The Death of Vishnu

down to the chemist for a new bottle every two months.
    Mrs. Asrani sighed. How many more bottles of Tru-Tone would she go through before she finally decided to quit? She hated the whole process—the chemical smell of the dye, the way it stained her fingers, the long wait for it to set while it seeped out into her skin. No matter how hard she scrubbed afterwards, the marks remained for days on her forehead, crude enhancements of her hairline that someone might have painted on to form a more decorative frame for her face. She wasn’t even sure why she did it anymore—whom was she trying to fool, whom was she trying to impress? Certainly not Manohar—all he seemed to care about was his gods and his drinks. He had not commented on her looks for—how long had it been? In fact, when was the last time he had even brought her a string of jasmine—the blossoms she had come to expect every evening in those early years, tied around her hair by his own hand? The buds would glow creamily in her tresses, black as kohl back then, and he would squeeze the petals between his fingers to release their fragrance and perfume her hair.
    But that had been before her hair had turned, before her looks had thickened, before her body had begun to spill around her every time she sat down. Why had it happened to her? Manohar was no more plump than the day he first came to look at her—hair mostly gone, it was true, but the baldness only accentuating his babyish looks. And Mrs. Pathak, right next door, giving birth to her two children in the same two years she had—how had she retained the slimness of her figure, the immaculate blackness of her hair? It was all so unfair.
    She could feel the anger descending again, a curtain falling around, enveloping her insides in its folds. She wondered if it could be a chemical in the dye that caused this reaction month after month. She really had to give the whole thing up. She had tried to do so once last year, going an entire two months without using the Tru-Tone. Squiggles of white had sprouted all over her head, like some crawling infestation, but she had not reached for the bottle. The squiggles had turned into gaping patches, and she had tied her hair tightly into a bun to hide them. But Mrs. Pathak had taken to shaking her hair loose tauntingly every time she came into the kitchen, and she had finally succumbed. She had even tried using henna once, since it did not have a chemical base, but it had turned her hair a bright orange and she had ended up looking like one of the old Muslim ladies who came to visit Mrs. Jalal on Saturdays.
    Voices from the door brought her out of her reverie. “…and since he’s in such a bad state, we thought….” It was Mr. Pathak, not the meatwalla—what was he talking about? Mrs. Asrani put down the toothbrush and held her breath, to make sure she heard every word.
    “…really should do something before Vishnu gets….” Of course. Vishnu. The steps outside. She should have told Mr. Asrani—it was Mrs. Pathak’s fault—who’d ever heard of giving such dry chapatis to someone in that condition—her chapatis would make even a well man sick! Tell them they should pay for cleaning up , she felt like yelling to Mr. Asrani—what a mess—her head half covered with dye.
    “…and since we paid for the doctor, we think it’s only fair that you pay for the ambulance.” What a preposterous suggestion. Of course, Mr. Asrani would politely but firmly correct this silliness. The woman must be mad, to send her husband to say this. Poor Mr. Pathak—Mrs. Asrani felt a twinge of sympathy for him.
    “Of course.” The two words, in her husband’s voice, sent Mrs. Asrani into shock. But the situation was too egregious, and she was forced to quickly recover. She tried to speak, but the indignation made the word stick in her throat. “No!” it finally emerged, swinging through the corridor and speeding toward Mr. Asrani.
    “No!” Mr. Asrani agreed, as soon as the missive reached him. “Tell them that the only reason Vishnu threw up is because of those chapatis they fed him.”
    “The chapatis,” Mr. Asrani explained. “You see, he ate them and that’s what caused the problem. Perhaps you shouldn’t have fed them to him.”
    “If someone is that sick, one can only expect—” Mr. Pathak began. “If someone is that sick, one doesn’t feed them food fit for the dogs,” Mrs. Asrani interrupted, still speaking only to her husband. “And if one does