The Death of Vishnu

Jalal turned around and held his wife with both hands. “Tell me, what would the Buddha have done at a time like this? What would Akbar have done? Would they have turned their backs and run? Would they have been too afraid to face whatever lay ahead?” Mr. Jalal shook his head. “No, they would have been grateful. That’s right, grateful at the sight of such a crowd, grateful so many people had been led to them.”
    “Ahmed, don’t start that again. We just went over all that. You aren’t the Buddha. You aren’t a prophet. That was a dream, do you understand? A dream .”
    “Call it what you will, Arifa, but look how everything is suddenly making sense. Everything I’ve been trying, and now all these people being led here to hear me. It’s all bubbling up inside, it’s all coming together. I feel like Akbar must have in the jungle all those years ago.”
    “Ahmed, listen to me.” Mrs. Jalal tried not to let the panic crack her voice. “Listen to me. You just stay in this room. Read one of your books. Just stay here till the police come.”
    “Take my hand, Arifa. Be by my side. I want to share it with you. You come before all these other people. You and Salim.” Mr. Jalal took her hand urgently. “Call Salim. Let’s all hold hands, here, in this room. Let’s all concentrate and try to see.”
    “Yes, Ahmed, I’ll go call him.” Holding his hand, Mrs. Jalal led her husband to a chair, and sat him down.
    Mr. Jalal seemed lost in thought for a moment. Then the doorbell chimed again, and he jumped up. “No. I can’t keep them waiting. They might go away. Let me answer that. This is such an opportunity. You and Salim and I can talk right afterwards.”
    “Ahmed,” his wife shouted. “Don’t go. If not for your own sake, then mine. Answer the door and something awful will happen.”
    “Don’t be silly, Arifa. Nothing’s going to happen.” Mr. Jalal patted his wife’s hand as if reassuring a child. “You know I have to talk to them. They’ve come here all confused. I’m the only one who knows about Vishnu. I can tell them about him. Think of how rewarding it is. To set someone’s mind free.”
    “Stop, Ahmed, stop. For the sake of Allah, have some fear. Don’t open the door. Don’t let my hand go, just stay here.” Mrs. Jalal started sobbing.
    “Come now, go call Salim, and you can both listen as well.”
    Before Mrs. Jalal could protest further, Mr. Jalal strode to the door and threw it open.

    V ISHNU IS UNEASY about his powers. The riddle of the ants haunts him. What if he is not a god after all? He reminds himself again of the evidence. Willing himself up the stairs, gazing through walls as if they were glass. Surely only gods can do that.
    But could he have squandered too much of his power on such acts? Drained it before he was fully infused? Should he return to climbing once more like a mortal?
    Climb he must. The answer, he is convinced, is waiting at the top. He does not know exactly what he will find there. Perhaps the white horse, who will thunder away somewhere with him. Perhaps Lakshmi, who will transfer to him the energy that he needs from her own body. Perhaps Krishna, whose flute-playing will invigorate him. There is not so much further to go—soon he will have the strength, soon he will have Kalki’s power to kill the ants.
    There is a commotion below. It is the mob at Mr. Jalal’s door. Vishnu realizes he need not concern himself with it anymore. He has risen above it, risen to the landing between the second and the third floor.
    He looks around. This is the landing of Thanu Lal. The one they say can sleep for days on end. In fact, he is here now, curled up and snoring on his mat. When he is not asleep, Thanu Lal stands by the pipal tree in the courtyard of the church and chews paan. Nobody has ever seen him work, no one knows where he gets any money. All people know about him is the story. About the day his forehead was brushed by the fingers of God.
    It happened, the cigarettewalla says, when Thanu Lal still had a wife and daughter, when he was living in a hut in the Ghatkopar slum. He awoke one morning to find his forehead covered with ash. “A miracle,” his wife, Jamuna Bai, declared, getting him a mirror, “just like those pictures of Sai Baba.”
    By the time he came out of the hut, the news had already spread, and a crowd had gathered in front of his door. Thanu Lal sat down cross-legged on his rope charpoy and turned his face to his audience. On his