The Death of Vishnu

by Manil Suri

  They began enlisting Vishnu’s help. He had surprised them one day, as they were nuzzling in the dark on the stairs. “Watch out, your mother is coming up with the kerosenewalla,” he had hissed at her, and Salim had just managed to make his getaway. For a while, they met on Vishnu’s landing, bringing him little presents of money or food, for which he sat on the steps and warned them of danger. But it was impossible for him to keep watch both above and below them, so they started using him to communicate meeting places instead. And since they knew he couldn’t read, Salim even sent Kavita a torrid letter or two through him. (The sight of the electrician downstairs reading out the newspaper aloud to a squatting audience that included Vishnu put an end to this.)

  Mrs. Asrani, meanwhile, started pursuing the project of getting Kavita married with the zeal of a person whose true goal in life has just been revealed. She called the family astrologer and had Kavita’s chart made (“three children, all boys” the astrologer promised, provided they matched things correctly, but “five girls, dark as coal” if they didn’t watch out for Mars). Missives were sent to relatives far and wide (with the chart airmailed as far as Canada and Singapore) to scour the earth for a suitable match. A matrimonial ad was drafted for the Sunday Times of India, but was temporarily shelved when the next twelve Sundays were declared inauspicious by the astrologer.

  It was when Mrs. Asrani’s networking started producing results that Kavita realized she would have to leave.

  “Mrs. Lalwani called last night,” her mother announced one morning, beaming at everyone as she served them parathas at the breakfast table. “Her sister-in-law’s cousin is an engineer. Just got a job with Voltas. Charts match so well that Mrs. Lalwani said they could have been Radha and Krishna.”

  Kavita nibbled at her paratha. She would just pretend not to listen. That always infuriated her mother. “Could I have the chutney?” she asked her father sweetly.

  “Makes a good salary. Doesn’t smoke or drink.”

  “I’ll bet he’s real ugly—must be, to want a fatso like her,” Kavita’s twelve-year old brother Shyamu snorted. “Mean, too—just what she deserves—someone mean and ugly.”

  “Shut up, Shyamu. The parents have a flat in Colaba. Own an Ambassador. He’s the only son, so—”

  “Maybe he’ll beat her,” Shyamu said, hopefully.

  “How does the boy look?” Mr. Asrani asked.

  “Look? Is that the only thing that occurs to you? What is she going to do—lick his good looks when they have nothing to eat?”

  “I merely asked—”

  “Mrs. Lalwani assures me he has a good height. Besides, he’s an engineer. He must look like an engineer, what else? It’s bad enough that I’m making all the effort—if you don’t want to lift a finger, at least don’t get in the way.”

  “She’s barely eighteen. I just don’t see why the hurry.”

  “Well, when will you see? When your darling takes wing with the flying cockroach upstairs? When we can’t even show our face in public? Then will you see?”

  “He’s not a cockroach,” Kavita shouted, unable to keep silent. “I’m going to marry him. I’m going to spend my life with him. Don’t call him a cockroach.”

  “See? See your daughter’s nine-yard-long tongue? This is how you’ve spoiled her. Day after day she gets more insolent, and I am the one who has to listen to it.”

  “All she needs is a good beating,” Shyamu offered.

  “If you to try to marry me to someone else, I’ll throw myself in front of a train. Like that girl at Matunga station. I swear.”

  “How dare you talk like that. Don’t think that just because you’re eighteen you’re too old to be slapped by your mother.”

  “Aruna, leave her alone.”

  “Slap her! Slap her!” Shyamu leaned across the table in excitement, overturning his glass and spilling Bournvita across the table. He yelped in surprise as his mother smacked his arm, then his face.

  “Always causing trouble. Always. From morning to night, you just can’t sit still.” Slapping Shyamu felt so good that Mrs. Asrani did it again.

  “But she’s the one. She’s the one who deserves it. You never hit her anymore, only me.” Shyamu started sniveling, and this prompted Mrs. Asrani to slap him some more.

