The Death of Vishnu

and set the wicked aflame.”
    The walls have come alive. The ceiling has begun to dance. The Jalals’ door starts to buckle, plaster begins to fall.
    His stick becomes a sword. He looks at it in amazement. From behind the burning walls come the sounds of screams. The flames leap higher and higher.
    Suddenly he is astride a real horse. Its body is pristine white. Its back feels strong against his seat, its flanks bulge against his legs.
    He wonders from where the horse has come. What does it want from him? He looks around for his mother. But her scent has swirled away in the smoke, and she is nowhere in sight.
    The horse is raring to go. It gives an eager snort. It strikes its hoof impatiently on the step and strains against his thighs.
    The wall in front of them crumbles. The church across the street ignites. They stand together at the landing’s edge and watch the buildings burn below.
    The horse prepares to jump. He feels its muscles tense. He wants to pull it back from the edge, but it wears neither bridle nor restraint.
    They leap into the air, leaving behind the blazing frame of his building. The white of the horse’s mane gleams against the blackness of the night around. A cool wind begins to blow over his head. As he hugs the animal’s body, as he holds on tightly to its neck, he wonders: Who is this horse, and where is it taking him?

    I AM KALKI , the white horse of Vishnu. His final avatar is known by my name. From the heavens I descend with Vishnu to gallop across the waning days.
    For so many miles do I bear him. His legs pressing into my flanks. The dampness of his sweat anointing my skin, his body sliding against my back.
    Sometimes, when I smell his scent mixed in with mine, when he pets my mane and whispers in my ear, when I see him donning his battle gear, I wish I had wings. I wish I had wings to fly away with him, to some heavenly paradise, before time comes to an end.
    Then I remember the work we have come down to do. The work that may never get done if I am not strong. For the country has been overrun by barbarians. Infidels rule the land. They have buried the teachings of the Vedas, they have poisoned the air with their alien ways.
    Vishnu seems less outraged at this invasion. “Evil is evil,” he says. “It springs up from inside the hearts of people, it needs no external source to appear. The land is impure because the people are impure, they have grown careless and allowed the seeds of evil to sprout.”
    “Yes,” I say, “but who is nourishing these seeds? From where are the winds blowing in the clouds to water the sprouts? From lands far away, bearing not only moisture, but also the seeds themselves.”
    “The seeds are always there, my friend,” Vishnu tells me, patting my head. “Embedded in the human condition. Constant vigilance is what is needed to keep them in their dormant state.”
    “My lord, it is written in the Puranas,” I remind him. “That the barbarians are to blame. That you will get rid of them to restore the Vedic order to the land.”
    Vishnu smiles but does not answer. The problem, I sometimes think, is he is too full of charity. Is this a virtue, I wonder, or a weakness in him?
    For I have seen what the barbarians have done. I have seen them set farmers afire in their fields. Cut the throats of priests in their temples. Behead every sacred idol, even the ones of Vishnu himself.
    Fortunately, I am here to make sure that justice is done. That law and order are restored. For I am the one who decides where our campaign will take us. A rider can only journey where his horse conveys him. I look at the sky and listen to the wind. I follow them to where the barbarians are. Fire and the sword are the only purifiers they understand. And sometimes, if Vishnu falters, if he leaves a job half done, a barbarian half alive, I finish things off myself. For Kalki, remember, is not only Vishnu’s name, but also mine.
    Today we ride along the bank of the Ganges. Across plains that rise from the water’s edge and carpet the earth. Here and there, the green is interrupted by the torn huts of abandoned villages. Behind us recede the remains of a city we have razed, smoke rises from it and blots the sun. A thin trickle of blood drips down my side from Vishnu’s sword—he will wait until this evening to dip it in the Ganges and wash it clean.
    We come to a village. Colored flags flutter against the sky. The adults are all in the fields somewhere. Only the children remain,