The Death of Vishnu

everything.
    His audience, reluctant to lose their evening gatherings, were ready to make allowances. “Oh, he’s not feeling well these days,” they would say. “What to do, the bechara hasn’t been hired for two weeks now,” they would postulate.
    But things became impossible to ignore the night Tall Ganga’s name was called out on Listeners’ Requests. At first, she couldn’t believe it, but then she yelped in delight and burst out clapping. Her song came on, and tucking her sari into her waist, Tall Ganga stood up to dance to the music. Someone asked Radiowalla to turn up the volume.
    For a minute, Radiowalla did not move, but stared at the people who were clapping and shouting along with Tall Ganga. Then he reached over and switched off the radio.
    “Tell her to get her own radio,” he said, turning his back to Tall Ganga, who stood in mid-dance, her long limbs frozen by the silence.
    After that, the evening assemblies rapidly came to a close. Radiowalla started turning his radio on only when people weren’t present, switching the channel to something boring or even to just static when anyone came to join him. Vishnu was sent one day to talk to him, but Radiowalla greeted him with suspicion, and ordered him not to come close to his radio. To make matters worse, someone tore off the lid from the radio box in retaliation and ripped up the packing material inside. Radiowalla came back from work that evening to find the landing littered with plastic and Styrofoam and cardboard. He gathered up all the pieces he could find and put them back in the box. The next day, he chased Short Ganga down the steps, accusing her of having ripped open his box to get the Styrofoam inside. It was only the cigarettewalla’s promise to give Radiowalla a thrashing that made Short Ganga feel safe entering the building again. Especially since she had not been able to resist carrying off the two most fascinating chunks of Styrofoam the day she had found the box vandalized.
    Radiowalla stopped speaking to people in the building. He started playing his radio so softly that nobody could hear it except himself, lowering the volume even further when anyone was passing by. Every once in a while, he could be seen on his landing with the packing material all spread out in front of him, turning and examining the pieces as if he were trying to decipher his fortune in them.
    As Vishnu passes by him now, Radiowalla’s head again emerges from the sheet. A catch of music escapes, and Radiowalla quickly pulls his sheet around tighter. Vishnu imagines the notes bouncing around inside, imparting rhythm and energy as they break against Radiowalla’s skin. The faintest drafts of melody follow him up as he continues past on the stairs.

    B Y THE TIME they reached the shrine of Amira Ma, Mrs. Jalal was feeling light-headed with relief. A nazar, that’s what it was, and this was the place to counteract it. Nafeesa had diagnosed it with an air of clinical certainty, and that too before they had even finished their tea. “Someone’s put an evil eye on your Ahmed,” she’d declared, “and until it’s lifted, his condition can only grow worse.”
    Mrs. Jalal’s mind had reeled. Why would anyone hate Ahmed? Who would do such a thing to him?
    “Are you serious?” Nafeesa said. “The way my dear jija carries on about religion, I wouldn’t be surprised if Maulvi sahib himself didn’t put a curse on him. But who knows how these nazars can happen—praise someone too much, and they get a nazar, don’t put a soot mark on your baby’s cheek, and he’ll get a nazar, say something nice about your spouse, and he’ll catch a nazar—they’re easier to catch than the flu.”
    Mrs. Jalal felt the color drain out of her face. “You aren’t saying I could have done it, are you? Oh my God, what if it was me?”
    “It hardly matters how it happened. The important thing now is to counteract it. We’ll go right now—to Amira Ma’s. Tie a thread at the shrine, and that should do it.”
    A beggar limped up to them as they waited for a taxi. Nafeesa started to shoo him away, but Mrs. Jalal pulled out a one-rupee note from her purse and handed it to him, under her sister’s disapproving look. She felt she needed all the luck she could get, and giving alms couldn’t hurt. In the taxi, they passed a marriage procession, surely another good omen, and Mrs. Jalal began to relax. She even managed to convince herself that nothing she had done could have