The Death of Vishnu

says, her eyes wide, wary, like those of a child trying to decide whether to believe an adult.
    Vishnu looks from the bareness of her neck to the strand of lights stretching by the sea below. “I promise,” he whispers.
    His lips close around her nipple. She arches her back to put more of her breast in his mouth. He takes it in greedily, first the dark ring around the nipple, then the mound of flesh that follows. But part of her breast spills out. He feels it press against his chin, his cheek, and buries his nose in its warm attar-laden scent.
    He moves down her torso. Her skin is silver in the light floating in from outside, smooth and glistening like the surface of a freshly caught pomfret. She undulates under his lips, pressing her chest, her abdomen, her pelvis against him, offering each in turn to be anointed by his tongue. He runs his fingers across the softness of her belly, then grazes the stubble on his chin against it. She tries to move away, but he grabs her breasts and holds down her body, then runs the bristles across her skin again. He feels her writhe beneath him as his chin descends down to her groin. Wisps of hair start curling against his face and he stops, but she clasps his head and drags it lower. She thrusts her pelvis towards his mouth, he feels her wetness smear against his lips.
    He breaks himself free of her hands and hoists himself on his forearms. Tonight will be different. Tonight, she will not be the one in charge. He pins her hands above her shoulders. Her elbows strain against the air, they rise and fall like wings next to her head. Tonight, he will take what she reserves for the big sahibs, take what she has teased him with but never given. He looks at the surprise clearing her eyes, satisfied.
    He caresses her lips with his cock. She turns away, but he follows her mouth and caresses it again. He plays along the line at which her lips meet, his dark brown skin stark against the redness of her lipstick. She does not turn away, but keeps her mouth closed.
    He bears down on her wrists. Lipstick smudges her teeth as he coaxes apart her lips. He pushes against her mouth, presses his weight against her face. But there is no entry. She stares at him from the car seat, her head very still.
    “Please,” he whispers. “Just once,” he says. He relaxes his grip.
    She makes no move to free her hands. Her eyes are fixed upon his face, contemplating him with a composure he finds disconcerting. He sees a determination move into them, a self-assuredness that spills over and ripples down across her features. Slowly, deliberately, she parts her lips.
    “Just this once,” she says.
    Gratefully, he eases himself into the admittance he has been granted. The snugness of her lips closes around his flesh and he feels her tongue explore the length of him. She takes him in deeper into her mouth and he sees the sureness mount in her face. As he is engulfed by the rhythm of her efforts, as he loses himself in sensation, he sees the sureness ignite in her eyes, until he can discern no iris, no white, no pupil, just an organic and unyielding resolve, that erupts from deep within her and exposes him to the core of her being.
    “Let’s run away,” he says afterwards. “Just keep driving, and never come back.”
    “Where would we go?” she says, her eyes closed.
    “Anywhere you want, anywhere the car will take us.”
    “Take me to Lonavala, then.”
    It is still dark as he drives down the winding road from Hanging Gardens. He looks at her, asleep on the seat next to him, her arms tucked tightly under her dupatta to keep them warm. Behind her, soft and unfocused, the lights near the sea blossom occasionally through the window. Above, the branches of mango trees stretch thickly across the road, their leaves reflecting whatever dabs of moonlight are to be found.
    A gust of breeze, cool and salt-laden, blows in from Padmini’s window. He reaches across her seat to roll up the glass. “No, leave it open,” she says, stirring. “I like the cold.” She turns back to sleep.
    Vishnu follows the road curving into the darkness ahead. Soon he will pass the Towers of Silence, where even the vultures must be at peace at this time. Then he will see the lights of the flyover, guiding cars through the air all night. He will ascend high above Kemp’s Corner, and try to glimpse the sea through the gaps in the skyscrapers. The sun will not rise for many hours, and it will be a long drive through the night. And all