The Death of Vishnu

and pointing a finger at passersby. For a moment, he wondered if he should keep walking until he reached the airport at Santa Cruz, get on a plane there, and go to the United States. Leave Mrs. Bhagwati and the board behind, leave the slums where they stood, leave his life and just go away. Then he remembered he didn’t have a passport, or visa, or, for that matter, money with him to buy a ticket. He looked once more at the glint in the maharaja’s eyes, the expression that said it wouldn’t take no for an answer. Then, thinking about the sea behind his building, the water that stretched past the horizon, the lands, the countries, the continents, that lay beyond, and above them all, the sky, with its unexplored worlds, its planets, its moons, its sun, and its endless constellations of stars, Vinod continued his homeward journey.

    V ISHNU STANDS IN front of Vinod Taneja’s door. He has checked the entire landing, looked into every nook and cranny, searching for ants. He is glad he hasn’t found any, glad they have not made it to this level, glad he has risen above them.
    He wonders who has been running Mr. Taneja’s errands while he has been ill. Who has been buying the toothpaste Mr. Taneja likes, the biscuits he eats with his tea?
    Vishnu remembers the first time he went shopping for Mr. Taneja. It was for soap and a packet of blades, and Vishnu inflated the price by a good half rupee. He expected to be challenged, but Mr. Taneja just gave him what he asked for. Soon he was overcharging Mr. Taneja two or three rupees each time, and still, Mr. Taneja did not say anything.
    Then the unexpected happened. Vishnu started feeling guilty. He tried telling himself that Mr. Taneja had enough money and would hardly miss a few rupees. Or that Mr. Taneja had certainly caught on by now, and must knowingly be paying the inflated prices. But the feeling persisted, and Vishnu was forced to roll back his add-on, first to a rupee, and then to half of that. Which did not eliminate his guilt, but made it recede to a tolerable level.
    Now he feels ashamed of what he has done. Especially for a god, to act like that. Even if that was in his more forgivable human state. Perhaps he will come back down the stairs to apologize to Mr. Taneja. Surely this is someone that Kalki will save.
    Only the last flight of stairs, the one to the terrace, remains. Vishnu takes the first step.

    T HE CROWD WAS silent. Mr. Jalal stood at the door. Behind him was Mrs. Jalal, poised to pull him in if there was trouble. She wondered if she could risk leaving him alone for a few minutes to call the police. The phone, unfortunately, was in the front room, in full view of the door, and she was afraid that if she attempted to make the call, someone would try to stop her.
    Mrs. Jalal stared at the faces of the people assembled. They were the same faces she had seen for years, yet they seemed so different now. The eyes, especially—all those years she had looked into them and seen only good-naturedness. Where had this brazenness come from, when had they filled with such contempt? Had it always been there, hiding behind all those greetings of “Namaste, memsahib,” watching, growing, until an excuse like this presented itself? How would she ever look at these people again, how would she ever walk past their shops, without a shudder running through her body?
    For a while, nobody said anything. The cigarettewalla and paanwalla had not expected to actually confront Mr. Jalal and were unprepared to interrogate him. They stared at each other, and at the floor, shuffling their feet, and secretly wishing they were in the back of the crowd. Finally, the electrician asked, “Where is the Asranis’ daughter?”
    “I have no idea,” Mr. Jalal replied, his brow unfurrowed, his voice calm. “I haven’t seen her in ages.”
    “What did your son do with her?” the paanwalla asked, getting his voice back.
    “What did you do with her?” the cigarettewalla demanded in a louder voice, spurred out of silence by the paanwalla.
    “My son is visiting a friend. When he gets back, I’ll ask him. And I’ve already said I haven’t seen Miss Asrani for a long time.”
    “Liar,” someone shouted from behind the cigarettewalla. “What were you doing with her dupatta around your face, then?”
    “Yes, how did her dupatta leave her shoulders and find its way to your head?” the cigarettewalla added, determined not to let anyone hijack his leadership.
    “That’s what