The Death of Vishnu

drew in a breath. “Since when did you get so big, Romu?” she said, addressing the cigarettewalla by his first name. “To demand to come in and search my house? All this time that I’ve seen you grow up. If your father were still alive, he would hang his head in shame to hear your words.”
    Mrs. Jalal pulled her sari firmly around her shoulders. “I’ve already told you we don’t know where the Asranis’ daughter is. If you’re so interested in knowing, go ask them, ask them where they’ve hidden her. Now go away, and don’t come back.”
    Mrs. Jalal tried to close the door, but the paanwalla stuck his lathi in between the door and doorjamb. “We’re not going anywhere, Jalal memsahib, till we speak to your husband or your son. Now bring them out, unless you want us to come inside and drag them out ourselves.”
    “Get your lathi out. Get it out this very instant, or I will call the police.”
    “Giving us the threat of the police? Think we’re scared of them? Go ahead and call them,” the paanwalla said, though he took the bamboo out. Then, as if to compensate for this retreat, he feinted threateningly with it.
    The cigarettewalla spoke again, this time in a very reasonable tone. “Look, nobody wants a fight. We’re just very concerned about Kavita memsahib. We want to ask Jalal sahib a few questions to solve the mystery, that’s all. There’s no need to call the police.”
    “People who want to ask a few questions don’t knock on their neighbors’ doors with lathis. Now please leave—I’ve already said Mr. Jalal is not here.”
    Mrs. Jalal was just about to close the door when from the bedroom came Mr. Jalal’s voice. “Who is it, Arifa, and what do they want?”

    T HE IMAGE OF the horse is still with Vishnu. The full implications of being Kalki, the last avatar, are beginning to dawn on him. All the power he has, all the people for whose fate he is responsible. How will he decide whom to cut down, whom to let stand? A vision of the burnt-out shell of the building comes to his mind.
    Mrs. Pathak, for instance. For years she has wrapped her stale chapatis in newspaper and left them on the floor next to his head. Did she act nobly, save him from starvation? Or were her offerings so old, so unwanted, they were an insult, especially to a god? What should be her fate? It is not an easy question, not even for Kalki.
    Perhaps he should first practice his power on something small, something less significant. That way, if he errs, the scheme of the universe will not be disturbed too much. He notices there is a line of ants meandering along the edge of the landing. There are so many ants in the building. Surely a few will not be missed if delivered from their ants’ lives. If anything, it will be a boon to them, being promoted to a higher existence.
    Vishnu wills the line to be immobilized where it stands. He imagines the ants curling up one by one. He pictures all the freed souls flying to their next appointments. Perhaps he will rid the entire building of ants.
    But nothing happens. The ants go on with their industry, unheedful of his efforts to liberate them.
    Angered, he tries stepping on them, as Mrs. Pathak had done. But he has forgotten his weightlessness.
    It is then the thought comes to his brain. What sense does it make that he is Kalki, if he cannot even dispatch an ant?

    W HEN MR. JALAL called from the bedroom, Mrs. Jalal seized the opportunity, and slammed the door while people were still reacting. She went immediately to her husband. “Quick, call the police, before they come in.”
    “Nonsense. Let me talk to them.”
    “Ahmed, don’t be crazy. They’re armed with lathis and God knows what else. They want blood, they’ll tear you to pieces.”
    As if to emphasize Mrs. Jalal’s words, the doorbell rang, first in short musical tinkles, then in a medley of chimes that would have been a pleasing background tune had the situation been different.
    “Open the door, Mrs. Jalal,” the cigarettewalla’s muffled voice came through the door. “We only want to talk to him, not hurt him.”
    “See?” Mr. Jalal said to his wife. “They just have some questions—I can go and clear things up.”
    “If you won’t call the police, I will—I’m calling them right now.”
    “It’ll really look foolish when they come and find us all chatting. But you do what you want. I’m going to the door.”
    “Ahmed!” Mrs. Jalal grabbed her husband’s arm. “Don’t do it.”
    Mr.