The Death of Vishnu

insist on feeding such things, then one must pay for the consequences.” Mrs. Asrani was trying to keep her voice low, but frustration at her temporary incapacitation made it difficult.
    “Aruna, let me speak to Mr. Pathak,” Mr. Asrani said, trying, without much hope, to sound assertive.
    “So really, they are the ones who should pay for the jamadarni even.”
    “Surely you aren’t suggesting we should be paying for everything. We already paid for the doctor, you know.”
    “And for what, ask them, for what? What did the doctor say, that he’s sick? I could have told Mr. Pathak that.”
    “Aruna.”
    “No, tell Pathak sahib that they are responsible. She is responsible. Tell him he should go to his wife and tell her —” Before she could finish her sentence, the door slammed.
    By the time her husband entered the room, Mrs. Asrani was calmly applying the Tru-Tone again. “Did you have to be so rude?” Mr. Asrani demanded, the anger giving his face a cherubic flush. “You really should at least—”
    “ I should at least? Don’t tell me I should at least. You should at least. You know how much ghee she’s been stealing? Every day the level goes lower and lower, and I can’t say anything. I can never catch her. And you’re taking her side.” Mrs. Asrani’s voice faltered, as if she were about to cry.
    “Aruna, Aruna, I’m not taking her side. Don’t be silly.”
    “You said I should at least—” Again, Mrs. Asrani’s voice wavered, threatening to dissolve into a sob.
    “All I said was Vishnu—the man’s dying—on our steps—we have to do something. ”
    “So let them do it,” said Mrs. Asrani, her voice hardening suddenly, like syrup cracking in water. “What good will it do now anyway? He’s too far gone, the poor bechara—any fool can see that. And what makes you such a saint? Coming home drunk at one o’clock last night. Face so red it could have been a traffic light.” Mrs. Asrani stabbed malevolently at the dye with her toothbrush. “Now can I please finish this?”
    Mr. Asrani fumed out of the room, drawing back the door as if to slam it, but closing it gently at the last instant.

    A S MRS. PATHAK dabbed at the sweat on her forehead, she wondered again why she had embarked upon the recipe for Russian-salad samosas. It was all Mrs. Jaiswal’s fault, of course—serving those strange Mexican things at the last kitty party—“tocos” she had called them. They had been nothing more than fried chapatis wrapped around salad leaves and cauliflower curry, but the woman had been shrewd enough to mix in lots of mango pickle and chili, and the ladies (including Mrs. Pathak, despite herself) had just gone wild over them. “Rohit tells me that tocos are very popular in Omaha right now,” Mrs. Jaiswal had crowed, lest anyone forget that her son was currently enrolled at the University of Nebraska, in the States. This had been particularly galling, given that Mrs. Pathak’s elder son, Veeru, had just failed his first-year exams at Bombay University.
    Mrs. Pathak melted a quantity of ghee in a kadai, then quickly scooped out and added an extra two tablespoons from the plastic container on Mrs. Asrani’s side of the kitchen. She regarded this as compensation for all the water she was sure Mrs. Asrani pilfered from the tankie every day—the endless string of pots that boiled away for hours on the stove—the family seemed to do nothing but take baths all morning. Mrs. Asrani would mark the level of ghee on the container with lines and codes using an eyebrow pencil, but this only served to stimulate Mrs. Pathak, who had become addicted to this daily larceny.
    As she waited for the ghee to heat, it occurred to her that her husband still hadn’t reported back from the Asranis. Perhaps he had gone downstairs, to have a cup of tea at the Irani hotel. She had never understood why he couldn’t just have the tea at home, instead of paying to have it in that tired old place. But at least he didn’t get drunk at the drinkwalla like Mr. Asrani did twice a week, so she did not object. She hoped the question of the ambulance had been settled—Vishnu had to be out of there before her kitty party guests arrived this afternoon. She could just imagine the remarks behind her back if Mrs. Jaiswal saw something like that.
    Poor Vishnu. She felt bad he was going to die. She was going to miss his “Salaam, memsahib” every time she went down the stairs. Although his return from Nagpur had been