The Death of Vishnu

just managed to make his getaway. For a while, they met on Vishnu’s landing, bringing him little presents of money or food, for which he sat on the steps and warned them of danger. But it was impossible for him to keep watch both above and below them, so they started using him to communicate meeting places instead. And since they knew he couldn’t read, Salim even sent Kavita a torrid letter or two through him. (The sight of the electrician downstairs reading out the newspaper aloud to a squatting audience that included Vishnu put an end to this.)
    Mrs. Asrani, meanwhile, started pursuing the project of getting Kavita married with the zeal of a person whose true goal in life has just been revealed. She called the family astrologer and had Kavita’s chart made (“three children, all boys” the astrologer promised, provided they matched things correctly, but “five girls, dark as coal” if they didn’t watch out for Mars). Missives were sent to relatives far and wide (with the chart airmailed as far as Canada and Singapore) to scour the earth for a suitable match. A matrimonial ad was drafted for the Sunday Times of India, but was temporarily shelved when the next twelve Sundays were declared inauspicious by the astrologer.
    It was when Mrs. Asrani’s networking started producing results that Kavita realized she would have to leave.
    “Mrs. Lalwani called last night,” her mother announced one morning, beaming at everyone as she served them parathas at the breakfast table. “Her sister-in-law’s cousin is an engineer. Just got a job with Voltas. Charts match so well that Mrs. Lalwani said they could have been Radha and Krishna.”
    Kavita nibbled at her paratha. She would just pretend not to listen. That always infuriated her mother. “Could I have the chutney?” she asked her father sweetly.
    “Makes a good salary. Doesn’t smoke or drink.”
    “I’ll bet he’s real ugly—must be, to want a fatso like her,” Kavita’s twelve-year old brother Shyamu snorted. “Mean, too—just what she deserves—someone mean and ugly.”
    “Shut up, Shyamu. The parents have a flat in Colaba. Own an Ambassador. He’s the only son, so—”
    “Maybe he’ll beat her,” Shyamu said, hopefully.
    “How does the boy look?” Mr. Asrani asked.
    “Look? Is that the only thing that occurs to you? What is she going to do—lick his good looks when they have nothing to eat?”
    “I merely asked—”
    “Mrs. Lalwani assures me he has a good height. Besides, he’s an engineer. He must look like an engineer, what else? It’s bad enough that I’m making all the effort—if you don’t want to lift a finger, at least don’t get in the way.”
    “She’s barely eighteen. I just don’t see why the hurry.”
    “Well, when will you see? When your darling takes wing with the flying cockroach upstairs? When we can’t even show our face in public? Then will you see?”
    “He’s not a cockroach,” Kavita shouted, unable to keep silent. “I’m going to marry him. I’m going to spend my life with him. Don’t call him a cockroach.”
    “See? See your daughter’s nine-yard-long tongue? This is how you’ve spoiled her. Day after day she gets more insolent, and I am the one who has to listen to it.”
    “All she needs is a good beating,” Shyamu offered.
    “If you to try to marry me to someone else, I’ll throw myself in front of a train. Like that girl at Matunga station. I swear.”
    “How dare you talk like that. Don’t think that just because you’re eighteen you’re too old to be slapped by your mother.”
    “Aruna, leave her alone.”
    “Slap her! Slap her!” Shyamu leaned across the table in excitement, overturning his glass and spilling Bournvita across the table. He yelped in surprise as his mother smacked his arm, then his face.
    “Always causing trouble. Always. From morning to night, you just can’t sit still.” Slapping Shyamu felt so good that Mrs. Asrani did it again.
    “But she’s the one. She’s the one who deserves it. You never hit her anymore, only me.” Shyamu started sniveling, and this prompted Mrs. Asrani to slap him some more.
    “Shut up, I say. And listen, everyone at the table. Mrs. Lalwani has invited us to come and meet the boy on Saturday. At her place. Says its more neutral that way. I’ve set it up for seven. I want everyone on their best behavior. You too, Kavita.” Mrs. Asrani’s voice suddenly took on a conciliatory tone. “He’s a good boy. At least have