The Death of Vishnu (12 page)

Mrs. Jalal’s mind had reeled. Why would anyone hate Ahmed? Who would do such a thing to him?

“Are you serious?” Nafeesa said. “The way my dear jija carries on about religion, I wouldn’t be surprised if Maulvi sahib himself didn’t put a curse on him. But who knows how these nazars can happen—praise someone too much, and they get a nazar, don’t put a soot mark on your baby’s cheek, and he’ll get a nazar, say something nice about your spouse, and he’ll catch a nazar—they’re easier to catch than the flu.”

Mrs. Jalal felt the color drain out of her face. “You aren’t saying
I
could have done it, are you? Oh my God, what if it
was
me?”

“It hardly matters how it happened. The important thing now is to counteract it. We’ll go right now—to Amira Ma’s. Tie a thread at the shrine, and that should do it.”

A beggar limped up to them as they waited for a taxi. Nafeesa started to shoo him away, but Mrs. Jalal pulled out a one-rupee note from her purse and handed it to him, under her sister’s disapproving look. She felt she needed all the luck she could get, and giving alms couldn’t hurt. In the taxi, they passed a marriage procession, surely another good omen, and Mrs. Jalal began to relax. She even managed to convince herself that nothing she had done could have caused the nazar—after all, when
was
the last time she had praised Ahmed?

The taxi left them at the mouth of a passageway lined with stalls. As they made their way through, dozens of hands reached out, offering to sell them coconuts and flowers and incense. “All we need is thread,” Nafeesa said impatiently, brushing off the hands.

The gates were already closed at the shrine entrance, and only visitors who had a relative being treated inside were being admitted. “We’re here to see our mother,” Nafeesa told the scowling attendant, “to see if you’ve managed to beat the ghosts out of her yet.” Reluctantly, the gate was opened a crack to let them in.

The gateman was still watching, so they mounted the steps to the women’s dormitory, as directed. They passed a series of closed doors, and Arifa tried not to listen to the sounds of scratching and flailing. The last door was ajar, and as they neared it, a scream emerged, so full of despair that it stabbed right into Arifa’s heart. Arifa looked inside and made out a body, naked from the waist up, glistening through the loban smoke. The woman screamed again, and Nafeesa pulled her away from the door, but not before Arifa noticed the woman’s hands tied to a beam near the ceiling.

“This way,” Nafeesa said, and they descended a narrow staircase that brought them back to the courtyard.

There were several people here, and Nafeesa hissed to Arifa to act as if they belonged. “The shrine is through the door, there,” Nafeesa said, and Arifa saw an opening cut into the stone on the far side, next to the neem tree.

Amira Ma had been a holy woman, widely reputed for her powers of exorcism, who had lived there several decades back. Arifa remembered her stone grave, and the marble grate that surrounded it, from the time Nafeesa had brought her there once before. Pilgrims traveled from as far as Pakistan to tie threads to the grate, and it was said that those who came with pure hearts had their wishes fulfilled. The tradition of exorcism continued to this day, with people possessed by spirits being brought there to inhale the holy loban smoke, or in more serious cases, to be left behind for treatment.

They passed into the inner sanctum and Arifa saw the fire in front of the grave. Flames leapt up from a square hole cut in the stone floor, shooting into the air in flares of blue and green and yellow. It was the strangest fire she had ever seen, smokeless, but accompanied by loud crackling and popping sounds, as if the ground itself was being consumed. A woman stood over the hole, drawing her hands over the flames, beckoning them to come to her. Her eyes seemed strangely blank behind the colors that danced in them, and her hair, uncombed and knotted, hung in black tangles around her shoulders. As Arifa neared, the woman turned to face her, rubbing her palms over her chest, as if to transfer the heat from her hands to her bosom.

“The thread,” Nafeesa reminded her, and Arifa tore her eyes away from the woman and stumbled after her sister.

The grate looked molten in the light of the fire, like something just disgorged from the earth’s magma. Arifa drew up to it and touched it cautiously, half expecting it to sear her skin. But the marble was cool against her fingertips, and she ran them over the carved stone, feeling the threads that others had tied. Thousands and thousands of them, white ones and red ones, fine black sewing string and sturdy brown twine, a few already unraveling against the marble.

