The Death of Vishnu

a disaster, the years before had worked out well for the families in the building—even better than she had expected. Mr. Pathak had certainly been thankful he no longer had to stand in the ration lines or take the wheat to be ground. And both she and Mrs. Asrani had felt better having someone to look in regularly on Mr. Taneja cooped up alone in his flat upstairs. Even the steps and landings had acquired a cleaner look, once Vishnu had been weaned away from his habit of spitting paan juice on the building walls. She resolved to make an offering for Vishnu at the temple the next day, if he had passed away by then. They would have to decide about the landing, of course—perhaps Short Ganga would still be interested in the deal they had arranged some months back.
    The ghee was hot, so Mrs. Pathak rolled back the bangles from her wrist and added the first batch of neatly folded triangular pastries to the kadai. The batter made a sizzling sound which pleased Mrs. Pathak, and her bangles clinked together as she petted some of the samosas encouragingly with her ladle. She was glad she hadn’t skimped on the ingredients as she usually did—a whole bottle of Dr. Writer’s mayonnaise the recipe had called for, and she had tried to ignore the price tag as she had mixed it in. It would all be worth it, though—just the expression on Mrs. Jaiswal’s face, as she brought in the platter piled high with her delicate, perfect, foreign samosas. Perhaps she’d even get another bottle of mayonnaise, to serve on the side. She had better hurry though, if she was going to go downstairs for the mayonnaise—she still hadn’t selected the jewelry she was going to wear, or even the sari.
    Mrs. Pathak looked back into the kadai and gasped. The top of one of the samosas had unfurled. Peas, carrots, potatoes and the precious mayonnaise were being released into the swirling fat. Before she could do anything, the remaining samosas began unraveling as well, almost in choreographed succession, until the kadai was a bubbling mass of vegetables, batter, and rapidly vaporizing mayonnaise.
    Mrs. Pathak stood by the stove, her bangles bunching silently at her wrists. She stared impassively at the contents of the kadai. The Russian-salad samosas had disintegrated, they would not be debuting at her kitty party today. There was nothing left to do now but let everything crisp up. Then with lemon and pickle, it might yet taste good—she’d serve it as a side dish for lunch. And if nobody ate it, perhaps Vishnu was still well enough that she could give it to him.

    T HE RED IS darker, more viscous now. It oozes into the shadows of the hut. It lingers at the cut on his forehead, and darkens the edge of his eye bruised shut. Somewhere through the red he hears a snore, it is his father sleeping in a corner of the hut.
    His sister enters through the doorway. She has brought a piece of ice from the market. She gives it to his mother, who wraps her dupatta around it.
    “It hurts, I know,” his mother says, applying the ice to his swollen eye. “But you must be brave. Remember, you are Vishnu.” The ice feels cold against his eyelid, but does not quell the fire underneath.
    “Vishnu of the ten avatars,” his mother says, pressing the ice against his forehead. “Rama and Krishna are part of you.”
    Rama and Krishna, he thinks, and tries to remember the other eight incarnations his mother has taught him. Matsya the fish, Kurma the tortoise, Varaha the boar… His father suddenly snores loudly, and he stiffens.
    “Vishnu the fearless, Vishnu the merciful,” his mother continues, “the Ganges flows from the feet of my little Vishnu. One day his Lakshmi will descend into his life, and Garuda the eagle will appear to fly them to Vaikuntha.”
    Vishnu pictures himself with his mother riding the giant eagle above the clouds. In the distance lies their private paradise of Vaikuntha, gold spires glitter in the sun.
    “You are Vishnu,” his mother tells him, “keeper of the universe, keeper of the sun. What would be the world without you?”
    “I am Vishnu,” he says, “keeper of the universe, keeper of the sun. There is only darkness without me.”

C HAPTER T WO
    M R. PATHAK PAID the hotelwalla for his package of Gluco biscuits and returned to his table, where his cup of tea was waiting for him. There was a newspaper lying on the table as well, but it was in Gujarati, and he could not read it. He had thought of bringing the Times along, but he had