  “Shut up, I say. And listen, everyone at the table. Mrs. Lalwani has invited us to come and meet the boy on Saturday. At her place. Says its more neutral that way. I’ve set it up for seven. I want everyone on their best behavior. You too, Kavita.” Mrs. Asrani’s voice suddenly took on a conciliatory tone. “He’s a good boy. At least have a look at him. If nothing else, for your poor aging mother and father.”

  That was when Kavita decided. She would run away. Elope, they called it—the English word had such a voluptuous feel. All those movies, all those stories. She would be Laila, she would be Heer, she would be Juliet. “If that is what everyone wants, I’ll do it.”

  The beam returned to her mother’s face. “I knew you would,” she said, putting her arms around Kavita and kissing her forehead. “Whose daughter are you, after all? Come now, after breakfast, I’ll teach you to cook gulab jamuns so you can take some along on Saturday.”

  Originally, Kavita had planned to elope last night. But then curiosity had got the better of her, and she had postponed it a day. She wanted to see if she could pull it off. She wanted Mrs. Lalwani to be impressed. She wanted the poor engineer boy to fall madly for her, and have all his trite engineer dreams crushed when she ran away. She would cook to kill tonight, she would scent the gulab jamuns with the perfume of her own youth, sweeten them with the syrup of her own beauty. They would remember her, all of them—they would have her picture emblazoned on their minds, and pine for her return, but it would be in vain.

  Kavita kissed Salim’s photo and opened her purse to put it in. The smell of fresh hundred-rupee bills wafted out. A new life, Kavita thought, inhaling. The fragrance of a new future. She separated a note from the rest. Vishnu had not been well lately. This was for him—she’d leave it under his blanket as they left.

  ON THE FIFTH step, he pauses. The stairs are curving round. The lower half of his figure has disappeared behind the stone. If he climbs another step, only the head will remain visible.

  Vishnu looks at the torso outlined under the sheet. It lies there unmoving, mapping out the space he occupies in the world. He has worked so hard to stake out this space. Every inch his body has grown, every cell it has generated, every hair, every eyelash, has needed space. He has fought to claim it from the outside, gouged it out from the unyielding reserves around. He has guarded it, hoarded it, squeezed his body into its confines. He is loathe to give up this space.

  His body, too—how will he leave it behind? It is his agency for experience, his intermediary to the world. This body that has borne him from infancy to manhood. Every imperfection in this body is his, every scar belongs to him—he can remember when it first appeared. He has cared for this body, fed it, cleaned it, nurtured it like a child. These lips that barely encircled his mother’s nipple, this nose that has learnt to pick out Kavita’s fragrance from a dozen others, these eyes that have watched the layers around Padmini’s body peel away. He has tried to fulfill its longings, he has lain it down naked on the ground and felt the sperm surge out of this body.

  Is it his perception, or is the stone under his feet beginning to fade? Are his limbs getting weightless, or was he always this light? Are his muscles losing their flex, are his bones turning to air, is his head threatening to float away? He can no longer feel his clothes, nor under them, his skin.

  Vishnu mounts the next step. He wills the action, and it is done. There is no push against the ground, no thrust against the air, no activity at all. It is a strange sensation, vaguely unsatisfying.

  He rises, and the stone slides across his view like a screen. Now, only his neck and head are visible, now only his face, now only his forehead, now only his hair. He closes his eyes. There he is, lying on the landing, the light c
resting around him. He opens his eyes, then closes them again, making the image disappear, then reappear. He keeps them closed. He may have lost his sense of touch, he may have lost the comfort of weight, but he has gained, as well. He can see now, clearer, deeper, than he has ever seen before.

  THE FIGHT HAD ended an hour ago—the landing had been cleaned up, the children beaten, the husbands berated, and both Mrs. Pathak and Mrs. Asrani were being borne towards their afternoon naps on carpets of satisfaction and inner peace, when Mrs. Jalal came down.

  “Hello? Anyone home?” She knocked on the Pathaks’ door, but there was no answer.

  Salim had told her that the Asranis and Pathaks had been wrapping up their fight when he had passed their floor. “Looks like they couldn’t agree who should pay for the hospital bed,” he said. “So they sent the ambulance away without poor Vishnu.”

