The Death of Vishnu

could even be Kavita’s if God knows who tried to outrage her modesty.
    “Yes, Vishnu was hurt in the fight, which is so bad because he was doing quite well yesterday—even the ambulance people said he didn’t need to go to the hospital, but now he’s lying there near death.
    “No, Mr. Jalal didn’t confess, not exactly, though he did say that if Hindus aren’t prepared to give their daughters in marriage, then Muslims have no alternative but to take them by force.”
    These answers seemed to be the right ones, since they suitably roiled the congregation. There were shouts to protect the honor of the Hindu bride pool, and to beat a confession out of Mr. Jalal. “Nobody should be able to get away like this with impunity.”
    At the idea of violence, Mr. Pathak started getting nervous. Perhaps the Hindu-Muslim bit had been too much, perhaps he should take it back. But he was loath to relinquish the position of leadership the people had bestowed on him. He tried to search for a middle way. “Let’s go inform the police,” he said, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Let’s go ask them to search for Kavita.”
    But the gathering was having none of it. “The Jalals must pay for what they have done. Who do they think they are, doing this in a Hindu country?”
    By now, Mr. Pathak was perspiring. The situation was getting quite out of hand, and he hadn’t even mentioned to his wife that he was going downstairs. The assembly was becoming nastier before his eyes—already, he could see one or two bamboo lathis being wielded at the periphery. What would his wife say if she heard he had incited a lathi-armed mob up the stairs to beat up poor Mr. Jalal? “Let’s just calm down for a moment,” he tried saying, but a chorus of voices drowned him out. Sensing his weakness, the congregation turned instead to the cigarettewalla, who had emerged from his shop, a lathi held expertly in one hand.
    “All we want is justice for Kavita,” the cigarettewalla said, and there were cries of approval. The cigarettewalla slapped a palm on his forearm and thigh, and then held his lathi up. “Let’s go get some more lathis and some more people,” he said.
    “Wait,” Mr. Pathak cried, as people started filing past him.
    “Wait,” he said once more, his face ashen behind the harsh black frame of his glasses, as the cigarettewalla led the gathering into the courtyard at the back of the building.

    A T FIRST, VISHNU does not notice them. The tiny flames at his feet. He is standing before the Jalals’ door, stopped by a single thought. If he is Vishnu come to life on earth, which one of the ten avatars is he?
    His mind races through the names his mother has taught him. All the times that Vishnu has descended to earth to battle evil. He wonders if he could be Narasimha, the man-lion, who sprang out of a pillar to slay a demon. Or Vamana, the dwarf, who taught the tyrant Bali a lesson. Or one of the later avatars, like Krishna or Buddha, the ones who came down as humans. But then he thinks that Narasimha has already come and gone, as have Vamana and Rama and Krishna. How could he be an incarnation that has already been lived? The flames begin to grow a little, they raise their heads and glance curiously around.
    There is only one avatar yet to descend. The last avatar of Vishnu. The one they call Kalki. Destined to cut the thread of time and purify all of mankind.
    The flames have discovered their mobility. They spread over the floor and lick the walls. They spiral up the handrail and race down the steps.
    Kalki. Riding in on the white horse that carries his name. Wielding his burning sword. Striking it on the ground and setting the world aflame.
    Through the smoke he sees his mother. She is on the floor of the hut, on all fours. He is seated on her back, with a stick in his hand, which he waves about like a sword.
    “Tell me who you are,” he demands, as his mother bears him across the floor.
    “I am your horse, O great Vishnu,” she replies. “Kalki is also my name. Together we will descend to earth to battle the wicked—come, hold on fast to my mane.”
    He smells the coconut in his mother’s sweat. Her body rocks and sways. He feels its leanness beneath him, and hugs it as tight as he can. They fly down from the heavens and alight on the spreading plains.
    “I am Kalki,” he says, brandishing his stick. “I have come on my horse to end this age. I will gallop across the land to save the good