The Death of Vishnu

through the journey, he thinks to himself, Padmini will be asleep by his side.

    M RS . L ALWANI LIVED in Colaba, way up near Sassoon Docks.
    The cab had barely passed Churchgate when Mrs. Asrani started to grumble.
    “What kind of arrangement this is God only knows, that we have to drag our daughter halfway across the city. Everyone knows the boy is supposed to come to our place—not this neutral-veutral territory.” She glared spitefully at the taxi meter, which, as if to mock her, made a “plink” and displayed a new number in the rupee slot.
    “It’s better this way, Aruna. Think how bad it would’ve been with Vishnu at home. Besides, we’re already at Churchgate, so it won’t be that much more.”
    “You think I care how much more it will cost? You think I would worry about a few rupees when my daughter’s future happiness is at stake?” Mrs. Asrani inhaled several gulps of air and puffed up in outrage.
    “All I said was the distance—the distance won’t be that much more.”
    “Yes, yes—you don’t have to give me geography lessons. I’ve lived in Bombay all my life. Shyamu, get back in from the window—do you want your head to get cut off by a BEST bus?”
    The counter made another plink and Mrs. Asrani resisted the urge to accuse the taxiwalla of having tampered with the meter. These people were all robbers. She’d already had to shout at the driver twice about the route he’d tried to take them by. She hated taxis, thought they were a tremendous waste of money—it was better to wait for a bus and be late than flag a taxi down. She had tried, over the years, to impress this ideal upon Mr. Asrani, but suspected he remained secretly errant.
    “Shyamu, didn’t I say to put your head back in? Think of how foolish you’d look walking around without it—everyone saying that’s the boy who stuck his head out and got it cut off by a bus.”
    She’d had to succumb today because of all the jewelry and silk Kavita was wearing. Mrs. Asrani looked at her daughter, sitting serenely between Shyamu and herself. How she glowed. It was as if a complete transformation had taken place—so stubborn one minute, and then so docile and agreeable. Kavita had even allowed herself to be led to the kitchen and taught how to make gulab jamuns. (The lesson had been a disaster, and they’d had to stop at the halwai to get a box, but that was beside the point.)
    Mrs. Asrani supposed that was what the prospect of marriage did to young people. She tried to remember how she had been at that age. Had she gotten all dressed up, had she tried to make gulab jamuns as well? She looked at Mr. Asrani, sitting at the front window next to the driver, the wind from Queen’s Road ruffling the few locks that still ringed his head. How much like a child he was, enjoying his window and his taxi ride, just like Shyamu at the window behind. An unexpected clutch of emotion appeared in her throat. How long ago had that been, how many years had passed by already. The feeling spread upwards from her throat, through her mouth, up her nose. So long they had traveled together, an endless cab ride with just the two of them. Like that saying about life being a journey that can only be shared with one person. Mrs. Asrani sat in the backseat of the cab, staring through the window, unaware of the tear that rolled down her cheek and wet the cover of the box of gulab jamuns in her lap.
    She was still moist-eyed when Regal Cinema flashed by. Something about the sight didn’t seem right. Suddenly, Mrs. Asrani realized what her momentary lapse had cost her. “Who told you you could bring us from here?” she shouted at the driver. “Everyone knows to go through Cooperage. Isn’t your meter fast enough, that you have to take us the long way as well?”
    The taxiwalla stared at the road and kept driving. Not satisfied that she had made her point, Mrs. Asrani continued, “Click, click, click—every time I blink there’s a new number on the meter. You’d think we were being driven to Poona, looking at the fare.”
    The driver stopped the taxi and got out.
    “He’s leaving,” Shyamu exclaimed. “Look, he’s going to the chaiwalla shop.”
    “What?” Mrs. Asrani tried to look past Kavita and Shyamu, but couldn’t see anything. “What is he doing?”
    “He’s ordering tea,” Shyamu said delightedly. This spectacle was an unexpected bonus to the luxury of a taxi ride. “Can we go, too?”
    “The scoundrel. The cheat. This is the