  Mrs. Jalal instantly felt the guilt, kindled that morning by Short Ganga. “You mean he’s just lying there on the steps, dying?” she asked Salim. She paced her kitchen, worrying about it, and finally decided to go downstairs to see what could be done. “Mrs. Pathak?” she called now, wondering if she risked waking them if she rang their bell. “It’s me, Mrs. Jalal.”

  There were shuffling sounds from behind the door. “What do you want?” It was Mrs. Pathak’s voice, and muffled though it was by the door, the irritation it carried came through clearly.

  “I was wondering if I may have a word with you. It’s about Vishnu.”

  “What about Vishnu?”

  “Well, Salim told me what happened—that you and Mrs. Asrani had—had a problem getting him to a hospital—and—well, it’s the whole building’s responsibility, isn’t it, not just yours, so I thought perhaps I should come down and help.”

  “What help now? The ambulancewalla has come and gone.”

  “Yes, Salim told me. So expensive. Hospitals, these days. But I have a suggestion. That’s why I came down only. Perhaps we should call Hajrat Society.”

  “Hajrat Society?”

  “They pick people up—people who’re dying. To take care of them in their last moments. People who have no place to go. It’s not a hospital, really, just somewhere a little more comfortable. And it’s free.”

  “What society is this?”

  “Hajrat. It’s a charity organization. You can see their van pass by here sometimes. Some of the people from our mosque belong to it—even Mr. Jalal volunteered once. It’s all free, of course.”

  “Oh. Related to your mosque.”

  “It’s open to everyone—not just Muslims.”

  “Yes.”

  The irritation in Mrs. Pathak’s voice was gone. In its place, Mrs. Jalal detected a careful tonelessness.

  “I have their number. I could call them up.”

  “I see.”

  “They come quite quickly. I would just have to call them. You just need to let me know.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Jalal stood on the steps uncertainly. The tone of Mrs. Pathak’s voice suggested she had been dismissed, but there had been no clear resolution to the conversation. Which was typical of her dealings with the Pathaks and Asranis. Why were these people so difficult? Why couldn’t they be more like her upstairs neighbor, Mr. Taneja? She still remembered the weeks of antagonism that had followed when the main water pump had broken down, and the agonizing negotiations that had dragged on when the sewage pipes had to be replaced. Even something as harmless as giving Short Ganga five rupees for the new year had turned into a fight, with both Mrs. Pathak and Mrs. Asrani storming up and accusing her of spoiling Short Ganga, who now would expect the same from them as well.

  At least Mrs. Pathak was still civil to her, unlike her abominable neighbor behind the adjacent door. Every time she encountered Mrs. Asrani on the steps, the woman made it a point to snort and rudely turn her face away. Which was quite rich, considering it was that firecracker daughter of Mrs. Asrani’s who had ensnared her poor Salim. Mrs. Jalal stared at the black-and-white doorbell of the Asranis and wished she was agile enough to punch it and run up the stairs, like Salim used to, when he was younger.

  For a moment, she contemplated going down to the landing to check on Vishnu. She still didn’t believe he could be all that sick—perhaps she could trick him into recovery. But then Short Ganga’s chastising words smoldered in her ears again, and she felt ashamed at her cynicism. The poor man was dying—dying—she herself had been talking of having his body carted away just a minute ago. No, there was no need to verify Vishnu’s condition. Besides, if need be, she could always look into it later on her way to Nafeesa’s.

  There was nothing more to do. The trip had been a wasted effort. Mrs. Pathak, she knew, would not be calling. She never should have come down—it wasn’t as if she didn’t have enough problems of her own to worry about.

  Mrs. Jalal turned around and, gripping the banister, began the climb back to her floor.

  THE KNOCK ON the Pathaks’ door had come just as Mrs. Asrani was about to fall asleep. At first, she had been too tired to get up and listen, but then the sound of Mrs. Jalal’s voice had galvanized her to her own door. She stood behind it now, waiting for the footsteps to fade up the steps.

