The Death of Vishnu

they guide him like a rope through the darkness.
    He feels the trees before he sees them. Twigs brush against his face, fallen leaves rustle under his feet. The branches above sweep over his head as he walks past, like giant hands reaching down unseen to bless him.
    The darkness fades, and he sees the mist of a forest. Gradually, that clears as well, and the trees, green and stately, come into focus.
    Through the trees, he sees the boy. Beyond lies the meadow, a hut in the forefront, cows grazing on the grass behind. The boy is hiding behind a tree, watching a woman churn milk. As Vishnu comes up behind him, the boy turns.
    “Shhh!” he whispers, a finger to his lips, and Vishnu sees that the color of his skin is tinged blue. Vishnu creeps up beside him and they watch the woman together. She is singing a song, as she pulls the rope attached to the churn, first with the left hand, then with the right, in a rhythm that matches the tune.
    The boy looks at Vishnu. “Are you ready?” he asks. Before Vishnu can answer, the boy is off, running towards the woman. In one speedy bound, he reaches her, and knocks over the churn. Milk splashes onto the grass, a white sheet that spreads over the green. The woman screams as the milk cascades over her feet. The boy dips his hand into the churn, and runs back to the trees as fast as he went.
    “Wait till I tell Yashoda!” the woman calls out after him.
    Vishnu sees something white and creamy in the boy’s palm. The boy holds it out to him. Vishnu looks at it, but doesn’t move.
    “Don’t you want any?” the boy asks, plunging a finger across his palm and licking it clean. Vishnu does the same—it is butter. But butter so smooth and rich, such as he has never tasted before. They eat the butter, fingerful by fingerful, and then the boy licks his palm clean.
    “Would you like to play with me in the forest?” the boy asks. Then he frolics into the trees. Vishnu looks after him for an instant, then runs in behind.

    V ISHNU HAS BEEN sleeping in the forest, tired from all the play with the boy. A melody awakens him—it is the flute again, as agonizing as before. He rises and follows the sound—it leads him deeper and deeper into the forest.
    He comes to a clearing. There stands the boy with the blue skin, his eyes closed, one leg bent at the knee, so that the tip of one foot touches the heel of the other. He is the one playing the flute, on his face is a look of rapture, so intense that Vishnu wonders if he is in pain.
    He stands near the boy and listens to him play. The notes continue for a while, then stop. The boy opens his eyes.
    “Who are you?” Vishnu asks, but the boy does not reply.
    “Are you Krishna?”
    The boy smiles. “You know who I am,” he says.
    The boy raises the flute. “You must be tired. Tonight I will play for you. Tonight, you can rest.” He puts the flute to his mouth.
    “And tomorrow?” Vishnu asks.
    “Tomorrow, you go back,” the boy says, and Vishnu hears the notes start up again.

A CKNOWLEDGMENTS
    There are several people I wish to thank. My family and friends for their support and encouragement and their comments on various drafts of the manuscript. Richard McCann, Matthew Specktor, and Rosemary Zurlo-Cuva for the interest they took and the guidance they provided at crucial junctures. Michael Cunningham for a life-changing workshop at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown. S. Siddarth and Devdutt Pattanaik for sharing with me their knowledge of Hinduism and Hindu mythology. My editor, Jill Bialosky, for all her feedback and her support of the book (and its author). My agent, Nicole Aragi, for being the best agent a writer could hope for. Larry Cole, above all, for making everything possible in so many fundamental ways.
    Sections of this book were written during residencies at the Virgina Center for the Creative Arts and the MacDowell Colony. Their support is gratefully acknowledged, as is that of the Jenny McKean Moore Fund at George Washington University.

A BOUT T HE A UTHOR
    Manil Suri grew up in Mumbai (Bombay), India. He received his Ph.D. in mathematics from Carnegie-Mellon University and is a mathematics professor at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County. His fiction has appeared in The New Yorker. This is his first novel.