The Death of Vishnu

got a job at Voltas,” Mrs. Lalwani, ever the essence of even-handedness, announced.
    There was a moment of silence, as everyone waited for the revelations to sink in.
    “I hear you play the sitar very well, beti,” Mrs. Kotwani said to Kavita.
    Shyamu snorted and was dragged away to the bathroom by his father.
    “Oh, just a little bit. As a hobby,” Kavita said. She was finally getting into her role, lowering her eyes just so, and allowing the ends of her words to trail off, to impress upon everyone the debilitating quantities of shyness she was struggling to overcome.
    “What about you, beta?” Mrs. Asrani addressed Pran. “Do you have any hobbies as well?”
    Pran shook his head, at which Mrs. Kotwani tousled his hair. “Of course he does,” she said. “Tell them about your stamp-collecting, Pran.”
    Pran did not speak. Mrs. Kotwani turned to everyone. “He’s just so shy,” she announced with a laugh. Kavita felt a stab of resentment at this further encroachment of her role.
    Eventually, though, Pran was persuaded to speak. Haltingly, he explained the design of the new water pump that Voltas was developing. Mr. Asrani asked several perceptive questions and nodded with approval at each answer. Mrs. Asrani beamed happily at this test that her husband, at last good for something, was giving the boy. So far, he seemed to have demonstrated an excellent knowledge of the pumps, and final approval for being a son-in-law could certainly not be more than a few questions away.
    At some point, the gulab jamuns were brought out, and Mrs. Kotwani remarked on their perfectly round shape, and Mrs. Lalwani bit into hers and pronounced them divine. Even Mr. Kotwani was moved to lay his hand on Kavita’s head in blessing as he passed by on his way to get another one. Shyamu was brought his gulab jamun in the adjoining room.
    “I think we should let them have a little time by themselves,” Mrs. Lalwani whispered to Mrs. Asrani, and the elders filed out of the room, with Mr. Kotwani discreetly popping the last gulab jamun into his mouth on his way out.
    They sat there in silence, just the two of them, Kavita on a chair and Pran on the sofa near the door. Kavita looked at Pran and tried appraising him as she would a vegetable or a piece of fruit at the market. Somewhat pimply—even his ears seemed to be red from acne. Or perhaps that was just the blush from his shyness again. His nose was too big for his face—perhaps a mustache would help, though then there might be the problem of a disappearing upper lip. She was surprised he did not wear glasses—she expected all engineer types to peer through thick, sturdy lenses. His eyes were a further surprise. The few times she had managed to look into them, they had been soft and brown—she hesitated to describe them as appealing, and settled on pleasant. He really looked scrawny hunched up in his chair like that—someone needed to grab his shoulders and straighten him up.
    What would he do, she wondered, if she went over and sat next to him, and took his hand in hers? Or pressed her lips to his. Ran her hand down his stomach to his thigh as Salim had taught her to do. She captured the giggle in her throat before it could escape. She could have him stretched out helplessly next to her on the sofa in a minute. “No, let me go,” she could cry to bring the adults running back in.
    “Are you two talking to each other, or what?” Mrs. Asrani called from the other room. “Don’t feel shy, now— talk .”
    Since Pran wasn’t about to say anything, there was nothing to do but take the initiative herself. “I like the furniture in Lalwani aunty’s drawing room. Especially the wall hangings. Is that from Kashmir, do you think?”
    Again, she saw the blush spread from his cheeks down to his neck and up his ears. She got up to inspect the tapestry. “The border, especially, it’s so intricately woven.”
    Pran mumbled something behind her, and she turned around.
    “Hmm? What did you say?” Kavita asked, eager to hear something, anything, from him.
    “I hope you say yes,” Pran said, his brown eyes lifting to her face.
    “What?”
    “You’re very beautiful,” he said, just as Mrs. Asrani, unable to contain herself any more, burst through the door.

    T HEY ARE AT the outskirts of Lonavala. Vishnu sees himself at the wheel of the Fiat, sees Padmini beginning to stir by his side. By the time they reach the city center, she is wide awake and hungry. “Let’s stop