The Death of Vishnu

few households. It made so little difference anyway, the amount of money she made from one place. If anyone wanted to get rid of her for speaking her mind, let them. She’d show them—she’d blacklist them in the books of all the gangas she knew. Then they’d see the result of firing her, of underestimating her. Short Ganga, indeed! If it hadn’t been for Mr. Taneja on the third floor, she would have struck this building off her list a long time ago.
    Poor Mr. Taneja. The man never seemed to leave his flat—he depended on her not only for the milk, but for the food she delivered to him every afternoon. The paanwalla had told her the sad story about Mrs. Taneja’s death, many years ago. “What a woman she was,” the paanwalla would say, stroking his mustache. “Every day, she had to have her sweet paan, come rain or shine.” After his wife’s death, Mr. Taneja had gradually become a recluse, and the people in the building now regarded him as something of a mystery figure. “Tell Mr. Taneja he is rarer than the new moon of Eid,” Mr. Jalal would say to Short Ganga, who was the only one who still had regular contact with him, and in whose hands the paanwalla, still sentimental about the memory of Mrs. Taneja, sometimes sent up a complimentary paan.
    Perhaps she should tell Mr. Taneja about Vishnu, to see if he could be the one to help. Since the man never came out, he probably didn’t even know about Vishnu’s illness.
    She had almost made it to Vishnu’s landing when a sudden thought startled her. What if she was the one to find Vishnu dead? That would be terrible—there might even be a police report to fill out, an interview to give. She would check if he was alive, and even if he wasn’t, tell Mrs. Pathak he was still breathing. No sense in getting involved in unnecessary complications. Besides, it was Vishnu’s fault anyway—never eating, always drinking, not taking any medicines, even though he knew he was getting worse.
    The tip of Vishnu’s sheet came into view, then the rest of it, then the shape of the body underneath it. Short Ganga gasped when she saw it move. He was still alive—maybe he was even improving. She left the milk bottles on the side of the stairs and ascended the remaining two steps to the landing. Then she stopped.
    There were two bodies there. One was Vishnu, who was lying against the wall, his body uncovered and still. The sheet was wrapped around the second body, which was also that of a man, but very much alive, since it was snoring quite audibly under the cloth. Bunched up with the sheet and coiling around the head was a red-and-green dupatta.
    What should she do? Her first instinct was to try and see who it was, and even arouse the person. But then she wondered—what if it was Radiowalla? He might suddenly wake up even if she was only trying to peek under the dupatta. The man was quite deranged and had never quite forgiven her for the Styrofoam—what if he killed her then and there? No, it was safer to go upstairs and get Mr. Pathak.
    The milk forgotten two steps below, Short Ganga ran up to the first-floor landing and pressed the Pathaks’ doorbell. Mrs. Pathak answered the door.
    There was no time to waste on her, Short Ganga decided, this was a job for a man. “Is Mr. Pathak there?” she asked importantly.

    A LTHOUGH HE CERTAINLY knew the way down to Vishnu’s landing, Mr. Pathak followed Short Ganga down the stairs, as if she were leading them on some recently discovered treasure path. Mrs. Pathak brought up the rear of the procession, prepared, it seemed, to use her husband’s body as a shield in case of trouble, but making quick darting movements outside the realm of protection to offer advice or spur them on.
    “Stranger and stranger this thing gets,” Mrs. Pathak announced unnecessarily. “Now we will go see who is this Mr. Mystery Man who has dropped by to take a nap.”
    Short Ganga shushed Mrs. Pathak, who put a finger on her own mouth in obedience, even though this was a needless exercise since they were, after all, descending to awaken the Mystery Man.
    They stood over the sheet-and-dupatta-covered figure. “Look, he’s stolen my sheet from poor Vishnu—what a Mystery Man and a half, to steal the covering from a dying person,” Mrs. Pathak exclaimed. She bent down to take a closer look. “And this dupatta—I’ve seen it before—who wears this color dress? Is it Mrs. Asrani or Mrs. Jalal?”
    Short Ganga turned to Mr. Pathak, who