu brushed the nut residue off his hands.

Something flared inside Mr. Jalal. “And who do you think you are? Who are you to decide? I didn’t come here tonight to listen to you, you drunken fool. Who even asked you anything?”

“Such anger. You know it will only cloud your vision. Not that it makes any difference to me.” Vishnu started humming. “Though what a shame that would be, if you were too angry to notice.” He began examining the walnuts in the bowl, flipping several over, like a fruit vendor arranging his wares to bring the most unblemished specimens up to display.

“Notice what? Are you going to show me something? A sign, perhaps? You’re from heaven, is it? Come to distribute magic walnuts?”

“Calm down,” Vishnu said. “Calm down and pay attention. Or you may miss what you’ve come for.”

“I will
not
calm down. I will
not
keep quiet.” Mr. Jalal stood up. “
This
is what I think of your sign.” He kicked the bowl of nuts, sending it flying into the air. “What I think of you and your walnuts.” The bowl struck the wall and overturned, emptying its contents on the landing. Walnuts spun across the floor and clattered down the steps.

“No more signs,” Mr. Jalal shouted. “No more religion. No more nonsense. It’s all a hoax. One big giant hoax.” He raised a fist above his head and shook it in the air. “I’ve been at this for months, and I’ve seen nothing. One big giant hoax against all of mankind, I say.”

“Ahmed.”

For an instant, Mr. Jalal did not know where the voice came from. Then he realized that Vishnu had risen as well, and now stood face to face with him.

“Look, Ahmed,” Vishnu said, holding up a walnut in his hand. “A final one. That I’m going to break open. For you.”

It was strange, very strange, to hear Vishnu use his first name. Had he completely forgotten his place? Surely such familiarity should not be allowed to pass unreprimanded. Mr. Jalal was debating what to say when Vishnu brought the walnut closer, until it was touching the center of his forehead.
What does the fool think he’s doing now?
Mr. Jalal wondered. He could feel the individual bumps on the shell press against his skin. “Take that away at once,” he began to say, but before he could get the words out, there was a blur of motion, and Vishnu’s fist swung up through the air and smashed the walnut into his skull.

“Now look at me and see who I really am.”

The first thought that occurred to Mr. Jalal was that Vishnu had gone insane. What kind of person would drive pieces of walnut shell into someone else’s brain? Then Mr. Jalal realized that the walnut had opened up a hole in his forehead, a hole that was like a third eye, through which he was seeing intense light. Mr. Jalal saw a sun emerge from behind Vishnu, and was surprised he could look straight into its molten white center. As he watched, he saw two suns, then four, then eight, and sixteen. The suns kept multiplying, and rising into the air, until the sky was covered with suns, and there was no more blue to be seen, just the brightness of incandescent discs stretching from horizon to horizon and pouring their brilliance down on him.

When Mr. Jalal looked back down from the sky, Vishnu’s body was metamorphosing. Into something liquid and luminous, that sucked the light from the air and released it back with a concentrated intensity. Limbs started appearing from all around Vishnu’s perimeter, and at their ends Mr. Jalal saw exquisitely carved conches and fabulous jewel-encrusted maces. Some of the hands that emerged held lotuses, which opened to reveal enormous anthers poised over their centers. Limbs kept emerging and Vishnu kept expanding, until he was touching the suns above and Mr. Jalal couldn’t tell where he started and where he ended. A sweet fragrance, like that of incense, but with a perfume that smelled of no flower Mr. Jalal knew, began filling the air.

At each point of contact with the suns, heads now appeared, wearing the suns as crowns and stretching down for many miles. Giant eyes opened in the heads, and Mr. Jalal drew back in fear, as they blinked in unison and looked down at him. The mouths flew open, and in them were visible teeth and fangs and long lines of spurting flame, some of which leapt out and scorched the ground at Mr. Jalal’s feet. There were serpents in the mouths, and skulls too, and Mr. Jalal saw human bodies being crushed and popped between the teeth.

As Mr. Jalal looked on, Vishnu kept expanding, with new heads and appendages being generated in his insides and bubbling up to the surface. Smaller forms detached and reattached themselves along his periphery, like tongues of flame at the edges of a fire.

“Who are you?” Mr. Jalal stammered. “Tell me, who are you in this terrible form?”

“I am what you taste in water, I am what you see in air. I am the breath in every flower, I am the life in every creature. I am all living things, I am creation itself. Look at me and see in my body the whole universe.”

A huge mouth opened up and snapped at the air near Mr. Jalal’s head. Giant fangs snaked out to blow fire at his face, and Mr. Jalal felt the hairs in both his eyebrows become crisp.

“I encompass the sun gods and the moon gods, the wind gods and the fire-eating gods of the world. I am the aging of time, the beginning and the end of the universe. As each day ends, all creatures are destroyed and renewed in me.”

