The Death of Vishnu

mean.”
    “Yes you do. You know what you’ve done. Taken my Kavita from me. As soon as you learnt she had accepted a good proposal, a proposal from a proper, decent family. You’ve kidnapped her. Father and son and mother together. Is this what you people came here to do, steal our daughters from under our noses?”
    Mrs. Jalal slammed the door in Mrs. Asrani’s face.
    The doorbell sounded angrily, as angrily as its tinkling sound would allow. Then there was the sound of fists pounding on the door. “Open this, you coward. Come out, daughter of a swine, and answer my questions.”
    Mrs. Jalal looked at the door, backing away from it as if it would burst any moment. What should she do? Ahmed was still quite useless. What if Mrs. Asrani managed to break down the door? The woman seemed deranged. Who knew what these Hindus were capable of? She remembered all those nights in Dongri during Partition, cowering under the bed with Nafeesa as Hindu gangs roamed the streets outside. Just yesterday there had been a news item in the paper about an entire Muslim village in Bihar being massacred. Perhaps she should call the police.
    Abruptly, the banging on the door stopped. Mrs. Jalal heard the sound of footsteps descending the stairs.
    So the worst had happened. Salim had run away with Kavita. All those trips to the mosque over the years, all those lectures on what was right and what was wrong, and this is what it had amounted to. Her only child doing a thing like this. Where had she gone wrong?
    And what was the business about the dupatta? What had Ahmed been up to? Why had he been wearing Kavita’s dupatta over his head? Mrs. Jalal had not known what to make of it when they’d told her this morning. She could make out even less now that the dupatta had turned out to be Kavita’s.
    She had to speak to Ahmed. Coherent or not. Find out what had been going on. She had seen him come back upstairs and go back to their bedroom.
    Mrs. Jalal knocked on the door, then opened it and went inside.

    T HE FIRST MORNING Vinod headed back to work after the wedding, Sheetal was waiting at the door, his tiffin box packed and ready. Vinod felt like kissing her goodbye, but didn’t, because his mother was watching. That evening, he hurried home to be with Sheetal, even though he hadn’t seen his friends at the café for two weeks. It was not long before he began to resent this routine, however, and had to remind himself that Sheetal remained cooped up at home with his mother all day. Living under one roof did not seem to be fostering the loving relationship he had envisioned between the two of them. Few days passed without his mother grinding in a subtle pinch of criticism about Sheetal to flavor the evening meal.
    They were finishing breakfast one morning when Vinod noticed the untouched omelette on his mother’s plate. He asked if something was wrong.
    “She’s put onion in it,” his mother said sadly, in a whisper loud enough for Sheetal to hear. “She knows I’m not allowed onion on Wednesday because of my fast.”
    “Why didn’t she remind me?” Sheetal asked from the sink, without turning around. “What kind of fast is this, anyway, that one can eat meat and egg but no onion?”
    “See the way she talks to me? This is how I’m treated day after day while you’re away.” His mother’s eyes had misted, and a tear was threatening to roll down one cheek.
    “Tell her not to pretend so much. It’s all for your benefit. We’ve all seen what her tongue is like—it could cut holes through cloth.”
    “Sheetal!” Vinod exclaimed, getting up from his chair, as his mother dissolved into sobs.
    “I’m tired of trying to satisfy her. She’s never happy with anything I do. Tell me why she can’t make her own eggs, if she doesn’t like the ones I cook for her.”
    His mother’s sobs rose to a wail, and Vinod found himself striding to where Sheetal stood. He felt a sting in the fingers of his right hand, saw a flash of disbelief light up his wife’s eyes. Then, head lowered, hand pressed against her reddening cheek, Sheetal left the room. Behind him, his mother blew her nose into a handkerchief.
    Afterwards, Vinod went to work as usual. He sat at his desk the whole morning, his head burning as if ravaged by some disease. He returned home early, bringing along two cups of ice cream in the flavors Sheetal liked best, choconut and pista. His mother was taking a nap in the living room, and he crept past without waking her.