The Death of Vishnu

Juhu Beach do, or will it have to be Chowpatty?”
    “The Gateway of India. And hurry, I’m already twice your size, and soon you won’t be able to carry me anymore.”
    His mother scoops him up into her lap. “Oh, my—you are a big fish. How happy you might make some fisherman if he caught such a big fish in his net.”
    “How dare you joke with me. The net has not yet been sewn that can catch Matsya. Now put me in the sea and do as I say, unless you want to be washed away with the rest. For it is Vishnu you are talking to, Vishnu who has descended personally from the heavens, to save you from the flood.”
    “Forgive me, Vishnuji, for I did not know. Tell me what I should do.”
    “First you must build an ark. Then go to the forest and gather seeds from every plant and tree you see. Tie the ark to my horn when the flood comes and I will tow you to safety.”
    “Which horn, O great Matsya? All I see is this.” His mother tweaks his nose, and he giggles.
    “When the flood comes, my horn will grow,” he says. He is getting sleepy.
    “When the flood comes,” he hears his mother whisper, as she pulls the blanket over his falling body.
    Outside, the rain spills over from the gutters and forms a stream. Streams that course through unlit passageways and coalesce cunningly in the night. Stealthily, the water rises, burrowing under tin walls, seeping through cardboard sides, silently lifting objects off the ground. It creeps up and encircles his mat, then gently laps against his body.
    “Vishnu,” his mother calls, but he has found his fins. Through the open door he swims, into the river waiting outside. Bubbles rise from upturned faces, still asleep on the riverbed. Huts pass by underneath, then houses, then buildings, as he rises with the water. The glow of streetlights floats up silently from submerged lampposts.
    “Vishnu,” he hears his mother call again. She is standing on the top of the Gateway of India, surrounded by the four carved turrets. Beneath her feet, the stone plunges in giant arches to the plaza far down below. Children run on the plaza, couples linger in front of the monument. They do not see the wall of water that rises behind in the bay.
    He feels his horn grow. He feels the skin on his forehead erupt, and the appendage push out. He can see it curve through the water, thickening and hardening as it emerges.
    The water begins its descent. The sea rushes in to embrace the land. Children fly into the air, then vanish in the foam. Buildings rock and sway, then acquiesce majestically. “Vishnu,” his mother cries as the water surges over her feet.
    He submerges his head. Ahead are the arches of the Gateway, fish dart in and out of them. Already, his body is too big to pass through the side arches. He swims halfway through the main arch, centering his body under it. Then he begins to rise, to rise and to push upwards.
    His horn breaks the surface first, then his head. The Gateway comes off its foundation, and rises on his back. He turns his head around and looks at his mother, still standing on the top. She throws a rope around his horn, and nods at him.
    With the chariot on his back, he turns to the sea. Through the waves he rides, towards the sun, leaving behind the ruined city.

C HAPTER N INE
    M R. JALAL CRANED his head around the stairway to make sure there was no one on the landing. Vishnu lay just as he had been left this morning, the suns on his sheet beaming in the light filtering in from outside. Seeing his inert body, Mr. Jalal had the strange feeling of being a murderer stealing back to the scene of a crime. He shook his head to expel this thought—what if Vishnu was able to read it in his mind?
    How frail Vishnu looked. It was hard to imagine that this body before him could have metamorphosed into something so terrifying. Had it all been a mistake? Was it simply a dream, after all? But wait, wasn’t that a grin Vishnu’s face was twisted into? Could he be smirking at the folly of mortals, whose flaw it was to always go on appearance, whose fate it was to never comprehend what lay underneath?
    “Give me strength,” Mr. Jalal whispered, looking around furtively, “to be your messenger.” It had been so many years—decades, perhaps—since he had uttered any kind of prayer that he felt self-conscious saying these words, even though no one was there. He laid the mango next to Vishnu’s head and wondered if there were other steps he should perform. Scattering flowers,