Mr. Jalal saw demons take shape and break free from Vishnu’s boundary. The demons bared their teeth at Mr. Jalal before being obscured by the vapors issuing from their nostrils.

“Where did you come from?” Mr. Jalal asked, his voice trembling.

“Forever have I been here, and forever shall I remain—I am everywhere and everything all at once. In every living cell of every living thing shall you find me. Lucky are those to whom I show myself, for it is not through penance or rituals that you will see me.”

The heads had multiplied, and were now craning their long necks to surround Mr. Jalal and stare at him from all directions. A steady stream of gods and ghosts and demons were passing from mouth to open mouth, undaunted by the skulls and mangled bodies dangling between the teeth. The air was so heavy with heat that Mr. Jalal felt the inside of his chest was on fire.

“What do you want from me?” he wheezed.

“Fortunate are those who recognize my presence. Blessed are those who acknowledge me, worship me. Tell them down there to recognize me for who I am. I can wait only so long. Before it is too late, too late for all. For I have come to save and destroy the universe.”

And then, as Mr. Jalal looked, Vishnu began to expand even more, until he filled all of space, and suffused all of time. Mr. Jalal felt himself becoming one with Vishnu, not only in this, but in all his previous existences as well. The last thought he had was about the splinters of walnut shell still embedded in his forehead, and then he was overcome with a sense of oneness, all touch and feeling subsiding, all thought and emotion fading, the intensity of the vision engulfing him in all its splendor, and once fully encapsulated, an unexpected peace descending, a quiet, a solitude, a meditative calm, and then, finally, sleep, pure and silent, unusually deep, from which Mr. Jalal was awoken a few hours later.

S
HORT GANGA SET
the bottles of milk down. Although she could manage to carry all eight of them from the milk booth to the building without pause, climbing the stairs with them was a different thing, and she always took a break, both before starting and at the Jalals’ landing. She was careful not to wake up Man Who Slept on the Lowest Step. Not so much because she was concerned about his sleep, about which she couldn’t care less, but because he unfailingly tried to look up her sari if he was awake when she went past. Even though she wore her sari in the Maharashtrian fashion, which made looking up it impossible, she still felt uneasy at his attempts. She almost wished he was improper with her in some other, more tangible way, so she could approach the cigarettewalla about giving him a beating.

The morning milk run was the most hectic part of the day. First she had to stand in line to get the milk from the ration booth, using the cards that each family gave her. Then it was a race to distribute all the milk to the buildings before it soured in the heat. April was one of the hottest months, second only to May, and already this week two of her customers had complained about spoiled milk. When this happened, the loss was quite staggering, since the cost of a bottle was roughly what she made per household for a week’s delivery. Often, when people demanded she pay them for the spoiled milk, she just stopped delivering to that address—if enough gangas did that, then the housewives would no longer be able to wield such tyranny over them.

Her break over, Short Ganga picked up the two wire holders and started climbing the steps. All she had been able to get today was the bottles with the red foil caps, the ones with reconstituted milk. Which meant there was bound to be a fuss. Especially with the Asranis and the Pathaks. Short Ganga knew they would accuse her of selling their good milk to nonration customers and substituting the cheaper variety for them. Which she did do occasionally, but the point was that today was not such a day.

Let them just try it, Short Ganga thought to herself. The heat was making her bellicose. She’d accuse them of poisoning Vishnu. That would shut them up. It wasn’t so far from the truth anyway—the cigarettewalla had told her that neither family had offered to pay for the hospital even though the ambulance had come to pick Vishnu up. “All those years he has worked for you, and this is what you give him?” she practiced to herself. “A death worse than a dog’s?”

Short Ganga had reached the stage where she had stopped caring so much about losing a few households. It made so little difference anyway, the amount of money she made from one place. If anyone wanted to get rid of her for speaking her mind, let them. She’d show them—she’d blacklist them in the books of all the gangas she knew. Then they’d see the result of firing her, of underestimating her.
Short
Ganga, indeed! If it hadn’t been for Mr. Taneja on the third floor, she would have struck this building off her list a long time ago.

Poor Mr. Taneja. The man never seemed to leave his flat—he depended on her not only for the milk, but for the food she delivered to him every afternoon. The paanwalla had told her the sad story about Mrs. Taneja’s death, many years ago. “What a woman she was,” the paanwalla would say, stroking his mustache. “Every day, she had to have her sweet paan, come rain or shine.” After his wife’s death, Mr. Taneja had gradually become a recluse, and the people in the building now regarded him as something of a mystery figure. “Tell Mr. Taneja he is rarer than the new moon of Eid,” Mr. Jalal would say to Short Ganga, who was the only one who still had regular contact with him, and in whose hands the paanwalla, still sentimental about the memory of Mrs. Taneja, sometimes sent up a complimentary paan.

