The Death of Vishnu

left behind, the leaves and fruits and flowers. The beauty she has carried to earth, the pleasure it has brought. The dupatta that I can feel on me, with the perfume of her skin.
    Come back, Lakshmi, come back. Don’t you see your place is here with me? Don’t you know you were meant for Vishnu, don’t you know you are his strength? Come back so I can touch your face, come back so I can caress your feet. Come back, and keep me eternal company, O Lakshmi of mine.
    What will happen to the flowers, now that you are gone? The earth that clings to the steps, the tulsi that begins to sprout. The colors that brighten the darkness of the stairs, the scents that perfume the air. Must I climb alone the petal-strewn trail of your descent?
    But wait. Who is this, who emerges from the Jalals’ door? Is this another god, who dares match your step with his own? He grasps onto the banister, and climbs so stealthily down. His shadow moves noiselessly against the walls, his footsteps sound quietly on stone.
    The flowers so red and vivid seconds ago succumb under his tread. Petals wither where they lie, their scent fades into the ground. Stamens are crushed under his feet, their pollen blows all around.
    The shadow falls thickly across the landing. This is man, not god, not yet. This is Mr. Jalal, his shoes still firm upon the stairs, his weight still heavy upon this earth, his grasp still reaching for the air.

    A T FIRST, MR . Jalal thought he would bring a sheet with him. But then he decided not to—he was, after all, there to lie next to Vishnu, body and flesh, and a sheet would only insulate against the connection. He did, however, retain his sleeping suit, the one with the red cord around the collar and the matching cord lining the cuffs of the striped pajamas.
    It had not been easy tonight. For some reason, Arifa had been very agitated. “Don’t leave me, please,” she said, as Mr. Jalal was spreading out his sheet on the floor. “Not tonight, you mustn’t.”
    Mr. Jalal paused, the sheet billowing out from the two corners he was holding in his hands. “You know I like to sleep on the hard floor. I thought we understood that by now. My back—”
    “No, Ahmed, not tonight. Not tonight of all nights. Come back to bed, please, I beg you to.”
    There was something suffocating about his wife’s pleading. Since this evening, when she had come back from her sister’s, Arifa’s demeanor had been one that foreboded great tragedy. Her wavering voice and plaintive urgency further contributed to this effect. Mr. Jalal had been looking forward for some time to stealing away downstairs.
    “What’s so different tonight from other nights?”
    Mrs. Jalal did not speak. Instead, she got up from her bed and started pulling off the sheet from her mattress as well.
    “If you won’t come back, I’m going to join you on the floor.”
    And so it was that Arifa set up her bed right next to his, and lay down by his side. “There, I’m sure it will be good for my back as well.”
    Apparently, however, it wasn’t. After tossing and turning for an hour, and after a number of grunts of “Hai,” Arifa (once Mr. Jalal pretended to have fallen asleep) stole back to her mattressed bed. Within minutes, her loud and rhythmic snores told Mr. Jalal it was time to make his move.
    It had been years since Mr. Jalal had come down the stairs at so late an hour. He groped around for the light switch, before remembering that the lights had not worked in at least a decade. Some sort of fight with the downstairs neighbors about how to divide the bill between different floors. Cautiously, Mr. Jalal made his way past Radiowalla, past the Asranis and Pathaks, down towards Vishnu’s landing.
    He wondered why Arifa had been so insistent this evening about sleeping with him. The first few nights he had spent on the floor, her sighs had filled him with guilt. Was he depriving her of his presence? he had wondered. Was he shirking his spousal duty? Should he be confiding in her, explaining to her the journey on which he had embarked?
    He had decided against it. Arifa would not understand. She would be suspicious of his motives and raise doubts and objections about everything. Besides, when was the last time they had even hugged in bed, much less made love? No, it must be something else—one of those generic unhappinesses that women suffered from, that had been unfortunately, unfairly, triggered off by his efforts. He had to be firm, he had to be