She pulled out the thread Nafeesa had bought her from one of the stalls outside. It felt so light in her fingers. Would it be strong enough to save Ahmed, to bring him back from wherever he had gone? What if the good omens had not been enough? What if the unthinkable happened, and the thread broke while she was tying it? But she was being ridiculous.

“This knot I tie for Ahmed,” she whispered to herself, as she tied the thread to the marble. “Set him free from his nazar, Amira Ma.” The thread did not break.

Arifa felt her sister’s hand on her shoulder, and brought it to her face to kiss it. Her eyes felt wet, but when she dabbed at them, there were no tears. Perhaps she had cried enough. It was now up to Amira Ma. She would just wait and see.

The woman by the fire had disappeared. The flames were still flaring into the night. A man was rolling a giant drum into place for the morning ceremony.

“All those colors,” Nafeesa said. “It’s the spirits, being purified in the flames. The blue is for evil, the yellow for mischief. People carry them here from all over in their bodies, and when they stand close enough, the spirits can’t help diving in. The green you see—those are the spirits that have reemerged, all purified again.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Arifa saw a movement near the grate. A black shape, whirling and turning, and coming towards her. For an instant, she thought it was a spirit, headed for the flames, and she was directly in its path. Then she realized it was the woman who had been dancing next to the fire. Her hand was outstretched, and she was coming to give Arifa something.

The woman smiled, and Arifa noticed the teeth, stained orange and brown from years of paan-chewing. The blankness had disappeared from her eyes, and in it now was a knowing shrewdness. The woman was saying something to her, which Arifa could not understand.

Arifa leaned forward to catch the words. “This is for you,” the woman said, and pressed something into her palm. The smell of ash and charred hair lingered where the woman had been an instant ago.

Even without looking, Arifa could feel it. It can’t be, she thought to herself, not wanting to open her palm. As her fingers unfurled, the thread came into view, Ahmed’s knot still in it, as sturdy and secure as when she had tied it. But the thread itself had been broken, the frayed ends where it had been pulled apart curling against her skin. She tried to speak but couldn’t, her lips parting helplessly, her hand rising and falling mechanically with the thread. Her voice came back to her, and she tried to expunge the horror, tried to clear it from her throat and expel it from her lungs. She screamed, and the sound was so rending that it stopped Nafeesa as if she had been stricken, made the man by the fire lose control of his drum. She held up the thread in the light of the fire and screamed again and again. And beyond the courtyard, beyond the gate, in the kerosene-lit corridor of stalls, the shopkeepers at their ledgers stopped counting their money and looked for a moment towards the shrine of Amira Ma.

S
OMEWHERE IN THE
darkness is a bevy of scents. It hovers beyond his reach. Perfumes perch along the periphery of his perception, flitting away at his approach. He follows a riddle of spice—cumin, or turmeric, perhaps—it flashes through the air and escapes without being caught. There are flowers here, and fruits, too, and the smell of mud and oil and rain.

When the gods descend, Vishnu knows, it is by their scents that he will recognize them. Ganesh will smell of the fruits he loves, Varuna will smell of the sea. River breezes will herald the arrival of Saraswati, Indra will bring the rain. Krishna will smell of all that’s sweet, of milk and gur and tulsi. Of sandalwood and kevda flowers, of saffron, of ghee, of honey.

And Lakshmi. Lotuses will flower beneath her feet, scenting each step with their fragrance. Mangoes will turn the color of the sun, filling the world with their ripeness. Tulsi plants will wave in the wind, whispering their secrets to the air. The earth will stretch out, rich and fragrant, and await her touch against its skin.