Perhaps she should tell Mr. Taneja about Vishnu, to see if he could be the one to help. Since the man never came out, he probably didn’t even know about Vishnu’s illness.

She had almost made it to Vishnu’s landing when a sudden thought startled her. What if she was the one to find Vishnu dead? That would be terrible—there might even be a police report to fill out, an interview to give. She would check if he was alive, and even if he wasn’t, tell Mrs. Pathak he was still breathing. No sense in getting involved in unnecessary complications. Besides, it was Vishnu’s fault anyway—never eating, always drinking, not taking any medicines, even though he knew he was getting worse.

The tip of Vishnu’s sheet came into view, then the rest of it, then the shape of the body underneath it. Short Ganga gasped when she saw it move. He was still alive—maybe he was even improving. She left the milk bottles on the side of the stairs and ascended the remaining two steps to the landing. Then she stopped.

There were
two
bodies there. One was Vishnu, who was lying against the wall, his body uncovered and still. The sheet was wrapped around the
second
body, which was also that of a man, but very much alive, since it was snoring quite audibly under the cloth. Bunched up with the sheet and coiling around the head was a red-and-green dupatta.

What should she do? Her first instinct was to try and see who it was, and even arouse the person. But then she wondered—what if it was Radiowalla? He might suddenly wake up even if she was only trying to peek under the dupatta. The man was quite deranged and had never quite forgiven her for the Styrofoam—what if he killed her then and there? No, it was safer to go upstairs and get Mr. Pathak.

The milk forgotten two steps below, Short Ganga ran up to the first-floor landing and pressed the Pathaks’ doorbell. Mrs. Pathak answered the door.

There was no time to waste on her, Short Ganga decided, this was a job for a man. “Is Mr. Pathak there?” she asked importantly.

A
LTHOUGH HE CERTAINLY
knew the way down to Vishnu’s landing, Mr. Pathak followed Short Ganga down the stairs, as if she were leading them on some recently discovered treasure path. Mrs. Pathak brought up the rear of the procession, prepared, it seemed, to use her husband’s body as a shield in case of trouble, but making quick darting movements outside the realm of protection to offer advice or spur them on.

“Stranger and stranger this thing gets,” Mrs. Pathak announced unnecessarily. “Now we will go see who is this Mr. Mystery Man who has dropped by to take a nap.”

Short Ganga shushed Mrs. Pathak, who put a finger on her own mouth in obedience, even though this was a needless exercise since they were, after all, descending to awaken the Mystery Man.

They stood over the sheet-and-dupatta-covered figure. “Look, he’s stolen my sheet from poor Vishnu—what a Mystery Man and a half, to steal the covering from a dying person,” Mrs. Pathak exclaimed. She bent down to take a closer look. “And this dupatta—I’ve seen it before—who wears this color dress? Is it Mrs. Asrani or Mrs. Jalal?”

Short Ganga turned to Mr. Pathak, who cleared his throat. “You can take off the sheet and see who it is,” he instructed her, loath to do the task himself.

Short Ganga thought about protesting, but a part of her was excited at the prospect of being the one to unmask the Mystery Man. Besides, if it did turn out to be Radiowalla, and he attacked her, she would have evidence against him to take to the cigarettewalla, with both the Pathaks present as witnesses. She extended a hand to the edge of the sheet, but just before she could touch it, the figure underneath stirred, then sat bolt upright, its face still obscured.

Short Ganga drew back, and Mrs. Pathak let out a squeal of fright. Even Mr. Pathak’s voice wavered, as he mustered all the sternness he could. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Vishnu? Is that you? Who is it? Why can’t I see anyone? What is this over my head?”

“Jalal sahib? What are you doing here? Ganga, help Mr. Jalal to get the cloth off, will you?” Mr. Pathak said, still hesitant to touch anything himself. “What happened, did you fall in the dark?”

Short Ganga pulled the dupatta off, to reveal Mr. Jalal blinking in the landing light, looking as disoriented as an insect emerging from its pupa.

“Did I fall?” he repeated dully, as if asking the question to himself. Then, suddenly remembering, he sat up straight. “Vishnu!” he said. “You won’t believe what I saw. He came to me. As a god.”

“Maybe he did fall,” Short Ganga suggested. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of refuse and phenol emanating from Vishnu and now lingering like a cloud over Mr. Jalal as well.

“You can’t imagine what he looks like. It’s scary even now to think of it.”

“Mr. Jalal, what are you talking about?”

“He showed me. I saw him. Hundreds of eyes and arms and legs. Flames as long as rivers spurting from his mouth. Corpses crushed between his teeth. He’s a god, he said, and he won’t wait around much longer, unless you acknowledge him. Unless we all acknowledge him. That’s what he directed me to tell you. Not to make him angry.”

Mr. Pathak looked at his wife.

