The Death of Vishnu

by Manil Suri

  Getting back to Salim, though, what was the mystery of the dupatta, and why did the people outside insist on linking his son with the Asranis’ daughter?

  And even more bewildering, how could they possibly imagine that he, Ahmed, was somehow involved, and what exactly was he supposed to have done?

  A sparrow tried to alight on his hair, and Mr. Jalal bobbed his head instinctively to prevent it from landing.

  It was all so sad. He was sure that in a less agitated setting, they could have all sat down and led themselves, step by step, to the answers that would have explained everything. The electrician’s outburst about the Gita was particularly unfortunate. Mr. Jalal tried to remember what he could from the book. Didn’t it teach that it was impossible to kill someone? That one was just reincarnated into another life, the choice of which depended on the deeds one performed in this existence? He wondered how that would apply to his situation. It was obvious the mob wanted him dead. Which in a way might be good, since martyrdom seemed the most reliable way to amass a following. He could plunge to his death below, and still come back. Surely his sacrifice would assure him rebirth in at least a comparable situation. He might even be able to take up his message where he had left it. Though there would be the problem of age—who would keep his following alive while he was growing up?

  The sparrow returned, and Mr. Jalal shook his head again, more emphatically this time, to scare it away.

  Perhaps that was what he should do. Allow himself to be killed by the mob, so that he could prove his integrity. It didn’t appear he was going to have much of a say in the matter anyway. He imagined the door finally bursting open, to reveal the crazed faces on the other side. “There he is,” the paanwalla says, and the crowd streams in and packs the balcony. He actually manages to dodge the first blow, but the second one knocks out both his arms. He hangs for an instant suspended in midair, looking up one last time for Mr. Taneja. Then the floors begin to pass before his eyes, Mrs. Asrani and Mrs. Pathak wave at him as he sails by, and he hears himself hit the courtyard on his back. Even as the faces two stories above fade out of focus, he makes out with satisfaction the guilt that begins to bloom across them.

  Yes, that should be his strategy. All he had to do was hold on until they finally tore down the door. When they saw what they had done, saw his blood reddening the cement for their benefit, realization would strike them. He would be no more, but his message would ring accusingly in their ears. They would be forced to follow it, if only out of guilt. Perhaps they would even build a shrine for him, to mark the very spot where he would take his last breath.

  The thought buoyed Mr. Jalal’s spirits. Why was it taking them so long? he wondered. He could hear shouts and thuds, but the door was still unbreached. What kind of mob was this anyway, that it couldn’t defeat a simple bolt?

  Suddenly Mr. Jalal felt a sharp nip between the thumb and index finger of his right hand, a nip that almost made him let go his hold. He looked up and saw a flutter of brown feathers. It was the sparrow, its tail sticking out above the overhang. Was this a conspiracy—first people, now birds—was he to be attacked by locusts next? Didn’t the sparrow have anything better to do than go after him?

  The feathers jerked upwards, and he braced himself for another bite. The pain pierced all the way to the bone this time. Mr. Jalal screamed, a scream made more intense with a rage-filled desire to drive the bird away. But the sparrow remained unmoved. It resumed its exploration, pecking at the knuckles, jabbing at the fingers, savaging the skin and the fleshy parts, as if the back of his hand was a treasure field that had to be plowed up with its beak.

  In a fit of fury, Mr. Jalal grabbed at the bird, actually managing to pluck out some of its feathers as it took to the air. But on their way down, his fingers clawed past the bar and were unable to regain their grasp. Suddenly the ground appeared where the sky had been, and a clump of feathers floated by his face. Then, as he swung one-handedly above the courtyard, the sparrow dove defiantly past his forehead and flew away.

  Mr. Jalal steadied himself as best as he could. He tried not to think of the metal digging into his fingers, or the stone overhang scraping the skin off his wrist. It was fortunate he had been fasting so long, and was thus better able to support his weight. There was not much longer he would have to wait anyway, they should be coming through the door any minute. Surely his destiny was to hang long enough to attain martyrdom at the hands of the crowd. Wasn’t that the reason he had ended up on this balcony, alone and at their mercy? Instead of choosing the one in the other bedroom, the one with people available below and Mr. Taneja waiting above to rescue him? Faith, as they said, could move mountains, and now he himself had acquired a share. His fingers would maintain their grasp, his body would remain aloft, as long as he held on to his faith.

