The Death of Vishnu

There was something he was holding behind his back. His eyes circled the room, estimating distances and angles from where he stood to Mrs. Jalal and the front door.
    Mrs. Jalal tried to see what he held in his hand, but he used his body to screen it from her. “What’s that, Ahmed,” she finally asked, “behind your back?”
    Reluctantly, Mr. Jalal showed her. It was one of the mangoes she had put in the refrigerator last night. It looked nicely chilled, the moisture glistening against its golden skin. Why had Ahmed been concealing it?
    “Should I cut it open for you?”
    “It’s not for me,” Mr. Jalal said, sheepishly. “I was taking it downstairs. As an offering for Vishnu.”
    “An offering? What do you mean, offering?”
    “One has to offer gods things to eat. That’s what they do in the temples.”
    The light suddenly left the room. Mrs. Jalal watched as the gloom began to scale the walls. Ahmed had not recovered. He was still ailing from the delusion he had experienced last night. She had known, since that omen at the shrine, that she should not have let him out of her sight. Couldn’t she have kept awake on the floor for just one night to watch over him?
    “I don’t think Vishnu is well enough to eat a mango,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “They’re very heating—it might upset his stomach.”
    “I would’ve taken a banana, but I couldn’t find any. There were so many lying on the dining table yesterday—I’m surprised you ate them all.”
    Mrs. Jalal’s throat constricted. Somehow, she had forced down the last banana last night, even though it had been well past ripe. She tried to stop the tears flooding her eyes, but couldn’t.
    “Don’t cry, Arifa. Why are you crying? Is it the mango? Here, you can put it back—I’ll find something else.”
    Mrs. Jalal looked at the mango her husband was offering, his face innocent of guile. As if it were an enchanted fruit that would arrest her tears, as if a bite of its magic flesh would carry her away from her problems. What had gone wrong, she wondered, who had made this happen to him? She felt so powerless—what could she do to make him right again? “I don’t care about the mango,” she said, averting her face.
    “Then come with me,” Mr. Jalal said, grabbing her hand. “Come, let’s go make this offering together. Ask his blessing, both of us.”
    “Ask whom for blessing? Not Vishnu . Are you crazy?” Mrs. Jalal pulled her hand away. Instantly, she missed the reassurance, however slight, that Ahmed’s touch had transmitted.
    “It’ll be much more effective if we both go. I can’t do this alone, Arifa. Come, be my partner.”
    “What are you saying, Ahmed? Stop—just stop all this, please.”
    “Listen to me, Arifa. I’ve changed. You’ve made me change. All the arguments we had about religion. I’m now like you. I’ve let myself be touched. By something—by a sign, by faith.” Mr. Jalal took his wife’s hand again, and squeezed it, as if his newly acquired faith would flow through in proof.
    “You don’t know how much I worked, to open my mind, to free it. All the fasting and the sleeping on the ground. You saw last night how hard the floor of our bedroom is. Try it for a month, then you’ll see.”
    So this was the explanation. She had known, of course, that he had been lying, but that didn’t stop the blood from burning in her cheeks. All those nights she had spent alone in her bed, all those times she had called out to Ahmed, pleaded with him to tell her what was going on. And this? This was what it was about?
    “Last night it finally happened. I saw a hundred suns fill the sky. Flowers so unusual, I can’t describe them, jewels so fantastic, you wouldn’t believe existed. Then he appeared. Vishnu. Our Vishnu. Yes, I couldn’t believe it either. But fifty—no, five hundred feet tall. With fire and smoke, and more heads than I could count. It was terrifying. Yet beautiful, too.”
    Mrs. Jalal opened her mouth, but her husband started speaking faster, to prevent her from saying anything. “He told me I was to be his messenger. That he would destroy us all, if we didn’t recognize him. I know what you’re thinking,—why would he ever choose me? But it’s hardly surprising, is it? After all the effort I’ve been putting in. Who are we to argue anyway, Arifa? If Vishnu wants me to be his prophet, that’s what I must be.”
    Mrs. Jalal felt a chill in her shoulders. What was Ahmed saying?