The Death of Vishnu

ornaments they could, Sheetal being especially careful to remove her noisy ankle bracelets. Vinod got out of the stiff wedding jacket that had been choking him all evening, and Sheetal wrapped her long ceremonial sari around her shoulders and stuffed the end into her waistband. Then, in bare feet, they crept to the door.
    Vinod opened it a crack. A multitude of snores streamed in. He stuck his head out. Starting at the door and stretching out all along the floor were dozens of recumbent wedding guests. It looked as if a cyclone had blasted through the corridor.
    They made their way to the kitchen through the maze of bodies. Sheetal accidentally stepped on one of her cousins, and they both held their breaths, but the girl muttered something and went back to sleep.
    In the kitchen, they were unable to locate the sweets, but came across a large platter of the tandoori chicken in the refrigerator. They looked at each other. “Let’s find some pickle and onions to go with it,” Sheetal whispered.
    The kitchen floor had been cleared to accommodate more of the sleeping guests, and Vinod and Sheetal crept around them to the dining table, which had been pushed to the far side. The chairs had been stacked up in another corner, so they sat cross-legged on the table itself, the platter of chicken between them.
    “What do you like,” Vinod asked, “breast or leg?”
    “I like the little leg attached to the breast. It’s my favorite part.”
    “But it’s so little.”
    “I always get both of them. It’s the only part I really like. Though I can eat the big leg if necessary.”
    Vinod tore off the wing portions from two of the breasts and handed them to her. “Here. You can have the little legs every time we have chicken.”
    “Thanks,” Sheetal said, smiling shyly as she accepted the pieces from him. “Here’s some onion—I couldn’t find the mango pickle.”
    They sat in the dark and ate their chicken. The only light came from a streetlamp outside, through a small window on the opposite wall. It was quite hot, and Vinod could hear a mosquito whining around near his ear. He looked at Sheetal. His wife. She was gnawing at the cartilage in a wingjoint, red specks of tandoori spice stuck to her lips. In the dim light, Sheetal looked even younger than her nineteen years. He imagined her hair braided in pigtails, looped around and tied behind her ears, like a schoolgirl’s. Who was this person? What did she want from life? Sheetal selected a red pickled onion from a bowl and bit off a chunk of it.
    Clumsily, Vinod leaned over with his face next to hers and tried to kiss her. Sheetal drew back. “What are you doing? Are you crazy—with all these people here?”
    “But they’re asleep,” Vinod protested.
    “That doesn’t matter. They’re still here.” Sheetal resumed munching on her onion.
    Vinod looked at the sleeping people. There was Pramod uncle and his wife, lying next to each other. How long had they been together? He wondered when his uncle had first kissed Manisha aunty, and whether her mouth had been redolent of cumin and onion when he had done so. He looked again at Sheetal. She had finished her chicken. Her tongue was wiping her lips clean, leaving behind a thin glisten of saliva that outlined her mouth in the silvery light. He had never kissed a girl before. He was determined to do so tonight, in this kitchen, on this table.
    Vinod eased the platter out of the way and moved closer to Sheetal. He could feel her stiffen, could almost hear her heart start beating faster. He slowly put his arm around her neck, then tensed his muscles, ready to resist in case she tried to escape. She sat there, rooted to the wood, looking straight ahead. Quickly, he pressed his mouth over hers. He sensed the back of her neck go slack. Her saliva felt wet and sticky and strangely exciting on his lips. He held them there for a moment, inhaling the spicy meatiness of her mouth. Then, not sure how to proceed, he released her mouth and drew his head back.
    She looked away from his eyes. Her hand went up to wipe her lips, but she stopped and self-consciously brought it down. She sat on the table next to the platter and the onions, the bone of a chicken wing still in her hand.
    They went back to their bedroom. Nervously, Sheetal unwound her sari, and quickly got into bed. She shivered, even though the room was unbearably warm, and pulled the sheet up to her blouse. Vinod took off his shirt but not his pants, and got in next