  It was so ironic. The reason all these people were after him was that he had experienced a vision from the Gita. From their holy book. What perverse pattern of logic could possibly have equated this with blasphemy in their minds? Mr. Jalal swayed in solemn contemplation from his bar. How long ago had it been since he had last read the Gita? Ten years? Maybe more? Wasn’t it amazing that something he had read so many years ago should remain buried in his subconscious, to emerge suddenly in a dream?

  Mr. Jalal stopped swaying. What was he thinking? It hadn’t been a dream at all. It was a vision, a revelation, from Vishnu himself. His perusal of the book had nothing to do with it.

  Or did it? Wasn’t it true that once something entered the brain, it always remained there? Dormant, perhaps, but never without the possibility of being rejuvenated? Wasn’t it well known that people had memories that cropped up from nowhere, spoke languages they had only heard, never learned, had nightmares of long-forgotten incidents that had occurred when they were children? Had he completely forgotten The Interpretation of Dreams? What would be so unusual about such a vivid scene tucking itself away in some secluded crevice of his brain, biding its time cozily until an opportunity to spring out presented itself?

  No, he was getting it wrong again. Images floating up from the subconscious were never as pointed, as purposeful, as his vision had been. He had to be vigilant now, not to revert to his former self. One could tear apart any experience, no matter how insistent or inspiring, if one unleashed the ravenous hounds of skepticism. He would not let them out again, not this time. He had come to this juncture based on his experience, based on the faith he had felt budding inside. That same faith that protected his grip on the bar, that was preventing him this very second from hurtling to the ground below. This was his destiny in life, to be a leader, a prophet. He would not allow his destiny to be subverted by his skepticism.

  But did this destiny make any sense? To sacrifice his life in the hope he could have another? What kind of insane gamble was that? It was one thing to believe, to have an open mind, but had he gone completely crazy? Why was he so eager to abandon everything he had ever absorbed, to repudiate his years of scholarship, of scrutiny? What good was his faith anyway, if it was only supporting him long enough to see him struck down to his death? Wouldn’t he be better served hanging on to his life, rather than hanging on to such faith?

  Mr. Jalal felt his grip begin to falter. It was the doubt, of course, lubricating his fingers insidiously, so they began to slip. There seemed no way out—the courtyard waited patiently below in either case, whether he chose to bolster his faith or ignore it. At least if he chose the first path, he could be a martyr, rather than just an outline on the cement below. But perhaps his choice no longer mattered. Perhaps he had gone too far, perhaps gravity had grown tired of being tempted by his dangling body. He felt his fingers begin to unravel. One by one, they started losing their contact with the bar, and he found himself grasping at the metal, then at the stone, then just at air.

  There was a crash, as the door in the bedroom finally gave. Then Mr. Jalal felt his body fall, as voluptuously as a jackfruit from a tree, and the ground came up with astonishing speed to greet him.


  VISHNU CLIMBS THE steps as he has climbed steps all his life. Even though he cannot feel the stone underneath. He raises one leg, then the other, mounting the stairs one by one, as if gravity still had a hold on him. This is the last flight he will mount before he becomes a god, he thinks, so he will perform the act as a human would. As an exorcism of his mortality, a farewell to his physical being.

  He can feel his expectation rising as he approaches the top. What will he find? Will there be a cluster of gods behind the terrace door? All gathered there already, monitoring each stair he ascends, waiting to celebrate his arrival in their midst? He hears them applaud as he mounts the final step. Is that Shiva taking off his crown and polishing it on his sleeve? Brahma placing it on Vishnu’s head and slapping him on the back? He feels an elephant trunk wrap around and lift his body high above the cheering gods—it is Ganesh, twirling him into the air. There are monkeys swiveling by their tails around the antennas, Hanuman swings from pole to pole in their midst. And that tune he hears above the clapping and the dancing—could that be Krishna, playing his solitary flute somewhere?

