The Death of Vishnu

decent as Pran—an engineer, a stamp-collector no less—agreeing to such an escapade.
    Where would she be twenty years from now? Kavita closed her eyes and imagined herself married to Pran. They’d have two children—the elder, a boy, good in mathematics like his father. They would go to a top school—a Catholic one, naturally—Campion or St. Mary’s or (if one was a girl) to Villa Teresa. Every summer, the four of them would pile into the family car and drive to Matheran. Her friends might tease her about Pran—good old dependable engineer sahib. But she would be the only one who would know that special look he had, the blush that came over his face, that spread up his cheeks and into his eyes as she began to unwrap her sari for him.
    But no, she would be with Salim. Salim and herself, twenty years hence. Nothing came to her mind. Their future was an unknown, a blank. No, blank was too harsh a word to describe it—it was a mystery —yes, that was it—for when one embarks on adventure, one can hardly be expected to know the end.
    The truth growled at her suddenly, like a cheetah surprising its prey. She was not sure. She did not know if she wanted to accompany Salim down that stairway, into the city waiting below. She needed more time—more time to breathe, more time to think, more time to understand. But it was too late, already too, too late. The money from the bank burned in her purse, and only Vishnu’s landing separated them from the street.
    How peaceful Vishnu looked. She could see him stretched out below, and in the dark, there seemed to glow an aura of tranquillity around him. She followed Salim down the steps to his landing, snapping open her purse and taking out the currency note she had reserved for him. As she bent down to tuck it under his head, an image from her childhood sprang into her mind—Vishnu playing hide and seek with her on the steps.
    “He’s not going to need money where he’s going,” Salim said. “You might as well keep that.”
    “What?”
    “Even the ambulance came and went yesterday. It’s too late for the bechara.”
    “What lies. He’s going to be fine. It’s only a hundred rupees that I’m giving him—you don’t have to get hunger in your eyes for that even.”
    “Is that what you think of me? That I’m eyeing your hundred rupees? That I’m running away with you for your money?”
    This was the moment. She could either take it, and goad Salim on, to make a clean break of it, or leave it, and follow him into the life he was leading her into. Years later, when she was old and her life was spent, perhaps she would look back to this juncture, and feel relief or maybe regret, but one thing would be clear. This would have been her chance to act.
    What should she do? Whom should she choose? There was so little time to think. It was so unfair—in the movies, there would be a song right now, and the good and bad points of each suitor would be clearly spelled out to music. The kind of song with the long, soothing notes in the background, the kind Lata would sing, with multiple flashbacks of each of the prospects superimposed on the heroine’s face. (Though this would be a little difficult with Pran, since she’d only met him today.) But no, she would have to choose herself, without the benefit of such a summary.
    “I’m sorry,” Kavita said finally. “I’m all nervous, you know, and what you said about Vishnu—that just made me—” She broke off.
    At this, Salim came to her, and took her in his arms. “It’ll be okay. They don’t really know how he is. He’ll be fine. You don’t have to worry.”
    “But how can we leave him like this? When he’s so sick? When we don’t even know? How can I leave my Vishnu?”
    Kavita went up to the recumbent body. “Vishnu, talk to me. Please, open your eyes, say something, it’s your Kavita.”
    She put her hand to his cheek. “I wonder if he’s feeling cold,” she said. Unwinding her dupatta from around her neck, she spread it over the top half of his body. “Maybe that will help a little.” She stood up.
    “Take care of yourself,” Kavita said. Then she turned, and with her hand covering her mouth, and the background music welling up in her ears, ran down the stairs with all the drama the scene demanded.
    Salim went over to Vishnu and bent down to retrieve the money Kavita had left. “Goodbye, my friend,” he said, pocketing the bill, then followed Kavita down the steps.

    O H, THE SCENTS she has