The Death of Vishnu

everything between creation and death. The physical would subside as Vishnu’s cycle came to an end. The lasting resonance of the syllable would sound inside him as Shiva’s sphere began to ascend.
    During the day, he sat on the balcony facing the street. Sometimes he saw the bullock-pulled watermelon cart roll by. He remembered how Sheetal would whistle at the melonwalla from the balcony and haggle with him using sign language. He remembered how he ran down the stairs to get the watermelon if the transaction was successful. The cart would turn the corner, and with it, the memory would fade from his mind.
    When it became dark, he ate the vegetables and three chapatis the ganga brought him for his evening meal. Sometimes he still felt hungry afterwards. When that happened, he took a biscuit from the tin he kept next to the tea things. He chewed it slowly on the balcony and listened to the sounds of the traffic at the signal downstairs.
    On Sundays, he watched the worshipers congregate for mass at the church across the street. Once in a while he noticed Mr. Asrani among them. There were weddings on some days, and he looked at the young couples, so fresh and bright and innocent-looking, posing on the steps for photographs afterwards.
    Mostly, though, like this afternoon, he just sat there and tried to hear the sea. Even though at fifty he was not yet an old man, he rarely left his flat anymore. He had not seen the sea for months now, not since the last time he had gone downstairs and decided to walk to Breach Candy. Instead, he would sit on the balcony, and try to remember the rocks there, remember the waves at high tide crashing along the shore, and the seagulls hovering above the foam. He would try to imagine that the occasional raindrop on his face was the spatter of sea spray, that the voice calling his name from somewhere today was the wind sweeping through the bay. Then he would close his eyes, and let the water seep out of his mind. In its place he would wait for the calmness of the sound to descend. Soon the cells in his brain would begin to light up or switch off, to form the familiar pattern, and he would transcend the limitations of the finite, of the physical and the perishable, as he lost himself in the vibrations, as he lost himself in the harmony and the eternal resonance of the beautiful sound om .

    I T WAS ONE thing to grasp the base of Vinod Taneja’s balcony. It was quite another, as Mr. Jalal learnt, to get a grip good enough to pull himself up. He tried to prod himself on by imagining the bedroom door breaking open and the crowd rushing in with their lathis. He would make quite a target, suspended between balcony and railing, every inch of his body exposed. There was only one chance he had, and that involved edging his way along the railing to the front. From there he might be able to reach up beyond the base to the bars that formed the grille of Mr. Taneja’s balcony.
    Mr. Jalal started inching along the metal bar, turning his feet this way and that, as if doing the twist. His hips swiveled and his buttocks swung, to give his body the momentum it needed. He danced his way along the railing, like a guest inebriated at a party responding to some particularly foolhardy dare. Once he reached the front of the balcony, he stood there panting, at the mercy of the wind. Feet perched on the railing, fingers scraping towards the overhanging balcony, body curving outwards, like a diver now, striking a pose before a jump.
    He was at the moment of truth. He could not see the metal grille of the balcony above, but of course it had to be there. All he had to do was reach up on his toes and grasp it. The stone abraded his skin as he stretched up and grabbed around for the bars. He felt the tips of his fingers brush against metal. He managed to curl one index finger around a bar, but that was it. No matter how he strained, he could not get a more trustworthy grip.
    Then a thought occurred to him. If he could wrap his index finger around, surely he should be able to do the same with his longer middle finger. And with the next finger as well, which was the same length as his index finger. Inspired by this logic, Mr. Jalal tried again, and was able to get not only the two extra fingers around, but the thumb and then the little finger as well.
    Now that he had a grip with one hand, there was only one way to extend it to the other. Closing his eyes, Mr. Jalal propelled himself off his support, reaching up to grab