The Death of Vishnu

This talk of Vishnu being a god, this talk of Ahmed being a prophet. It was one thing to ramble on about these things in the incoherent state he was in this morning. But looking into his eyes now, she saw an alertness that frightened her. Did he not understand this was blasphemy?
    “I need your support, Arifa. Just give it a chance. Even if you don’t accept everything I witnessed. Even if that is too much to hope for.”
    “Stop what you are saying, Ahmed. Stop, and listen to me. What you saw was a dream. A nightmare. More vivid than most, but nothing more. Understand? Vishnu is not a god. You are not his messenger. You are not to call yourself prophet. There are no more prophets. It’s written in the Koran.”
    “It wasn’t a dream. No matter what you or anyone says, it wasn’t a dream.” Stubbornness settled at the corners of Mr. Jalal’s mouth. “No one can tell me I didn’t see what I saw. As for the Koran, doesn’t it also say a wife is supposed to obey her husband?”
    “Just listen to yourself. You, the pillar of rationality. This is the best you can come up with? This is what you preach? That we all sit down and pay homage to your dream?”
    “A vision, it was a vision, didn’t I just tell you? I know it must be hard for you to accept, but what’s the point if you don’t even try?”
    “You’re right, it is hard for me to accept. That my husband’s lost his mind. That he’s lost all sense, all logic. That he’s calling some drunkard a god. Have some sense, Ahmed, have some shame.”
    “I thought you’d be happy. That I’ve finally found something in common with you. Faith, religion, call it what you may. Don’t you see? It’s a sign that I’ve received. Or all of a sudden do you not care?”
    “You want me to rejoice? That you’re declaring yourself prophet? That you’re hailing some mortal as god? All these years of begging you to come to the masjid with me, and this is what you offer? Blasphemy? You’ve found nothing, Ahmed—you’ve only lost. You’ve lost my respect. You’ve lost your religion. You’ve turned your back on everything it stands for.”
    “But I haven’t given up anything. We all discover our own god. I’ve just begun to define mine. Think of the people I can lead to Vishnu. Think of all the people who might find their god in him.”
    “There is no God but God,” Mrs. Jalal screamed. “Don’t you understand? Say no more, Ahmed, for I cannot hear you speak.”

    L ISTEN TO WHAT the man says, I am Vishnu. Listen to what he says, yes, I have come to save or destroy you. See me descend to earth in my different avatars. Matsya and Kurma and Varaha and more.
    She is sitting by the shrine in the hut. It is raining outside. Flashes of lightning play with the features of her face. She waves incense over the idol as he watches from his mat and waits. “When will I be in heaven, O Krishna, to hear the sweetness of your magic flute,” she sings.
    She is next to him now, shaking her hair loose over her shoulders. He can smell the coconut oil as her fingers run through the strands. She reaches back to tie it up again, and he sees the sweat darkening the armpits of her blouse. It is her essence that he knows so well, the sweat mixed with the coconut oil.
    “Little Vishnu,” his mother says. “What avatar has my Vishnu come down as today?”
    The rain outside is a quickening drumbeat. Gusts of wind blow through the hut and the flame in the oil lamp flickers.
    He giggles and hides his face in the mat. He pretends to answer, mumbling something he knows she cannot hear.
    “Let’s see. What is he? Hmmm—burying his head like that—all curled up—he looks like a tortoise, perhaps, hiding in his shell.”
    He shakes his head. He is not a tortoise tonight.
    “Not a tortoise. But yet so bunched up. Could he be a dwarf, then—little Vamana, waiting to confront Bali?”
    He shakes his head again. He moves his arms over the mat, as if he is is swimming. Tonight, he is in the mood for an aquatic incarnation.
    “Aha, the rain. Of course. It’s Matsya the fish. Is there going to be a flood, then?”
    He nods. “So you must put me in the sea where I belong.”
    “And if I don’t?”
    “Then I will grow and grow and grow before your eyes, and become so big you won’t know what to do with me.” He puffs up his cheeks as he says this, and stretches himself out from his balled-up position.
    “No, no, Matsyaji, I will do as you say and carry you to the sea. Will