The Death of Vishnu

times.
    “Aha,” she said, interrupting him. “They’ve written that they can’t do it at this time . Which means they are planning to keep it in mind for the future. Plus, who knows how long this Warby character will last, especially if he is turning down such good proposals? Once he goes, the new person will have a fresh chance to look at this.”
    That’s when she extracted the promise from Vinod. “Keep trying until they put me in. Tell them that I died of cancer even, then they’ll have to relent. Especially once the new person comes in.” Meanwhile, the letter she had received was matted and framed, and hung over her bed. Every day, she reached out to touch the part which complimented her on her “most interesting achievement.”
    The year after Sheetal died, Vinod re-sent the petition to Guinness. A few months later, he got an almost identical reply, complimenting him on his wife’s interesting achievement, and signed once more by William Warby.

C HAPTER E LEVEN
    T HE JAMADARNI IS squatting on the landing, eating the mango. His mango. Her mouth is smeared with yellow, visceral pleasure gleams in her eyes. She scrapes the pit clean, then runs her teeth over the peel for bits of pulp she may have missed.
    Is this what it means to be a god? The first offering made to him, and he isn’t even the one to enjoy it? Vishnu looks at the jamadarni—she is working on the pit one more time, trying to suck out some more flavor.
    What else will he have to forsake? All the tastes and smells of his life? He has already lost his ability of touch—will he lose all power to experience as well? Could he choose not to be a god?
    The jamadarni gives a contented sigh, then throws the pit and the peel into her rubbish basket.
    He thinks of his final time with Padmini. “What if one day you came, and I was no longer here?” she says, sitting up in bed. “Would you try to find me?”
    “Of course I would. Why do you say that?” he says.
    “No reason. But you know, you’d never be able find me if I decided to leave.”
    Then, seeing his expression, she laughs. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.” She looks through the window. “No, Padmini will always be here.”
    He follows her gaze past the veil of red silk over the window. There are women standing on the balcony of the facing building, laughing and calling to the people down below. He wants to press his face into Padmini’s neck, he wants to squeeze her body against his chest, he wants to hear her promise again and again that she will never abandon him, she will never go. How little of her he has learnt to live with—the minutes he steals from her are so precious, she will never know. The sound of a hawker selling bhajia rises from the street—onion and pepper and brinjal and potato.
    But leave she does. The brothel owner does not know where she has gone, but offers him Lajjo instead, or Gulabi, or even Reena, who normally commands a higher price. Vishnu is distraught. Padmini, he cries, he wants Padmini. He roams for days looking for her but her prediction is true, he does not find her.
    But he is a god now. He can bring her back. He need only gaze across the lay of the city, and pinch her out of the cranny in which she hides. Kiss her, hug her, love her, splay her on the floor if he pleases. Never let her out of his sight again.
    Why does the thought no longer compel? Why have the pleasures of Padmini’s body faded to such a subdued fragrance in his memory? A fragrance incorporating the perfume of mangoes, the wetness of water, the flavorings in tea. Has he lost his desire, has he been rinsed of his experience, has all the physical cognition acquired through his existence been suddenly rendered irrelevant, obsolete?
    A warm indifference spreads through him to the cravings of his body. He is not sated, no, yet he can partake no more.
    The jamadarni picks up her basket and starts up the steps. Vishnu is glad she has eaten the mango, he does not begrudge it to her.

    T HE NEWS TRAVELED fast down the core of the building, raging through the ground floor like an out-of-control conflagration. Short Ganga told the cigarettewalla, who told the paanwalla, who told the electrician. Mr. Jalal had been found sleeping on the steps, and when he awoke, had tried to molest Mrs. Pathak in front of her husband. Man Who Slept on the Lowest Step heard about it from the cigarettewalla, who added his own fictitious update about how Mr. Jalal’s eyes had been rolling