The Death of Vishnu

the spirits, being purified in the flames. The blue is for evil, the yellow for mischief. People carry them here from all over in their bodies, and when they stand close enough, the spirits can’t help diving in. The green you see—those are the spirits that have reemerged, all purified again.”
    Out of the corner of her eye, Arifa saw a movement near the grate. A black shape, whirling and turning, and coming towards her. For an instant, she thought it was a spirit, headed for the flames, and she was directly in its path. Then she realized it was the woman who had been dancing next to the fire. Her hand was outstretched, and she was coming to give Arifa something.
    The woman smiled, and Arifa noticed the teeth, stained orange and brown from years of paan-chewing. The blankness had disappeared from her eyes, and in it now was a knowing shrewdness. The woman was saying something to her, which Arifa could not understand.
    Arifa leaned forward to catch the words. “This is for you,” the woman said, and pressed something into her palm. The smell of ash and charred hair lingered where the woman had been an instant ago.
    Even without looking, Arifa could feel it. It can’t be, she thought to herself, not wanting to open her palm. As her fingers unfurled, the thread came into view, Ahmed’s knot still in it, as sturdy and secure as when she had tied it. But the thread itself had been broken, the frayed ends where it had been pulled apart curling against her skin. She tried to speak but couldn’t, her lips parting helplessly, her hand rising and falling mechanically with the thread. Her voice came back to her, and she tried to expunge the horror, tried to clear it from her throat and expel it from her lungs. She screamed, and the sound was so rending that it stopped Nafeesa as if she had been stricken, made the man by the fire lose control of his drum. She held up the thread in the light of the fire and screamed again and again. And beyond the courtyard, beyond the gate, in the kerosene-lit corridor of stalls, the shopkeepers at their ledgers stopped counting their money and looked for a moment towards the shrine of Amira Ma.

    S OMEWHERE IN THE darkness is a bevy of scents. It hovers beyond his reach. Perfumes perch along the periphery of his perception, flitting away at his approach. He follows a riddle of spice—cumin, or turmeric, perhaps—it flashes through the air and escapes without being caught. There are flowers here, and fruits, too, and the smell of mud and oil and rain.
    When the gods descend, Vishnu knows, it is by their scents that he will recognize them. Ganesh will smell of the fruits he loves, Varuna will smell of the sea. River breezes will herald the arrival of Saraswati, Indra will bring the rain. Krishna will smell of all that’s sweet, of milk and gur and tulsi. Of sandalwood and kevda flowers, of saffron, of ghee, of honey.
    And Lakshmi. Lotuses will flower beneath her feet, scenting each step with their fragrance. Mangoes will turn the color of the sun, filling the world with their ripeness. Tulsi plants will wave in the wind, whispering their secrets to the air. The earth will stretch out, rich and fragrant, and await her touch against its skin.
    Vishnu inhales, and the air is sweet with lotus. He thinks his senses are deceiving him, and inhales again. The scent is overpowering, as if thousands of flowers have opened, as if the steps, the walls, the ceiling, are all awash with blossoms. Mixed in with their sweetness is the spiciness of basil, barely detectable at first, but becoming more intense by the second, until that is all he smells, and he thinks that a million tulsi leaves are being rubbed between invisible fingers. And then come wafts of mango, waves that begin to wash over the tulsi, each swelling stronger than the one before, and redolent of all the different varieties he knows. Vishnu recognizes the wildness of Gola mangoes, the tartness of Langda, the cloying sweetness of Pyree, the perfect refinement of Alphonso. The perfume is so thick and potent that he can feel it press against his face. Except that now it is the earth his nostrils are pressed against, earth that is wet and aromatic, earth that smells sweet and loamy, with the pungency of dung mixed in. Vishnu inhales this new fragrance. It is the scent of the land, the scent of fertility, the scent that has existed since civilization began, and Vishnu marvels at its immutability.
    And then all the scents he has smelled are