The Death of Vishnu

more.” She licks her bar wistfully.
    The movie starts again, and Vishnu is engrossed by the love triangle Kavita finds herself in. Tears come to his eyes as Kavita bends down next to him on the landing and bids him farewell. He tries not to let Padmini see that he is crying.
    There is another song, in a flashback sequence of Padmini and him in Mr. Jalal’s car, driving along Marine Drive. They go to Hanging Gardens and the love scene in the car follows. “Chhee!” Padmini says, averting her head, as Vishnu appears entwined with her on the screen.
    The story progresses and Vishnu sees himself ascending the steps. He wishes the movie would be more clear about what he is climbing towards. Whether he is the god Vishnu, or just an ordinary man. He is almost at the terrace door when Padmini gets up suddenly, excusing herself to go to the ladies’ room. Vishnu feels like warning her to wait, they are near the climax, the movie is almost over.
    The terrace door opens. Vishnu leans forward in his seat. He has not seen this part, he does not know what comes next. He wishes Padmini was watching with him. But her seat is empty. He looks at the seat on the other side, and that is unoccupied as well. He looks around, and row after row stares emptily at the screen.
    Vishnu gets up. He is the only one left in the theater. The light from the projector strikes the top of his head and creates a void that stretches all the way down the picture. He walks towards the screen, and the shadow gets lower and smaller, until it is just a thumbprint at the bottom. He climbs the steps leading up to the stage. The movie continues in the empty auditorium, a succession of unseen images flashing through the dark.
    Vishnu walks across to the center of the stage, then turns to face the projector. The screen is a giant lit field extending above and around him. He tries to see the seats, but the light from the projector is too strong. For all he knows, they may be filled again, Padmini and the rest of the audience getting ready to applaud as he takes his final bow.
    He looks hard at the light. For an instant, he imagines the screen stretching out across the sky above the terrace. Then the image vaporizes in the blaze of the projector. He wonders what makes the light so strong. Why can he just see white when he looks into it? Where are the greens and reds that dance across his clothes? He looks at his body—it is drenched in color. His arms, his hands, his legs, are luminous, brilliant. He feels the brilliance being absorbed through his skin, saturating his flesh, flowing through his blood all the way to his fingertips. He starts radiating brilliance himself. Brilliance that illuminates each row of empty seats, brilliance that paints each wall a blinding white, brilliance that turns the curtains into sheets of light. As Vishnu watches, the entire theater becomes incandescent. He looks down at himself, but he can no longer tell where the light ends and his body begins.

    T HE FIRST THING that struck him about heaven was the whiteness of it all. The ceiling was white, the walls were white, there were white curtains that shimmered in the breeze. It made sense, of course—white was the color of unbroken light—it symbolized a purity, a wholeness, an unblemishedness, and wasn’t that what heaven was supposed to be all about? Even the sunlight streaming in seemed so much whiter now—could this be because heaven was situated somewhere closer to the sun?
    So he had done it, Mr. Jalal thought. He had attained martyrdom, attained sainthood. He wondered what they must be doing down on earth. Had they rallied yet around his message, around Vishnu? Or were they still gathered around the corpse he had left behind, cursing their blindness, praying for redemption, straining to touch his face, his feet, any part of his holy body? Perhaps the cigarettewalla, or even the paanwalla, would take up his baton, be the new leader, spread the word. Mr. Jalal felt he should forgive all his tormentors, harbor no animosity in his heart. This was the proper attitude to adopt, now that he was in heaven.
    How relieved he felt to have made the right choice. For even though he had not managed to hang on, even though he hadn’t actually been beaten off the balcony as planned, he had made the effort. What counted was that at the instant he fell, the correct thought had been dominant in his brain.
    Or had it? Hadn’t he wavered, hadn’t doubt clouded up in his mind at the end?