The Death of Vishnu

for some bhajia, hot-hot,” she says, as they pass a halwai shop.
    The bhajia are, indeed, hot—the halwai is ladling a fresh batch of the fritters out of an enormous cauldron of oil. He mixes them with salt and wraps a handful in newspaper for Vishnu.
    “Did you get the chili ones?” Padmini asks, poking around in the newspaper. She pulls out a chili by the stem and takes a large bite. “Ah,” she says, closing her eyes, “there’s nothing like a chili bhajia. My mother had to fry up an extra batch every time, just for me, because otherwise nobody else would get any.”
    “Where is she now, your mother?” Vishnu asks, and Padmini looks up sharply. He realizes he has said the wrong thing.
    “I haven’t come here to relate my Ramayana to you,” she says, her face tight.
    But later, at the market, she volunteers matter-of-factly, “She lives near Ratnagiri. She thinks I make dresses for a living.”
    Padmini laughs. “Can you imagine? Me, a seamstress? I couldn’t sew a diaper for an infant, much less a dress. But at least this way she doesn’t expect any money from me. Let her sons support her.”
    There are so many questions in Vishnu’s mind. He is hungry for information about Padmini. Every bit she opens up is a step towards the chance that she will love him. “Do you ever see your mother?” he asks.
    But Padmini is not listening, distracted by a man selling toys. “Buy this for me,” she commands, pointing to a doll made of cloth stuffed with cotton.
    They drive to Sunset Point. The overlook is high enough that mist hovers in patches, even though sunlight sweeps down from the sky to dissipate it. Mountains stretch from east to west in a solid wall, their slopes lush with the green of jambul trees. Cutting through the vegetation are the fine white lines of waterfalls, emanating from springs high above. A koyal sings somewhere, its notes resonating clearly in the crispness of the air.
    “Can you hear him? I wonder where he’s hiding,” Padmini says, running to the railing. “Koo-koo, koo-koo,” she cries to the mountains, cupping her hands. She cocks her head to listen for an echo, an answer. “Koo-koo,” she repeats, but there is no response. The only sound they hear is the rush of water spouting unseen from somewhere below.
    She turns around and poses against the railing. “I wish you had a camera,” she pouts, stretching out against the poles and rubbing her body against them.
    The wind picks up and drapes her dupatta around her head. She looks up, the yellow silk veiling her face, and Vishnu thinks she might have just emerged from a temple.
    “It’s so nice that there’s no one here,” she says, and Vishnu moves to the railing next to her. All night, he has looked at her lying so close next to him, wanting to touch her, to taste her, to breathe her in.
    “So beautiful,” Padmini says, and stops, as Vishnu positions his lips next to hers. Before she can draw back, he kisses her through her veil. She looks down at the ground as he picks up the edges of the dupatta and raises it slowly up her face.
    “Am I your bride?” she asks, as he kisses her on the forehead, then on the lips again.
    “You ran away with me, remember,” he says.
    “Then how many of these would you like?” Padmini asks, holding up the cloth doll. She waves it in his face.
    For a moment, Vishnu thinks that here they are, the two of them, or maybe a family of three. They have come up to Lonavala, like other people, for a long-awaited holiday. Back in Bombay, they are a real couple, and real lives await them. Not rich ones, necessarily, just ordinary lives. A flat or even only a room, with a cupboard and a bed. A toilet that is probably shared, a kerosene stove like the one his mother had. An address and a ration card, a postman who brings them mail. A job to go to every morning, a woman to whom he is wed.
    Perhaps it shows in his face, because Padmini stops smiling. For an instant, he thinks he glimpses concern mixed in with the confusion in her expression.
    Then the absurdity of the situation strikes him. The preposterousness of his images, the foolishness of his feelings, the comicality of chasing currents that skim across Padmini’s face. He thinks how absurd this whole trip has been, how absurd is the presence of the two of them in Lonavala, how absurd is the scenery itself that stretches before them. He thinks of poor, ridiculous Mr. Jalal, waiting back in Bombay for his Fiat, and of how Padmini will