The Death of Vishnu

the entrance to the terrace, waiting for you.”
    Salim smiles, and the walls of the landing light up. Vishnu imagines Kavita thinking of that smile all day, waiting for darkness to fall so she can be close to its luminance. He waits until Salim’s footsteps have faded, then throws off his blanket and follows.
    Vishnu ascends the steps leading up from Mr. Taneja’s landing. There is no one at the terrace entrance. A rectangle of light on the floor ushers him through the open door, to the night beyond. He stands just inside the door, his heart racing.
    The terrace is white and empty. A shirt hangs torn from a clothesline, twirling in the night breeze. Antennas guard the perimeter, rising like sentinels from the parapet. Beyond them lies the sea, the whites of waves gliding silently over its surface. The moon looms unnaturally close, like a face pressed flat against a giant window.
    Twice, Vishnu misses the red of Kavita’s blouse. But the third time, he sees a corner, visible between stacks of empty soft drink crates. He crouches and moves noiselessly across the whitewashed surface, into the darkness of the shadows at the far end. From here, he can see the two of them—they are lying between the crates, their bodies tight against each other.
    “See that star,” Salim says, pointing at the sky, “the big one, blinking there? When I carry you away, I’ll follow that star and see where it takes us.”
    Kavita giggles. “That’s not a star, it’s an aeroplane. Don’t think I’ll run away with someone who can’t tell a star from a plane.”
    “All the better to fly you away in,” Salim whispers, putting his head on her shoulder.
    Kavita presses his face into her blouse. Vishnu sees his lips touch her flesh, sees the red of his tongue dart against her breasts. Wet streaks gleam in the moonlight against white skin. Kavita pulls her blouse lower to uncover more of her bosom. Salim’s tongue goes down one breast and up the other, straddling the valley in between, reaching under the cloth to caress the flesh underneath. The streams of wetness merge, in a line of silver that winds its way across her chest and to her throat. Kavita moans and flails, her foot hits a stack of crates and sends it tumbling noisily. Vishnu looks on, unable to break away; he looks on, and feels the moon behind him, looking on too.
    A wave of jealousy seizes him. He imagines pulling Salim off, and hurling him over the parapet. The boy grabs for an antenna to save himself, but it breaks, and plunges over the edge with him. Kavita runs screaming to the wall, and tries to jump over as well. Vishnu catches her skirt, and pulls her down to the ground with it. She is shrieking with grief as he lowers his body over hers. He feels the roundness of her breasts press against him with every scream, feels the firmness of her thighs as he pulls down her dress. He buries his face deep into her neck, and lets the smell of her body overwhelm his senses; he traces his fingers greedily over her skin, and covers her mouth with his long-waiting lips.
    He looks at the couple again. They are lying in each other’s arms, eyes closed, faces dappled by the moon. They seem so peaceful, so at rest, he might walk up to them, and they would not notice. He straightens up from the shadows. The wind seems to have picked up, the waves are sweeping the bay more purposefully now. He thinks he can feel the chill of the approaching winter in the night.
    Vishnu turns around and goes back through the door. He climbs down slowly, one step at a time. A cloud covers the moon, funneling the night down the spiral of stairs. His feet feel the familiar stone of his landing. He sinks to the floor. He sits there surrounded by the darkness, allowing it to fill his universe and push all thought from it.

    W HILE MRS. PATHAK fought Mrs. Asrani, and Mr. Pathak avoided Mr. Asrani’s doom-laden look, the ambulancewalla stood and watched, and silently stiffened with anger.
    “How dare you interrupt my kitty party!” Mrs. Pathak shouted, waving the end of her sari accusingly at Mrs. Asrani. “It was your husband who called the ambulance!” The earrings flashed and swung through the air with the angry bob of her head.
    “Liar!” Mrs. Asrani shouted, launching the word with the full heft and conviction of her bosom. “It was your husband! And don’t think I don’t know what you do with my ghee!”
    “ You liar! You thief! All that water you steal—you can take all the baths you