The Death of Vishnu

Street noise and sunlight streamed in through the door leading to the balcony. Arifa was talking to someone on the phone in the next room. Somewhere in the building a meat curry was being cooked.
    What was real, he wondered, and what was a dream? Didn’t the Hindus hold that reality was just an illusion? That everything was maya as they called it—all existence a temporary delusion—hadn’t even the Buddha accepted that? And the westerners, too—wasn’t there something about the world not existing, only mental representations of it? Was it Kant who had said that? Or Nietzsche? No, someone else, someone less well-known—who was it, Berkeley, perhaps? For an instant, Mr. Jalal worried about where all his books on philosophy had gone. He hoped Arifa hadn’t thrown them out.
    Perhaps there were some things that could only be experienced, not explained. Perhaps logic was not the answer to bolster every truth in the universe. Last night’s vision had felt as accurate as a shirt against his skin. But surely its fabric could be scrutinized to yield flaws, its fibers worried until they unraveled. And yet, he had felt it clothe the center of his self, transform the way he felt about the world. He would not, could not, dismiss the reality of his experience.
    But how was he to convey this reality to others? How, without the benefit of logic or argument, was he supposed to capture people’s minds? All he had been given was a sign. With this he had to arm himself, and go out and change the world. He supposed this was the essence of faith. There was no science that governed it, no calculus that propelled it, just the raw strength of his own conviction. Whether he succeeded or not depended on how well he could combat doubt, both his own and in others.
    And succeed he had to. Vishnu’s words came back, his promise to save, to destroy the universe. He had to be recognized, recognized before it was “too late for all.” They could not afford to ignore his warning. Mr. Jalal saw Short Ganga being consigned screaming into Vishnu’s giant maws. Then the cigarettewalla and the paanwalla, the Pathaks and Asranis. Their bodies masticated together into one bloody mass, their shocked faces popping and exploding, torrents of fire reducing them to instant ash. And from somewhere, barely audible, Arifa’s plaintive voice, begging to be spared.
    Mr. Jalal sat up on the floor. He was the only one who could save them. He would have to use what little he had, and hope it was enough to connect people to the urgency of what he had witnessed. The rest would be up to them.
    But first, he had to return to Vishnu’s landing. With a sweet, a fruit, or other offering. This was the proper way, he knew, that one asked for blessing from a Hindu god.

    M RS. JALAL STARED at the letter Salim had written. What had the world come to today? First Ahmed, babbling about walnuts and gods, led upstairs by the Pathaks and Short Ganga of all people. How would she live the shame down? Being found next to Vishnu in such a condition—with a dupatta wrapped around his head, as Mrs. Pathak had pointed out—not once but three times—the cheek of that woman. At least Mr. Pathak had had the decency to conjecture that Ahmed might have fallen and knocked himself unconscious. Thankfully, she’d had the presence of mind to say that she had often warned Ahmed about taking his night walk down the dark steps.
    And now this. Salim writing simply that he was going away for a few weeks. Why wouldn’t he have told anyone? What possible place could he have gone to, that he couldn’t have let her know in advance? She was surprised at all the clothes missing—which told her it was a planned decision. But planned for what? Nothing was making sense—nothing on this inauspicious day.
    There was no point telling Ahmed about the letter—not until he had returned to his senses. She had thought about calling the doctor, but had been scared at the prospect that he would recommend psychiatric evaluation, or even hospitalization. She didn’t want to have Ahmed committed to a mental asylum, or worse, end up in a place like Amira Ma’s. Once such news spread, it was difficult to contain, so she had to be very careful about what she was doing.
    Just then, Ahmed walked into the room.
    “How do you feel?” Mrs. Jalal asked, trying to put on a cheerful face. She suddenly noticed how awful he smelled. “Should I get the water ready for your bath?”
    Mr. Jalal shook his head.