The Death of Vishnu

the sound of the goat bleating on the verandah. She would fantasize about setting it free to sprint down the wide stone steps. It would race down Jail Road, loping past milkwallas on their bicycles, dodging taxis and BEST buses, to freedom.
    One year she stumbled upon the actual sacrifice. She had followed the cadence of her uncle’s voice, and come upon her father and cousins crowded around a doorway. The white cotton kurtas felt soft and smelled of attar as she squeezed through between the men. She saw her uncle standing in his embroidered robe next to the butcher, the cloth streaming down from arms raised at right angles to his body. He lowered them, and she looked past and saw the head of the goat. Its neck lolled against the curved blade, the eyelids twitched, as if awakening from deep slumber. There was a trough on the ground, with blood so black and viscous it looked like tar. The tiles around were stained in red, and she noticed that her uncle’s own shoes were spattered as well. She screamed and tried to squirm back through the men, but got caught in the suffocating folds of white cloth. She screamed and screamed, surrounded by the white, until her father’s arms found her and lifted her away.
    Her uncle came to see her afterwards. She was unable to look at him at first, terrified that she would find drops of blood in his beard. Once she stared into his eyes, she was pulled into the deep calm in them.
    “Do you know why we do this, Arifa? Why we sacrifice a goat?”
    She looked at his shoes in silence. The blood had dried to a dark brown along their edges.
    “It’s to remind us how precious life is. To remind us that anyone who sacrifices a goat must be prepared to sacrifice themselves in the same way, for God.”
    The words did not make sense to her, but she nodded in agreement, nodded to let him know that she had understood, nodded to escape the incriminating calmness that emanated from his eyes.
    Now, so many years later, her uncle’s words had an immediacy for her that she found frightening. Ahmed had already crossed the line, and the Koran was clear on blasphemy. Would she be called upon to repudiate him? The Koran recommended divorce, it prescribed death. Would she be able to banish him from her life?
    Ahmed opened his eyes, and she looked into them. No, she was not strong enough. She could not abandon Ahmed. She could not draw a knife across his throat. She would stay by his side, and carry him through, come what may. There would be time later to atone, to settle her debts with God.
    “Tell me again, Ahmed,” she said, “what Vishnu told you last night.”

    T HE CLAMORING DOWNSTAIRS was getting louder. “We can’t let these Muslims carry away our daughters.” “Who do they think they are? They should be put back in their place.” “We have to teach them a lesson, before they get out of hand.”
    When Mr. Pathak came down for cigarettes, a group of people congregated around him, as if he were a film star. “What did Mr. Jalal tell you?” they asked. “Did he reveal where Salim is hiding?”
    Mr. Pathak was overwhelmed by all this attention. “I’ll answer all your questions, just let me get my cigarettes.” As he paid for his packet of Charminar, he imagined reporters milling around and flash-bulbs popping in his face. He gestured to the questioners to follow him, and sat down on the third step of the building stairway.
    Mr. Pathak pulled out a Charminar and tapped it on the packet. He put it in his mouth and searched for his matches, but a lighter miraculously appeared to light his cigarette. He inhaled deeply, then blew out the smoke while looking skyward, as he had seen important film people do while talking about their work. “Mr. Jalal is apparently a very complex man,” he began.
    Unfortunately, Mr. Pathak had overestimated the gathering’s appetite for analysis. What they were hungry for was facts—or, if those were not available, then the next best thing, rumors. “Did Mr. Jalal confess?” “Was Vishnu badly hurt in the fight?” “Did you see blood on the dupatta?” they pressed.
    Anxious to retain his grip on his audience, Mr. Pathak began answering all their questions, some with half-truths, some with a random yes or no, taking care to lubricate things with adequate amounts of embellishment.
    “Yes, there was blood on the dupatta, but at this point it’s impossible to tell whether it was Mr. Jalal’s or Vishnu’s when they got into a fight, or perhaps it