The Death of Vishnu

cleared his throat. “You can take off the sheet and see who it is,” he instructed her, loath to do the task himself.
    Short Ganga thought about protesting, but a part of her was excited at the prospect of being the one to unmask the Mystery Man. Besides, if it did turn out to be Radiowalla, and he attacked her, she would have evidence against him to take to the cigarettewalla, with both the Pathaks present as witnesses. She extended a hand to the edge of the sheet, but just before she could touch it, the figure underneath stirred, then sat bolt upright, its face still obscured.
    Short Ganga drew back, and Mrs. Pathak let out a squeal of fright. Even Mr. Pathak’s voice wavered, as he mustered all the sternness he could. “Who are you?” he asked.
    “Vishnu? Is that you? Who is it? Why can’t I see anyone? What is this over my head?”
    “Jalal sahib? What are you doing here? Ganga, help Mr. Jalal to get the cloth off, will you?” Mr. Pathak said, still hesitant to touch anything himself. “What happened, did you fall in the dark?”
    Short Ganga pulled the dupatta off, to reveal Mr. Jalal blinking in the landing light, looking as disoriented as an insect emerging from its pupa.
    “Did I fall?” he repeated dully, as if asking the question to himself. Then, suddenly remembering, he sat up straight. “Vishnu!” he said. “You won’t believe what I saw. He came to me. As a god.”
    “Maybe he did fall,” Short Ganga suggested. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of refuse and phenol emanating from Vishnu and now lingering like a cloud over Mr. Jalal as well.
    “You can’t imagine what he looks like. It’s scary even now to think of it.”
    “Mr. Jalal, what are you talking about?”
    “He showed me. I saw him. Hundreds of eyes and arms and legs. Flames as long as rivers spurting from his mouth. Corpses crushed between his teeth. He’s a god, he said, and he won’t wait around much longer, unless you acknowledge him. Unless we all acknowledge him. That’s what he directed me to tell you. Not to make him angry.”
    Mr. Pathak looked at his wife.
    “Mr. Jalal,” Mrs. Pathak said. “Can you see me?”
    “Yes, of course, I can see you.”
    “Do you recognize me, Mr. Jalal?”
    “Yes, yes, of course I do, look, I don’t have time for this.”
    “ Who told you Vishnu is a god?”
    “He did, of course. Vishnu did. Is it so hard to believe?”
    “But Vishnu hasn’t spoken for days,” Mrs. Pathak declared, pleased at the simplicity of her logic. “He may even be dead by now—have you checked his pulse?”
    “I don’t have to. I just talked to him. Haven’t you been listening? Go ahead, one of you, check his pulse if you don’t believe me.”
    Mrs. Pathak turned to Mr. Pathak, who turned to Short Ganga, who looked back defiantly. There was nothing that was going to persuade her to search Vishnu’s limbs for a pulse.
    “He’s not dead, I tell you. He just spoke to me. Not spoke, really—he revealed . That’s what gods do when they want to say something. They reveal.”
    “What did he reveal exactly?”
    “I told you. His real self. He looks just like those gods in the religious calendars—the ones the cigarettewalla has hanging in his shop. Even more mouths and arms and feet, if you can imagine.”
    Mr. Jalal paused, examining the air, as if Vishnu’s apparition might still be floating around. “He was standing here, in front of me, before he swallowed everyone and everything.”
    Short Ganga and Mrs. Pathak exchanged a look. Mr. Pathak sighed. “Come, Mr. Jalal, you’ve had a difficult night. Perhaps you should go upstairs.”
    “Yes,” Mrs. Pathak added. “Mrs. Jalal must be worrying.”
    “A ghost has mounted him,” Short Ganga whispered. “Entered through some orifice he left open and climbed up to his head. Definitely a ghost.” She examined Mr. Jalal suspiciously, letting her gaze linger at his ears, his mouth, even his buttocks. “Through some orifice.”
    Mrs. Pathak shushed her. “Come, Mr. Jalal, we’ll help you up to your flat. Ganga, could you unwrap the sheet from his legs?”
    Mr. Jalal watched distractedly as Short Ganga pulled the sheet down to disentangle first his left foot, then his right. The pattern on the cloth caught his eye. The flowers which had looked orange in the landing light last night were actually yellow. He felt elated at this—yellow was an auspicious color, yellow flowers were like little suns, signifying light, signifying energy.