“Mr. Jalal,” Mrs. Pathak said. “Can you see me?”

“Yes, of course, I can see you.”

“Do you recognize me, Mr. Jalal?”

“Yes, yes, of course I do, look, I don’t have time for this.”

“
Who
told you Vishnu is a god?”

“He did, of course. Vishnu did. Is it so hard to believe?”

“But Vishnu hasn’t spoken for days,” Mrs. Pathak declared, pleased at the simplicity of her logic. “He may even be dead by now—have you checked his pulse?”

“I don’t have to. I just talked to him. Haven’t you been listening? Go ahead, one of you, check his pulse if you don’t believe me.”

Mrs. Pathak turned to Mr. Pathak, who turned to Short Ganga, who looked back defiantly. There was nothing that was going to persuade her to search Vishnu’s limbs for a pulse.

“He’s not dead, I tell you. He just spoke to me. Not spoke, really—he
revealed
. That’s what gods do when they want to say something. They reveal.”

“What did he reveal exactly?”

“I told you. His real self. He looks just like those gods in the religious calendars—the ones the cigarettewalla has hanging in his shop. Even more mouths and arms and feet, if you can imagine.”

Mr. Jalal paused, examining the air, as if Vishnu’s apparition might still be floating around. “He was standing here, in front of me, before he swallowed everyone and everything.”

Short Ganga and Mrs. Pathak exchanged a look. Mr. Pathak sighed. “Come, Mr. Jalal, you’ve had a difficult night. Perhaps you should go upstairs.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Pathak added. “Mrs. Jalal must be worrying.”

“A ghost has mounted him,” Short Ganga whispered. “Entered through some orifice he left open and climbed up to his head. Definitely a ghost.” She examined Mr. Jalal suspiciously, letting her gaze linger at his ears, his mouth, even his buttocks. “Through some orifice.”

Mrs. Pathak shushed her. “Come, Mr. Jalal, we’ll help you up to your flat. Ganga, could you unwrap the sheet from his legs?”

Mr. Jalal watched distractedly as Short Ganga pulled the sheet down to disentangle first his left foot, then his right. The pattern on the cloth caught his eye. The flowers which had looked orange in the landing light last night were actually yellow. He felt elated at this—yellow was an auspicious color, yellow flowers were like little suns, signifying light, signifying energy. Leaning forward, he plucked the sheet out of Short Ganga’s hands, just as she was beginning to fold it up.

“This is Vishnu’s,” he announced, and arranged the sheet over Vishnu’s body. “We really have to get a pillow for his head.”

As the Pathaks were helping him up the first of the stairs, Mr. Jalal suddenly clasped each of them by the forearm. “It’s finally happened, hasn’t it?” he said, pulling them closer to him and looking from one to the other.

Mrs. Pathak’s bangles jingled in protest as she tried to free herself, but Mr. Jalal’s grip was too insistent.

“Even to me it’s happened. I can’t believe it,” Mr. Jalal said, scanning first Mr. Pathak’s face for confirmation, then Mrs. Pathak’s, and failing entirely to notice her agitation at having her arm seized by a man not her husband.

“It’s so amazing. I’ve received my sign,” continued Mr. Jalal, still oblivious to Mrs. Pathak, and to the alarm now spreading across Short Ganga’s face as well. Fortunately, just at the point when Mrs. Pathak’s scream seemed imminent (with Short Ganga getting ready to run for the cigarettewalla and Mr. Pathak still wondering how to intervene), Mr. Jalal released his grip and allowed himself to be led up to his flat.

T
HE LANDING IS
deserted again. Mr. Jalal’s revelation drifts silently over the steps.

Could it be true?

He is Vishnu.

Can Mr. Jalal’s vision be trusted? Does he know what he is saying?

He is a god.

Could that be why he has become weightless? Is that how he can will himself from step to step?

He is Vishnu.

Yes, it must be true. How else could his hearing be so sharp that he catches Radiowalla’s music, his vision so acute that he sees through brick and stone?

He is the god Vishnu.

Isn’t that what his mother always told him? Isn’t that why she gave him his name? How did that saying go, the one she used to make him repeat?

I am Vishnu,
he says. He hasn’t said it since he was a child.

I am Vishnu,
he practices saying. It sounds right to him.

But what, suddenly, has made him a god? What has changed, after all these years as a mortal? Or was he a god all along, just did not know his power? Was it there within him, waiting all this time to be set free if he tried?

I am Vishnu. Keeper of the universe, keeper of the sun.

If he is a god, shouldn’t he consort from now on only with other gods? Isn’t he above ordinary humans—people in this building, people on the street? He has heard Mr. Jalal tell them they should submit to him, venerate him. What if they don’t—how is he to punish them? How will he deal with those who have wronged him in the past, those who dare deny him in the future?

There is only darkness without me.