The Death of Vishnu

“So they sent the ambulance away without poor Vishnu.”
    Mrs. Jalal instantly felt the guilt, kindled that morning by Short Ganga. “You mean he’s just lying there on the steps, dying?” she asked Salim. She paced her kitchen, worrying about it, and finally decided to go downstairs to see what could be done. “Mrs. Pathak?” she called now, wondering if she risked waking them if she rang their bell. “It’s me, Mrs. Jalal.”
    There were shuffling sounds from behind the door. “What do you want?” It was Mrs. Pathak’s voice, and muffled though it was by the door, the irritation it carried came through clearly.
    “I was wondering if I may have a word with you. It’s about Vishnu.”
    “What about Vishnu?”
    “Well, Salim told me what happened—that you and Mrs. Asrani had—had a problem getting him to a hospital—and—well, it’s the whole building’s responsibility, isn’t it, not just yours, so I thought perhaps I should come down and help.”
    “What help now? The ambulancewalla has come and gone.”
    “Yes, Salim told me. So expensive. Hospitals, these days. But I have a suggestion. That’s why I came down only. Perhaps we should call Hajrat Society.”
    “Hajrat Society?”
    “They pick people up—people who’re dying. To take care of them in their last moments. People who have no place to go. It’s not a hospital, really, just somewhere a little more comfortable. And it’s free.”
    “ What society is this?”
    “Hajrat. It’s a charity organization. You can see their van pass by here sometimes. Some of the people from our mosque belong to it—even Mr. Jalal volunteered once. It’s all free, of course.”
    “Oh. Related to your mosque.”
    “It’s open to everyone—not just Muslims.”
    “Yes.”
    The irritation in Mrs. Pathak’s voice was gone. In its place, Mrs. Jalal detected a careful tonelessness.
    “I have their number. I could call them up.”
    “I see.”
    “They come quite quickly. I would just have to call them. You just need to let me know.”
    “Thank you.”
    Mrs. Jalal stood on the steps uncertainly. The tone of Mrs. Pathak’s voice suggested she had been dismissed, but there had been no clear resolution to the conversation. Which was typical of her dealings with the Pathaks and Asranis. Why were these people so difficult? Why couldn’t they be more like her upstairs neighbor, Mr. Taneja? She still remembered the weeks of antagonism that had followed when the main water pump had broken down, and the agonizing negotiations that had dragged on when the sewage pipes had to be replaced. Even something as harmless as giving Short Ganga five rupees for the new year had turned into a fight, with both Mrs. Pathak and Mrs. Asrani storming up and accusing her of spoiling Short Ganga, who now would expect the same from them as well.
    At least Mrs. Pathak was still civil to her, unlike her abominable neighbor behind the adjacent door. Every time she encountered Mrs. Asrani on the steps, the woman made it a point to snort and rudely turn her face away. Which was quite rich, considering it was that firecracker daughter of Mrs. Asrani’s who had ensnared her poor Salim. Mrs. Jalal stared at the black-and-white doorbell of the Asranis and wished she was agile enough to punch it and run up the stairs, like Salim used to, when he was younger.
    For a moment, she contemplated going down to the landing to check on Vishnu. She still didn’t believe he could be all that sick—perhaps she could trick him into recovery. But then Short Ganga’s chastising words smoldered in her ears again, and she felt ashamed at her cynicism. The poor man was dying— dying —she herself had been talking of having his body carted away just a minute ago. No, there was no need to verify Vishnu’s condition. Besides, if need be, she could always look into it later on her way to Nafeesa’s.
    There was nothing more to do. The trip had been a wasted effort. Mrs. Pathak, she knew, would not be calling. She never should have come down—it wasn’t as if she didn’t have enough problems of her own to worry about.
    Mrs. Jalal turned around and, gripping the banister, began the climb back to her floor.

    T HE KNOCK ON the Pathaks’ door had come just as Mrs. Asrani was about to fall asleep. At first, she had been too tired to get up and listen, but then the sound of Mrs. Jalal’s voice had galvanized her to her own door. She stood behind it now, waiting for the footsteps to fade up the