The Death of Vishnu

He could explain how different beliefs arose and melded with their parent philosophies, detail obscure rituals from Africa to the Amazon practiced in the name of worship. Why, then, did he not understand the mechanism of faith? What did religion do to people, to provoke such obstinacy, such hysteria—how did it push people to the stage of torturing themselves and killing each other?
    He had always assumed it was a flaw in people, a human failing, that created this need to believe in something beyond the ordinary. Religion existed to control society, to monitor those without the capacity to think things through for themselves, to provide promises and shimmering images in the sky, so that the urges of the masses could be calmed and regulated. What, after all, did the word ‘faith’ connote, except a willing blindness to the lack of actual proof? It was only natural that Arifa, with her untended intellect, had to lean on this crutch of faith to negotiate the inscrutability of life. Whereas he did not, in fact could not , have any use for the same.
    But then an unexpected doubt arose in Mr. Jalal’s mind. What if he was being too arrogant? What if there was another dimension to faith, another way of understanding it, of experiencing it, of which he was simply not capable? What if the shortcoming lay not with Arifa’s outlook, but his own—if it was he who was limited, closed-minded? After all, wasn’t he constantly amazed at the number of very smart people who were believers—hadn’t even Einstein professed the existence of God?
    The question began to gnaw at Mr. Jalal. The possibility that it was his intellect that might be wanting jabbed at his ego. He brooded for weeks on end about being less complete than Arifa, about being somehow inferior to the hordes of people thronging through the mosques and temples and churches of the city. Every time he saw a sadhu or a mullah, or even a group of worshipers with red temple marks on their foreheads, Mr. Jalal was confronted with the question: was it they who were flawed, or was it he?
    Gradually, it dawned on him that there was only one way to find out. He would have to try and personally experience this thing they called faith. Perhaps by switching off his intellect and inviting religion to come and seek him out. Offering himself to be swept away like the mourners in the Muharram procession, like the Krishna devotees dancing through the streets on Fridays. So far, his interest in religion had always been clinical—never possessing his spirit, never penetrating the caul of his intellect. He would prove that he was just as complete as the next person, just as capable of having his spirit moved. The difference would be that for him it would be an experiment, one that would afford him an insider’s view on faith. Afterwards, when he had returned to his normal self, he would sift through the experience to see if it contained anything of substance. Who knew, perhaps he might even encounter Arifa on his journey to the other side, and persuade her to accompany him back.
    The more Mr. Jalal thought about this project, the more he was filled with enthusiasm. The idea of being an interloper among those of faith fascinated him. But how should he go about curbing his intellect? Where did one find the recipe to lure religion to one’s doorstep?
    Mr. Jalal pulled out his books on the Buddha and Mahavira Jain and the Hindu sadhus and fakirs. He pored over the accounts about sitting under trees, roaming in forests, subsisting on whatever food and water could be found. Wasn’t renunciation the key to what all these people had achieved? Hadn’t they succeeded in focusing their minds by denying the needs of their bodies? Could this be the prescription he was himself seeking?
    That very week, he took the local train to Borivili, to wander around barefoot in the wilderness of the national park there. It was difficult to avoid all the families on picnics, but Mr. Jalal persevered, walking across the rocky soil until his feet were well blistered. He was astonished, and quite pleased, to come upon a magnificent banyan tree, right in the middle of the park. Surely this was a sign, he thought, a little guiltily, since he forbade himself from believing in signs. He cleared a site among the gnarled roots of the tree and sat down on the ground self-consciously. He tried crossing his legs into the lotus position, but gave up, and just closed his eyes instead.
    He had been sitting there for