  Only one god does not take part in the festivity—Vishnu sees him all dressed in red and green, standing apart from the rest. The god nods gravely, and raises his mace in greeting, but Vishnu does not recognize him.

  But enough, he thinks, enough of these gods. Surely Lakshmi must be here in their midst as well. His eyes scan the crowd with excitement, impatience. Where is his Radha, he wonders, his Ambika, his Rukmini? His everlasting love, his eternal other half, who gives him sustenance, without whom he is not complete?

  One by one the divine bodies separate, and he sees her features emerge. Like the moon from behind parting clouds, like the stars after a rain. She walks towards him, her body wet from the Ganges, flowers garlanding her bosom, perfumes rising from her skin. She reaches all four of her hands out—he finds, magically, that he can take each one of hers in one of his own.

  He feels her fingers rub against his. Not the human sense of feeling, that he no longer possesses, but a deeper, more profound contact—what souls would experience when they caressed, were they composed of skin and flesh. Her arms draw his body close to hers, and the feeling spreads down his chest, his stomach, his groin, to wherever they make contact. Buds open and turn into fruit between them, rivulets of milk slide over their skin. He sees fields of mustard sprouting from the ground around, their yellow heads rising towards the sun. She touches her lips to his: he tastes the lushness of forests, the sweetness of springs. He looks into the face with which he has journeyed through so many lives—he is part of her, and she is part of him.

  His body enters hers. It is like the earth opening to admit him. He finds himself carried away, up snowy Himalayan slopes, through valleys of teak and pine, down streams of ice-clear water that surge into the Ganges. Onward and inward he plunges, his thoughts overcome by sensation, his feeling and emotion coalescing, until only a single knot of energy remains. Energy trapped between their bodies, energy that dances and crackles, like electricity arcing through a filament, like sun rays trapped in crystal. He feels himself pulled in further, feels the energy seal him in, his body becoming one with hers, united with a cohesion so strong it is painful. For an instant, he has a clear look at her face: lips together in a half-smile, dew adorning the corners of closed eyes. Then the explosion arrives, their bodies fly apart into stars, stars that streak through the heavens, and populate the furthest reaches of the universe.

  “In every life they live,” he hears his mother say, “in every avatar they assume, they will find each other and be united, again and again.”

  But he is still on the steps. His Lakshmi is up there somewhere, waiting to ignite with him, but only if he is a god, not if he is a man.

  God or man, god or man, the question strikes up in his mind with each step he takes. He has already been through this over and over again. All the magic of his ascent—what will possibly explain his powers if it turns out he is a man?

  Suddenly, an answer comes to him, an answer that stops him in midstep. What if he is dying? What if these new abilities are not powers, but symptoms—symptoms of death? What if he is climbing, not to immortality, but to nothingness? The steps spiraling out in front of him—so few that he can almost count them—what if this is all that remains between him and the end? He imagines reaching the top and opening the door, stepping out to the terrace, and finding all the gods have vanished. All except the solitary red-and-green-decked figure, standing by the parapet. The figure turns around and beckons to him with its mace. Recognition comes with a shock—it is Yama, the god of death.

  Vishnu stares up at the terrace door. It is open a crack—is there someone behind it, peering down at him? He wonders if he should try to go back, descend to his landing, try to reclaim his body, rewind the movie of his life. Or should he keep climbing, throw open the terrace door, boldly deal with whatever lies behind? He looks down the stairs he has just ascended—they seem strangely disorienting, listing before his eyes, rolling into the dark. He has climbed too far, he has worked too hard—there can be no return.

  Perhaps the answer is to not let his mind waver, to fix it on the immortality he has been promised. Even if it does turn out to be Yama behind the door, what, really, has he lost? Does he enjoy his current existence so much that he cannot bear to give it up? Is the plot of this life so compelling that he will not exchange it for another?

  He resumes his ascent. Shutting out the sound of “God or man, god or man,” that still echoes with each step. Instead, he lets his mother’s words fill his mind.

