The Death of Vishnu
many limbs, and Arifa’s expression had changed from confusion to dismay. Eventually, he had allowed himself to be ushered into their bedroom for a rest.
It was not going to be easy, Mr. Jalal realized. First the Pathaks and Short Ganga, now Arifa—nobody had believed him. He supposed he couldn’t really blame them—what he’d seen was so fantastic, and he’d been too excited to be articulate. But if he couldn’t even convince his wife, what chance did he have with the rest?
How had the Buddha done it? And Jesus and Muhammad and the other prophets? Even the present-day godmen. He remembered seeing the Satya Sai Baba on TV, descending from his podium onto a platform that swept through a sea of adoring disciples. Waves of devotees surged towards the platform, screaming and crying as they tried to touch his saffron robes. The Baba walked along unperturbed, with his arms raised in blessing, a beatific smile fixed on his face. It had been hard to see the Baba’s feet on TV, and the effect had been of someone gliding across water.
Mr. Jalal imagined himself standing on his balcony, clad in robes of saffron himself. The road below choked with people assembled there to receive his message. Taxis and buses honking their horns as they tried in vain to negotiate the throngs. Silence descending suddenly and completely, as he raised both his hands just like the Baba had done. He would gaze individually at as many of the thousands of upturned faces as he could—the sea, his sea of followers. All those eyes focused on him, all those ears waiting to hear the compelling words issue from his mouth.
But what, exactly, would those words be? The ones that would crackle down through the air, like lightning, like electricity, and energize the entire crowd? From where would he summon the power to seize the attention of such an enormous congregation? To inspire them, to incite them, to make them forever his followers?
Mr. Jalal felt his back begin to stiffen again and willed himself to relax. He was getting ahead of himself. Right now, the important thing was that he was in, he had been initiated. He had opened his mind wide enough to receive the vision. The giant mouths, the tongues of fire, the steam and smoke, all these he had witnessed. The sign he had been waiting for had finally been granted. He tried pressing his spine into the mattress again, and heard several small crackles, but nothing as satisfying as the previous pop.
Or had it? What tangible evidence did he have? Wasn’t he being absurdly credulous? Couldn’t the whole thing—heads, tongues, fire—just have been a dream? He had, after all, dreamt before—had he forgotten how real some dreams could appear? Wasn’t this explanation a more rational one, not involving signs and visitations and other fanciful notions? Wasn’t it, in fact, the only logical explanation, the one that demanded his immediate and complete acceptance?
Mr. Jalal recognized his old friend, Reason. Revived and hungry to reclaim its rightful place. Perhaps it had wakened from its hibernation the instant he had lain down again in this bed. Perhaps it had sniffed out the torpor into which the mattress was lulling his body. Already, he could feel it nipping here and there tentatively, testing the durability of what he had witnessed.
He had to get off the mattress immediately. There could not be a second’s delay. Mr. Jalal rocked himself on the bed, then rolled off the edge. A dull crack jarred through his spine as the back of his head hit the floor. That was good, he thought, it would discourage his prowling friend. He lifted his head and let it thud several times to the floor. Maybe that would send Reason whimpering back into its cave.
He lay on the floor and closed his eyes. He could feel the familiar hardness of the tile against his back. Pain throbbed into his forehead from the base of his skull. He had to concentrate, concentrate to make things as they were before.
The image came slowly, like a painting raised to the surface of a murky pool. The swords were the first to be visible, edges glinting as they sliced through the air. Then came the arms that brandished them, and the mouths and the eyes and the faces. Then there was Vishnu towering above him, in all his hideousness and splendor.
“Why have you not done what I commanded?” Vishnu roared, and Mr. Jalal smelled the sweet fragrance of his own burning flesh.
He opened his eyes. He was alone on the floor of his bedroom.
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