The Death of Vishnu

Sheetal was not in the bedroom. A stack of his clothes, neatly ironed and folded, lay on the bed.
    He put the cups on the dressing table and went to the kitchen to look for Sheetal.
    “She’s gone,” his mother said. She had awoken, and was sitting on the couch, preparing herself a paan. “She went to her mother’s, I expect.”
    “But why didn’t you stop her?”
    “What am I, crazy, to stick my nose between husband and wife? Don’t worry, she’ll be back when she cools off—she only took a few clothes.” His mother cracked some betel nut between the blades of her nutcracker. “Today’s girls. Such temper. Such arrogance. We were taught to touch our husbands’ feet and thank them whenever they saw fit to teach us a lesson.”
    His mother folded up her paan and popped it into her mouth.
    Sometime that evening, he remembered the ice cream he had bought. It had all melted, so he put it in the freezer.
    Sheetal did not return for seven days. His mother kept assuring him that she would come back, and that he had done the right thing.
    “It’s best to make things clear from the beginning only,” she said. “That way, they don’t get out of hand.” He nodded in agreement, but every night his spirit grew wearier as he made his way to the empty bedroom.
    One week after the slap, Sheetal’s father escorted her back in the evening. His mother received them in the living room, as she would any guests, and his father talked to Sheetal’s father about the price of petrol. Her father did not stay for dinner but hugged Sheetal and left at about eight o’clock. No mention was made of the slap.
    Dinner was quiet and tense. Sheetal didn’t look up once, eating everything with her eyes lowered towards her plate. His mother started to say something once or twice, but caught the warning glance in Vinod’s eyes and kept silent. Afterwards, his parents cleared out of the room more quickly than usual. Sheetal took the dishes to the sink and started wiping the food off them.
    “You don’t have to do that,” Vinod said, coming up behind her. “The ganga will do it in the morning.”
    Sheetal did not turn around. She turned on the tap and started washing a plate.
    “Leave them and come with me,” Vinod said, wrapping his arms around hers.
    “Let me do the dishes first. After all, isn’t this why you married me?” Sheetal turned around. The accusation was so strong in her eyes that Vinod had to look away.
    “Isn’t it?” she said.
    “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, then said it again. “I’m really sorry. I’ve missed you. I’ll never let it happen again. Please forgive me.
    “Please forgive me,” he repeated. His voice felt so weak that he wondered if he was going to cry. “This has been the worst week of my life.”
    She softened but didn’t forgive him, not quite then. When he brought out the two cups of ice cream, she ate the pista one first, then the choconut one as well, not offering him any, and not smiling when he joked about the crystals formed because of refreezing. That night in bed, she maintained a gap between their bodies, shifting away with a start whenever he touched her, even accidentally.
    The period of probation lasted for a month. One day, soon after that, she came into his arms. “Let’s look for a place of our own,” she said.

    O NCE THEY MOVED into the flat above the Jalals, Vinod noticed a new softness begin to flower in Sheetal’s personality. Day after day, night after night, she became more relaxed, even more receptive in bed. Some evenings she even allowed herself to be led into the bedroom before they had eaten dinner. A trace of color began to show in her cheeks, and she put on some weight, though Vinod still worried that she looked too thin. Her relationship with his mother became cordial, almost loving, except when his mother raised pointed questions about why it was taking so long for them to produce a grandson.
    Sheetal adored the flat, despite the three flights of stairs that had to be walked up to get there, and despite the church in front of their building that cut off the view of the sea that could have otherwise been theirs. It was close enough to Vinod’s bank that he could come home for lunch every day. On some afternoons Sheetal would pack the food in his tiffin box and they would carry it downstairs to eat in the shadow of the pipal tree spreading over the church courtyard. They both looked forward to Wednesdays, when Tall Ganga arrived earlier than