The Death of Vishnu

day and age, but surely still valid. There must have been so many other theories proposed over the years—but was there anything really startlingly new, anything that wasn’t just a refinement of the original idea? Mr. Jalal resolved to try and keep better abreast of things.
    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