The Death of Vishnu

meeting Vinod attended turned out to be a field trip to the Dharavi slum, where a project had been underway for several years to improve the water supply. Several of the residents were presented shiny brass taps, and Mr. Kailash, the GBSC president, promised pipes to attach them to, very soon. The slum children went around and garlanded each of the board members (including Vinod), after which the board retired to the bus for cold drinks.
    “The beers are in the icebox in the back,” Mr. Kailash explained, as Vinod was trying to decide between a Limca and a Gold Spot. “We can’t take them outside because of the alcoholism project we’re sponsoring here.” Mr. Kailash introduced Vinod around the bus to the other board members, most of whom were industrialists. A few looked puzzled when Vinod said he had been a bank manager.
    “But that’s why Wazir sahib recommended you,” Mr. Kailash said, pouring himself a Kingfisher beer. “We need someone we can trust. These bloody contractors are all thieves. They deserve a good thrashing, every last one of them.”
    It seemed natural for Vinod to volunteer for the task of dealing with the contractors. With the nose he had developed at the bank for detecting irregularities, he was able to intercept and put an end to some of their tricks. But detective work was not enough. Vinod was eager to do more, to experience the satisfaction of labor, to distance himself as much as possible from the inertia of his month at home. He started spending his days at the construction site, busying himself with checks and inventories, offering assistance where needed, even helping to lay pipes once in a while. Night after night, he returned exhausted to his flat and put on a pot of water to boil for his bath. As he watched the grime from his body swirl across the tile and vanish into the drain, he tried to think of the day when water would flow just as freely for the residents of Dharavi.
    One of the women on the board was Mrs. Bhagwati, who had taken over her husband’s seat after he had suddenly died of a stroke. When the weather got cooler, Mrs. Bhagwati started accompanying Vinod to Dharavi once a week. Vinod was pleased to have someone help with the contractors. Of late, they had grown very resentful of his presence, and they were staging regular slowdowns to embarrass him. Mrs. Bhagwati, with the vast soap-making fortune her husband had left behind, was quickly able to lubricate the gears and move things along.
    A few months after her deepened interest in the slum-dwellers’ welfare, Mrs. Bhagwati invited Vinod, along with the other board members, to a party at her house. By now, everyone knew Vinod as the person who was going to turn the Dharavi project around, and Mr. Kailash even proposed a toast to “bank manager sahib.” Vinod was polite to the other guests, and to their conversation about factories and unions, but it was the buffet table which dominated his interest. It had been years since he had eaten so well, and when the servants carried in the main course of stuffed pomfret, he was quick to excuse himself and make his way to the table.
    “Basmati with cashews,” Mrs. Bhagwati said from behind him as Vinod helped himself to the stuffing spilling out delicately from the pomfret’s belly. “I had a hunch you might like it.”
    Towards the end of the party, Mrs. Bhagwati asked Vinod if he would mind staying until after all the guests had left, since she wanted to go over some questions about next week’s site visit. So as Mrs. Bhagwati bade her guests goodbye, Vinod sat by himself in the TV room, and a servant put on the video of a new movie, Romeo in Bombay.
    Vinod had not seen a movie for many years, not since Jeevan . He found this one quite interesting, since it had Reshma and Amitabh Bachchan in it, two actors he had heard about, but never seen.
    A half hour into the movie, Mrs. Bhagwati came into the TV room. Vinod noticed she had changed into a salwar kameez, which was a lot less formal than the saris she always wore. He was surprised at how tightly the kameez clung to her body, how it pulled at the contours of her figure and thrust her bosom forward. He tried not to look at Mrs. Bhagwati’s breasts.
    “Would you like a Scotch?” Mrs. Bhagwati offered “Black Label—I picked it up myself at the Singapore duty-free.” Vinod politely declined.
    “Shall we discuss the visit now?” Mrs. Bhagwati asked, and Vinod had to make an effort to give up the movie,