The Death of Vishnu

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.

    V ISHNU CLIMBS THE steps as he has climbed steps all his life.