The Death of Vishnu

steps.
    Mrs. Asrani looked at the Air India clock on the far wall. The maharaja’s hands were both near the four, which meant it was too late to return to her nap. Besides, her heart was racing again—try as she might, she could never quite relax herself while she eavesdropped on Mrs. Pathak’s conversations through the door. She had often wondered if she should see a doctor about this, if there was some little pill that he could prescribe for such occasions. But perhaps tea was all she needed, tea to soothe her mind and calm her heart. She opened her door a crack and peered out to make sure the landing was clear. She was about to enter the kitchen when the Pathaks’ door opened and Mrs. Pathak stepped out as well.
    In the kitchen, the two women did not look at each other, but kept their eyes fixed on their kettles. It was Mrs. Asrani who spoke first. “Hajrat Society. Never heard of it.”
    “It’s a Muslim charity, she said.”
    “For what, though? To cart dead people away? What kind of charity is that?”
    “She said to help them die. In comfort, she said.”
    Mrs. Asrani picked up her kettle and shook it vigorously to stimulate the water into boiling faster. “Forgive me, but if I were in that state I wouldn’t be worrying about a pillow for my head,” she said.
    “I wonder what they do with the bodies.”
    “I’ll tell you one thing they don’t do. They don’t cremate them.”
    “Of course. They probably just bury them.”
    “Who knows what they do with them.”
    “Especially the non-Muslims.”
    “They probably check the men, you know. Down in their private region. To see if they’re Muslim or not.”
    “Poor Vishnu. I wonder what would happen to him.”
    “Nothing’s going to happen to him. We aren’t just going to hand him over like that.”
    “I’m sure the municipality does cremations if you contact them.”
    “If not, we’ll take him to the ghat ourselves. Tell Mrs. Jalal we don’t need her help.”
    “The nerve of that woman. Waving her charity in our face like that. As if we’re incompetent. As if we can’t take care of our own.”
    “Who knows what the real motive is. She and her crazy husband and that cockroach son of theirs.”
    “I’ll call her up and tell her.”
    “Yes, give my name too. Tell her we have charities like that in our community also.”
    “Besides, I just put a new sheet on Vishnu. What does she think. I’ll tell her he’s quite comfortable, thank you.”

    T HE NOISE HAS abated. Sprouting in its wake, like a field germinating after a flood, is a universe of sound he has never noticed before. Small sounds, tiny sounds—the footsteps of ants, the scurrying of beetles, the rustling of spiders, springing up from the ground. He hears the flight of a gnat across his face, he feels the rhythm of centipedes rippling the walls, he listens to the murmurs of cicadas rising from the trees outside. All the insects in the world are calling to him, he can hear their cries from forests and fields far away; they are calling his name, telling him their stories, asking him to track their progress as they crawl and creep and fly to their destinations.
    A solitary ant crawls up the step before him. How high has this ant risen? he thinks. Has it ever been a bird, an animal, a human? Could this be a prince who has tumbled down, a Brahmin who has fallen astray? He listens for the voice of the ant, tries to hear its story. But the ant climbs on, steadily, and does not speak.
    Vishnu watches the erratic path it traces. A step in one direction, two in the other, an intricate dance that slowly pulls it up. It reaches the top, and waves its feelers in the air, searching for the stone surface. Vishnu waits for it to push its body over the edge and start traversing the breadth of the step. But it turns instead and begins to move along the edge.
    He looks at it inching its way towards the wall and wonders if he should correct its path. He places a fingertip on the edge to block it. But the ant crawls around the finger, without ever touching it, and continues along the edge. He tries again, and again, but each time, the ant circumvents his finger, single-mindedly continuing its course. Vishnu watches as the ant nears the wall and the hanging shadows slowly swallow its body.
    There are other things alive in the stairs as well. Tiny bugs flit in the evening light filtering in through the window. A mosquito hums next to his ear. He feels he is in a forest, and there is life