The Death of Vishnu

end of it. As the two were fighting over the bamboo, Mrs. Jalal, taking advantage of the diversion, pulled Mr. Jalal inside, and whispered to him to call the police.
    Mr. Jalal was still trying to sort out the hostile reaction to his account. It was a reaction that had been completely unexpected. He had imagined his words would inspire the crowd to lay down their lathis, inspire them to rush downstairs and prostrate themselves at Vishnu’s feet. The preparations of the crowd to assault him were bewildering. Now, as his wife whisked him into the flat and pushed him towards the phone, he tried to recover his equilibrium and make sense of what was happening.
    Obviously, the crowd had rejected his message. But why? He couldn’t see what the objection was, why having a dream about the Bhagavad Gita should disqualify the directive he was conveying. If anything, this should prove that his vision was grounded in ancient revelation, that it was authentic, and more than just a dream. What more evidence could they require?
    It was then that Mr. Jalal looked through the living-room window, at the church across the street. A big white cement cross formed the front of the building. That was the answer, Mr. Jalal realized. He had not suffered. Prophets had to pay to be believed. They had to be tortured, they had to be flayed, they had to be crucified, and only then would people accept their message. Blood was the only watermark of revelation, suffering its only currency.
    Mr. Jalal stood by the phone. He was close enough to pick it up, to dial a one, a zero, a zero. It would take five seconds, ten at the most. He saw his wife gesticulating to him, her eyes widening as she urged him to hurry up. He saw the paanwalla and the cigarettewalla stop their fighting and look up, the paanwalla’s nose flaring as he caught sight of the telephone within Mr. Jalal’s reach.
    Surdas picked up the knife.
    Mr. Jalal saw words form in his wife’s mouth, and did not hear anything.
    It was a small ornamental knife, with a sharp, curved blade.
    The paanwalla had come in through the door, and Arifa was screaming at him.
    It had a wooden handle, with three diagonal marks on it.
    The paanwalla was revolving his lathi above his head. As Mr. Jalal looked, the lathi seemed to move slower and slower, until it hardly seemed to be moving at all.
    Now the crowd would witness the payment he was prepared to make, Mr. Jalal thought. The initiation he was willing to suffer for their sake. There would be pain, for sure, but the infliction of it would not be under his control. He would finally feel its beauty, the sheer experience of it. And he would not have to worry about when it would start, how it would be administered, or when it would stop.
    The paanwalla was drawing within striking distance of him. The lathi had stopped rotating, and was now rising, ever so slowly, into the air. The paanwalla’s eyes were flickering, calculating—judging the speed of the lathi, estimating its distance from his body, adjusting for the amount of force with which he wanted it to land.
    And Surdas went to the door and opened it. He turned his face to the horrified people assembled there.
    The lathi had reached its apex, and was swinging down now, still in slow motion.
    And said to them, Now I am free.
    Mr. Jalal could hear the lathi whistling through the air. He braced his chest for its impact.
    Now I am free, Mr. Jalal thought, as he saw the wood make contact with his body and waited for the pain to register in his brain.

C HAPTER F OURTEEN
    W HEN MR. JALAL’S nerves signaled to his mind the impact of the blow, he was transported once more to a familiar place. It was the same place he had visited when he had tried to read the Koran with his hand on the flame, the same place he had found himself the time he had joined the Muharram procession. Mr. Jalal was surprised, he was shocked, he was amazed, at the sheer painfulness of pain.
    But this time was different, Mr. Jalal thought to himself, this time he really did not have control over it. Everyone who does penance must have to go through with this. It would be good for him, he would bear it, he simply had no choice, no escape.
    The second blow landed. Thoughts about penance and martyrdom dissipated quite briskly with it, and were fully beaten out with the third. All Mr. Jalal could think of by now, all that every cell in his brain screamed, was ESCAPE. Mr. Jalal flailed around in the living room for the telephone,