The Death of Vishnu

lighting incense—what ceremonies were needed to make the offering complete?
    Mr. Jalal tried to remember how they had done it at the temple at Mahalakshmi. That one time he had visited a Hindu temple—it had been while he was reading all those books on Akbar. Akbar, who might be the only Muslim ruler to set foot in a temple—who, in fact, frequented all sorts of places of worship to mingle with his subjects, always in disguise.
    As he had followed the throng of people up the steps to Mahalakshmi temple, Mr. Jalal had felt like a masquerader himself. His heart had pounded as he walked barefoot across the stone to the shrine. This is the way Akbar would do it, he told himself, and boldly sounded one of the brass bells suspended from the carved ceiling. Then he waited, fidgeting, in the line to walk past the idols. He seemed to be dressed like, to look like, the other people. But he worried nevertheless—could they tell he was a Muslim, were they able to sense his ignorance, his unease?
    The woman in front of him was carrying an elaborate offering on a polished metal thali. Several bananas, a coconut, strings of marigold, and to crown it, a large lotus flower. Mr. Jalal stared at the vermilion splashed over the whole arrangement and mounded generously around the edge. What was the significance of this bright red powder? he wondered. Was it the same powder with which married Hindu women lined the parting in their hair, so that their skulls looked freshly cracked open in neat red lines? Could the red be related to blood, like the blood from animal sacrifices, like the blood of Christ? Even though they didn’t sacrifice animals anymore—perhaps this was a remnant from a more ancient ritual?
    He was pondering which of his books at home might contain the answer when he saw the woman hand over her thali. He realized they were inside the shrine already, and he was standing empty-handed in front of the idols. Panic gripped him as the priest turned and extended a hand towards him. From behind the priest, the three incarnations of Lakshmi regarded him dubiously with their six questioning eyes. He was beginning to stutter some excuse, some apology, when the priest thrust a disc into his palm, the line moved along, and he found himself outside, blinking and free in the sunlight. He opened his palm and looked at the peda nestling there, round and golden like some forbidden fruit. The other worshipers were reverentially putting their pedas into their mouths, but Mr. Jalal hesitated. Although he regarded all religions to be equally irrelevant, he had never actually participated in a rite from another faith. What would Arifa say if she saw him now, with this Lakshmi-blessed food poised in his fingers, ready to be brought to his lips? But he could already smell the flowery scent of the peda in his nostrils, then feel it crumbling between his teeth, then taste its intense milky sweetness against his tongue. A sweetness, an incriminating sugariness, that spread purposefully down his throat, and insinuated itself through his entire body.
    Mr. Jalal made his way to the rocks behind the temple, climbing down to the water’s edge. The tide was coming in, and he had to retrace his steps to a higher rock, to avoid being sprayed. He looked across to the middle of the bay, where the masjid of Haji Ali rose from the water. As a child, he had often accompanied his mother across the stone path that made the masjid accessible during low tide. Now he watched the waves break over the stones and submerge the bases of the lampposts that lined the way. It would be some hours before the path was traversable again. He imagined Akbar, sitting where he was sitting, surveying the religious landscape of his kingdom. The temple on the hill behind him and the mosque surrounded by water in front.
    Hadn’t Akbar experienced a vision of some sort as well? Mr. Jalal found himself back in the shadows of Vishnu’s landing, trying to recall the accounts he had read. Akbar had been riding in the forest, hunting for tigers, when it had happened. His soldiers had come upon him laughing and dancing among the trees and shearing off locks of his hair. Could that have been the catalyst for the new religion he had created? His Din Ilahi, his grand, doomed experiment, to reconcile opposing philosophies and unite his Hindu subjects with their Muslim brethren?
    The hairs on Mr. Jalal’s arms suddenly stood up. Could it be possible that he, Ahmed Jalal, was poised on the