  Mrs. Asrani looked at the Air India clock on the far wall. The maharaja’s hands were both near the four, which meant it was too late to return to her nap. Besides, her heart was racing again—try as she might, she could never quite relax herself while she eavesdropped on Mrs. Pathak’s conversations through the door. She had often wondered if she should see a doctor about this, if there was some little pill that he could prescribe for such occasions. But perhaps tea was all she needed, tea to soothe her mind and calm her heart. She opened her door a crack and peered out to make sure the landing was clear. She was about to enter the kitchen when the Pathaks’ door opened and Mrs. Pathak stepped out as well.

  In the kitchen, the two women did not look at each other, but kept their eyes fixed on their kettles. It was Mrs. Asrani who spoke first. “Hajrat Society. Never heard of it.”

  “It’s a Muslim charity, she said.”

  “For what, though? To cart dead people away? What kind of charity is that?”

  “She said to help them die. In comfort, she said.”

  Mrs. Asrani picked up her kettle and shook it vigorously to stimulate the water into boiling faster. “Forgive me, but if I were in that state I wouldn’t be worrying about a pillow for my head,” she said.

  “I wonder what they do with the bodies.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing they don’t do. They don’t cremate them.”

  “Of course. They probably just bury them.”

  “Who knows what they do with them.”

  “Especially the non-Muslims.”

  “They probably check the men, you know. Down in their private region. To see if they’re Muslim or not.”

  “Poor Vishnu. I wonder what would happen to him.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to him. We aren’t just going to hand him over like that.”

  “I’m sure the municipality does cremations if you contact them.”

  “If not, we’ll take him to the ghat ourselves. Tell Mrs. Jalal we don’t need her help.”

  “The nerve of that woman. Waving her charity in our face like that. As if we’re incompetent. As if we can’t take care of our own.”

  “Who knows what the real motive is. She and her crazy husband and that cockroach son of theirs.”

  “I’ll call her up and tell her.”

  “Yes, give my name too. Tell her we have charities like that in our community also.”

  “Besides, I just put a new sheet on Vishnu. What does she think. I’ll tell her he’s quite comfortable, thank you.”

  THE NOISE HAS abated. Sprouting in its wake, like a field germinating after a flood, is a universe of sound he has never noticed before. Small sounds, tiny sounds—the footsteps of ants, the scurrying of beetles, the rustling of spiders, springing up from the ground. He hears the flig
ht of a gnat across his face, he feels the rhythm of centipedes rippling the walls, he listens to the murmurs of cicadas rising from the trees outside. All the insects in the world are calling to him, he can hear their cries from forests and fields far away; they are calling his name, telling him their stories, asking him to track their progress as they crawl and creep and fly to their destinations.

  A solitary ant crawls up the step before him. How high has this ant risen? he thinks. Has it ever been a bird, an animal, a human? Could this be a prince who has tumbled down, a Brahmin who has fallen astray? He listens for the voice of the ant, tries to hear its story. But the ant climbs on, steadily, and does not speak.

  Vishnu watches the erratic path it traces. A step in one direction, two in the other, an intricate dance that slowly pulls it up. It reaches the top, and waves its feelers in the air, searching for the stone surface. Vishnu waits for it to push its body over the edge and start traversing the breadth of the step. But it turns instead and begins to move along the edge.

  He looks at it inching its way towards the wall and wonders if he should correct its path. He places a fingertip on the edge to block it. But the ant crawls around the finger, without ever touching it, and continues along the edge. He tries again, and again, but each time, the ant circumvents his finger, single-mindedly continuing its course. Vishnu watches as the ant nears the wall and the hanging shadows slowly swallow its body.

  There are other things alive in the stairs as well. Tiny bugs flit in the evening light filtering in through the window. A mosquito hums next to his ear. He feels he is in a forest, and there is life hiding everywhere.

  He reaches the landing of the Asranis and Pathaks. There are more ants here, he sees them thread across the floor. Bits of food move along the line, like light along a string of bulbs. Vishnu follows the line to a corner of the landing, and sees a piece of cheese hidden there. The ants are swarming all over it with their black bodies, breaking off tiny chunks and carrying them away. As it becomes lighter, they try to move the whole piece; Vishnu sees it rock and twist a little. Then, like an enormous trophy being carried in a victory procession, it is hoisted off the ground, and borne unsteadily through the air.