The Death of Vishnu

playing in the central square.
    “Barbarians,” I say, looking at the flags. “Barbarian children,” I gesture, pointing with my head.
    “They are young,” he says, and I know he will waver again.
    “You do not kill,” I remind him. “You just send them to a less ignoble rebirth. Sweep down your sword, and let them be borne away.”
    “I can’t,” he says. “To kill someone that young? How can it be in my lot to perform such cruel acts?”
    “It would be more cruel to let them live. To grow and become barbarians as well. Why not give them another chance? These acts before you are not dishonorable, Vishnu. Free them from the existence to which they have been condemned.”
    But he does not unsheathe his sword. In his face, I can see the stain of pity, discoloring his judgment.
    “It is your sacred duty,” I urge him. “Your dharma, as foretold in the Agni Purana. To cleanse the barbarians from this land. The earth is parched, it has been insulted enough. Quench it, irrigate it, fill its barren furrows with red. Accept the dharma you must perform, O Vishnu. For there is nothing more dishonorable than failing in your sacred duty.”
    Finally, he raises his sword.
    “This land of the Vedas, this land of the holy Ganges—purify it to make it great again. Proudly, O great lord, proudly. Proudly perform your duty today.”
    In his heart, he knows I am right. That is why he does what I say. His sword flashes in the sun, once, twice, and more. I watch, as silence descends on the playground.
    I gaze past the huts, past the fields, to the blue line of the Ganges. Beyond it, I see the plains sweeping all the way to the edge of the sky. This is the land of the ancients, I think, these are its browns, its blues, its greens. I see a country that shimmers its purity under the sun. I see a civilization restored to the greatness to which it was born. I see villages and towns and cities where rites and rituals are preserved, where children respect their elders, and wives obey their husbands, where castes do not intermarry, and people are honest and moral and upstanding. Somewhere far away, I hear the verses of the Rig Veda begin to be chanted.
    Vishnu sits weeping on ground. The sun shines off his armor, his hair. I am wrenched by his beauty, I wonder how a god can look so vulnerable.
    “Arise, O great warrior,” I say, allowing myself to betray no emotion. “Arise, and let us be on our way.”

C HAPTER T WELVE
    T HE DOORBELL RANG , and Mrs. Jalal looked through the mail slot to make sure it wasn’t Mrs. Asrani again. She was surprised to see the cigarettewalla’s face trying to peer inside. Perhaps Ahmed had ordered something, perhaps the cigarettewalla had come upstairs to deliver it. She opened the door.
    Mrs. Jalal was nonplussed by what she saw. For next to the cigarettewalla stood the paanwalla, and behind them were more people, most of whom she recognized from downstairs. Sprinkled among the gathering, Mrs. Jalal counted at least a half-dozen lathis, the blunt ends where the bamboo had been cut rising ominously into the air.
    “What have you come here for?” Mrs. Jalal asked, trying to retain normalcy in her voice.
    “Is Salim baba here? We’d like a word with him,” the cigarettewalla said.
    “He’s gone away to see a friend. What did you want to talk to him about?”
    “We have some questions we’d like him to answer.”
    “Why don’t you just ask me? I’ll answer whatever I can. Does he owe you some money?”
    The paanwalla stepped forward. “Don’t pretend to be so ignorant. You know why we have come. You can’t do dacoity in someone’s house like this and then act so innocent.”
    “I don’t know what you mean. We haven’t done dacoity in anyone’s house.”
    “Tell us where you have hidden the Asranis’ daughter,” a voice shouted from the back, and there was a chorus of “Yes, tell us.”
    The cigarettewalla held up his hand. “We don’t have any fight with you, Jalal memsahib. If your son is visiting a friend, could we speak to your husband? Surely he isn’t visiting a friend also?”
    “Actually, he’s not here either. He’s gone to the doctor. He hasn’t been feeling well.”
    “Liar,” the paanwalla shouted, banging his lathi on the ground for emphasis, but the cigarettewalla held up his hand again.
    “If he’s gone as you say, then you won’t mind if we come inside and look around, will you? He may have come back without you knowing.”
    At this, Mrs. Jalal