The Death of Vishnu

transparent the most sheltered enclaves in Vinod’s mind.
    “I’m just an observer,” Vinod said. “It’s more peaceful than sitting at home.” Then, seeing that the Swamiji’s gaze was still boring into him questioningly, he added, “You don’t have to worry about me. There’s nothing that ails me, really, nothing that needs curing.”
    Swamiji did not press the matter. “I like what your name stands for. Happiness. Come sit closer to me tomorrow.”
    The next morning, Vinod found a place on the floor right near the dais. After his sermon, the Swamiji came up to him. “Last night, I prayed for the person you have lost,” he said, as he handed Vinod his peda.
    Vinod was stunned. “Do you have supernatural perception?” he asked.
    Swamiji laughed. “There are no gods in this ashram. I am a man, just like you and everyone else. I do, however, notice, when someone your age comes alone so many times, and each time so sad, so empty of vinod. Though I think it is not sadness that brings you here, but anger.”
    “My wife passed away seventeen years ago, Swamiji. I don’t think I’m sad about her any longer, and I’m certainly not angry.”
    “If you’re not sad, and you’re not angry, then you must be at peace. Are you at peace? Is that why you come here, because you’re so at peace with yourself?”
    Vinod was silent. The Swamiji shook his head.
    “No, it’s anger—anger hidden so deep you don’t even recognize it. Anger that your wife has been taken away. Anger that you have been forced into this path that is not of your choosing. Anger that you were not asked to choose, though you know in your heart that if you had been, you would have chosen the easier way, not this way, my son, not this way, so full of pain, and yet reaching such heights that you have yet to see.
    “Lucky are those that have no choice but to go on this path, but don’t tell me you are not angry.”
    Vinod found the Swamiji too presumptuous. He got up and left.

    F OR MANY DAYS afterwards, Vinod thought about the Swamiji’s words. He looked into his heart, his mind, but could not find the anger the Swamiji had predicted would be hiding there. There was no doubt the man was very holy, but how could one single person be expected to administer to everybody, to be always right?
    Then one morning, while he was listening to the record, something happened. He found he could not bear to listen to the words anymore. He lifted off the needle and set the speaker in its stand, then took the record off the spindle. He held it between the thumb and forefingers of each hand. The contact was precarious—a slight wrong movement, and the record would most certainly break on the tiled floor below. He wished a strong gust of wind would come and do the job. Perhaps he should smash the record on purpose, fling it across the room—maybe that would be the solution that would liberate him, set him free. Set him free from Sheetal.
    He was surprised at this sudden thought—this idea that he still needed to be set free from Sheetal. It had been so long since he had lost her. Surely he had progressed enough since his years of grief.
    Vinod twirled the record by twisting his forefinger and thumb. He felt a thrill as it spun around, as he wondered if it was going to fall. It didn’t. He twirled it again. And again. And again. The record fell.
    But it did not break. It wobbled around on the floor, like a giant coin spinning to rest, and stopped with the logo side up. Vinod looked down and saw the familiar red label, the dog still peering with curiosity into the gramophone horn.
    He picked up the record. It did not seem to have been damaged. He rubbed it on his shirt and blew on it, then set it down on the turntable. The sound had not changed, the words came out as clearly as before. But now, with each lyric, he sensed something move inside him, some strange and alien force, like a wind changing course, or a gear shifting in machinery. He felt a void opening up where flesh and feeling had been packed in before. He felt anger, a steady, even-tempered fury, aimed at something just beyond his cognition. He felt like screaming, and did, several times, only stopping because he did not want to alarm the Jalals downstairs.
    Then his rage subsided and Vinod collapsed into the chair by the gramophone. …this, the night of our first union , came the refrain as the song ended.

    L ATER THAT DAY , Vinod made his way down Warden Road, past the tall mute