The Death of Vishnu

above her.
    “Kavita.” The word plays against his lips, as her form descends past the window again. It is Divali, she has a sparkler in each hand. “Look at my phuljadis,” she says, as she waves the sparklers around in the air. Drops of fire fall from them, bouncing and splashing against the stone floor.
    Vishnu smells the sulfur burn. The shadows are dancing on the wall, kissed to life by the light of the phuljadis. Up and down, back and forth, they rise and thrust and fall and turn. This is their chance, they know, this is the night of Divali, they whisper, the night when Lakshmi descends through their midst to the earth. They see her come, flanked by flame on either side, they leap into the air with every step she takes. “Will she find her Vishnu,” they sing, “will she unite with her destined one?” The firecrackers outside roll to their song like distant drums.
    “Do you have one for me?” Vishnu asks.
    “This one’s almost done,” Kavita says. “You can have it.” The phuljadi goes out just as the wire stem passes from her hand to his.
    “Take this one, then,” she says, “quick, before it goes out too.” Vishnu takes the sparkler but it too burns out. The wires glow orange in his hands, he holds them up to peer into the darkness. The movement on the walls has stopped, the shadows have fallen back to rest.
    “It’s dark,” Kavita says.
    There is a flash from the window. Rockets begin to bloom in the night, they color her face green and blue. She turns around to stare at the sky. The shadows stir a little to life again.
    Vishnu gazes with her at the garden unfurling above them. “It’s never dark on the night Lakshmi is around,” he says.
    The years pass, and every Divali, she graces the landing. She gives Vishnu phuljadis, whole ones sometimes. He uses them to light strings of red and green patakas, the ones she likes so much to watch, but is herself afraid to light. They burst in long volleys on the landing, and Vishnu looks at the flashes in her eyes. Always, he sees both fear and fascination. Sometimes he holds on to the top end of the string, and the explosions climb the red and green rungs, creeping closer and closer to his fingers, until she screams for him to let go. Then he tosses the string into the air, the crackers turn fiery cartwheels over their heads; Kavita covers her eyes with her hands, and the shadows are forced down to the floor.
    “Kavita.” The Divali comes when Kavita descends without phuljadis. Vishnu notices she is wearing different clothes now. He notices her body is different too, it is fuller, with an allure he has not suspected before. He notices many things about her that year. “Kavita,” he thinks, as she negotiates the stairs in high heels, trailing a group of laughing friends, their perfume sweet in the landing air. “Kavita,” he wants to say aloud, as she passes by, her eyes in a dream, her lips in a faraway smile. “Kavita,” he wants to say, and reach out his hand and touch, as she glides by on an invisible plane, the edge of her sari undulating like a wave behind her.
    He says it one day, “Kavita,” and doesn’t realize he has uttered it aloud. She stops, as surely as if he has physically intercepted her. She stares at him uncertainly. A smile plays at her lips, and Vishnu sees the mischief seep into her eyes.
    “Kavita memsahib !” she says, and looks at him daringly, to see if he will contradict her. Her hands are on her hips, and Vishnu can see the skin of her midriff exposed between her blouse and petticoat.
    Vishnu looks into her face, past the defiance, and is struck by her vulnerability. His need to touch her has never been stronger. “Kavita memsahib,” he whispers, and folds his straying hands together.
    Delight springs to her eyes. She turns from him to hide her smile. “Salaam, memsahib!” Vishnu salutes, as Kavita raises her head, tosses her hair, and begins to ascend the stairs triumphantly.

    T HE FIREWORKS FADE from the night. In their place are hundreds of bulbs, wrapped in squares of colored cellophane. They light up the sky in bursts of red and blue and purple.
    He stands with Padmini at the entrance to the fair. It is two months since the first time he has been to see her. He cannot believe she has come with him. How has he persuaded her to leave her room?
    “I love melas!” she says, as they enter the city of stalls made of cloth and rope and bamboo. The lights blink on and off all around, the loudspeakers