  “One day my Vishnu will find his Lakshmi, and Garuda the eagle will appear to fly them to Vaikuntha.”

  He imagines opening the terrace door just as Garuda is alighting from the sky. The sun’s rays splash like liquid gold off Garuda’s head, they glance off his neck and sluice across his feathers. On his back, attached with strands of velvet, is the chariot in which they will be carried away.

  Garuda nuzzles Lakshmi’s head with his own, then bends so she can climb into the chariot. Lakshmi waves to Vishnu from the chariot, and he runs across the terrace to join her. But before he can get there, his path is blocked by Yama’s mace.

  “Not so fast, my friend,” Yama says, and thrusts his mace at Vishnu. Vishnu feints, he dodges, but Yama seems to be everywhere.

  “Time to rest,” Yama says, and waves the mace in Vishnu’s face. All at once, Vishnu feels his alertness begin to wane.

  “Sleep, my friend,” Yama says, his voice sounding far away.

  Vishnu knows he must keep awake, he must not fall to Yama. He looks around for the chariot, but Lakshmi and Garuda have flown away. What did his mother say, how can he bring them back, how will he get to the paradise of Vaikuntha? He concentrates on her voice again, but the words she says are not the same.

  “When the age of Kaliyuga is drawing to a close, then my little Vishnu will take a rest.”

  This is not the message he wants. He tries to retune his mother’s voice, but the signals he receives remain the same.

  “Ananta the snake will rise from the sea, and on his endless coils will my Vishnu rest his head.”

  Vishnu takes another step. He imagines the walls getting covered with scales around him, the stone turning soft and fleshy under his feet, as if it is the body of a living thing. He looks at the staircase. It is rising and dipping before him, like the coils of some fantastic being.

  “The sun will go down and the seas will die as Vishnu closes his eyes.”

  He tries to negotiate the rearing segments, but loses his balance and falls. Drowsiness moves in swiftly to overcome him.

  “Sleep will engulf my Vishnu, as time comes to an end.”

  The buckling has stopped, the stairs are uncoiling smoothly under him. His body is rocked gently by the undulations passing beneath. He turns around and looks with half-closed eyes at the door looming ahead. He tries to drag his body to it, up the three or four steps that are left.

>   “For eons will he sleep on Ananta, regaining all his strength. Only opening his eyes when it is time to begin the cycle again.”

  Vishnu knows the time for the great sleep is here. He is almost at the door, separated only by two steps. He can still crawl up, he thinks, he can still look through. All he has to do is cross the threshold to attain all the powers that await. But he is so tired. The last thing he notices is an ant emerge from a crack in front of his face and begin to crawl up the step leading to the terrace. Then all sound dies down, the lights dim, and as his eyes close, he thinks that a movie is about to start.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “FINALLY HERE, SEE it now,” the man is saying. “So many decades in the making, The Death of Vishnu.” The man is standing on a chair in front of the ticket booth at Metro Cinema, next to the large “House Full” sign. Moviegoers are milling all over the place. Lines of people are stretching from the advance booking booth, they are snaking as far as the train station at Marine Lines.

  “Better than Bobby, bigger than Sholay, see it now, The Death of Vishnu.” Touts are black-marketing balcony tickets. Already the price has climbed to twenty-five rupees. Someone has extra tickets, and a fight breaks out as the crowd surges to get them.

  “Amitabh Bachchan as Vishnu, Reshma as Padmini, see it now, The Death of Vishnu.”

  Vishnu takes the tickets out of his pocket. Where is Padmini? He told her to be here at 6:30 P.M. Now they’re going to miss the advertisements, which Vishnu likes so much.

  “Hear the music by Laxmikant Pyarelal. See the killer dance by Helen. Snap your fingers to the number one hit ‘I am Vishnu, king of the universe.’ See it now or wait till you can get the tickets, The Death of Vishnu.”

  Padmini pushes through the people. She is breathless. Vishnu watches the gold-colored necklace resting on her bosom rise and fall as she inhales and exhales.