Vishnu inhales, and the air is sweet with lotus. He thinks his senses are deceiving him, and inhales again. The scent is overpowering, as if thousands of flowers have opened, as if the steps, the walls, the ceiling, are all awash with blossoms. Mixed in with their sweetness is the spiciness of basil, barely detectable at first, but becoming more intense by the second, until that is all he smells, and he thinks that a million tulsi leaves are being rubbed between invisible fingers. And then come wafts of mango, waves that begin to wash over the tulsi, each swelling stronger than the one before, and redolent of all the different varieties he knows. Vishnu recognizes the wildness of Gola mangoes, the tartness of Langda, the cloying sweetness of Pyree, the perfect refinement of Alphonso. The perfume is so thick and potent that he can feel it press against his face. Except that now it is the earth his nostrils are pressed against, earth that is wet and aromatic, earth that smells sweet and loamy, with the pungency of dung mixed in. Vishnu inhales this new fragrance. It is the scent of the land, the scent of fertility, the scent that has existed since civilization began, and Vishnu marvels at its immutability.

And then all the scents he has smelled are upon him, blending together to form a new aroma, an aroma fruitful and flowerful and profound, that conveys unmistakable femininity. It is an aroma he has never before smelled, but recognizes instantly.

Vishnu looks up at the stairs leading into the darkness. Tonight is the night he will see his beloved. Tonight is the night that Lakshmi will descend.

I
T WAS A
little past midnight when Kavita made it to the terrace. Salim was waiting by the television antennas, looking over the inky waters of the bay, like a captain at his prow, surveying the sea. Seeing him silhouetted so masculinely against the sky, Kavita was overcome by the affection, the passion, the deep attachment, that she felt for this, her true love. She had made the right decision.

“Did you leave your luggage downstairs?” Salim asked her, after they had kissed.

“Luggage? Why would I need
anything
when I have you?” Kavita extended her hands to frame Salim’s face, but he caught them in his own, and brought them down.

“You
will
need clothes, darling. And other things as well. Perhaps you could go and pack something up—we still have time.”

“Oh don’t be such a bore,
darling
.” Kavita had meant to mock Salim gently with the last word, but was surprised by the intensity with which it emerged. She softened her tone immediately. “All I need is love. Love, love, love. The old Beatles song, remember?”

Salim didn’t reply, but looked at her worriedly, so she dangled her purse in front of him. “Besides, guess what I have here. It’s my dowry. It’s
our
dowry. Thanks to Mummy and Daddy.”

“How much is it?” Salim wanted to know.

Kavita’s face darkened. “Only fourteen thousand. What did they expect, that they would marry me off on Chowpatty Beach?” She shook the hair off her face. “But anyway, it’s enough for me to buy a lot of clothes, so let’s go, before we get caught or something.”

“I really think that—” Salim began, but Kavita cut him off.

“You really think
what?
That I’ll spend it all on clothes?” Again, her words came out more severe than she had intended, and she tried to cover them up. “I don’t need much, darling. There’s nothing to worry about.”

She had to watch herself. She wondered why she was snapping so much at poor Salim. Perhaps she was on edge. Well,
of course
she was on edge—she was
eloping,
after all, not going around the corner to eat golgappas. But maybe there was more to it, maybe the trip to Lalwani aunty’s was still playing in her head. No, that was ridiculous, that was all over, a little dream sequence she’d had, a side plot in the story of her life. By now, the audience didn’t even remember the name of that unfortunate boy she’d met. Well, okay,
she
did—it was Pran, but that was only because of the film connection. This was
not
the time to think of Pran.

“Could you go a little slower?” she whispered irritatedly to Salim as they went down the steps. “It’s not as if they’ve started chasing us already.”

How silly of her to have even made the comparison. Pran, whom she had seen just once today, and that too in a meeting where, one had to admit, he had come off as a bit of a pumpkin. And Salim, whom she had known all this time, her one, her only, her
true
love.

Well, he
had
to be her true love, didn’t he, if she was following him God knows where?

“Where are you carrying your Juliet off to anyway, my Romeo?”

“Romeo would have to be a lot stronger to carry a Juliet like you, my little potato chop.”

Kavita stopped. “Whom are you calling a potato chop? Do I look like a potato to you? Do I?” Her voice rose well above a whisper. “Don’t suppose there aren’t others who would be glad to have me, if you think that I’m too fat.”

Salim turned around. “You know I was just joking. You know I don’t think you’re fat.” He put his bags down and hugged her. “Is something the matter? Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. Why wouldn’t it be? But don’t think you’re doing me a favor, taking me away like this—Pran would never do such a thing!”

Of course, she didn’t really speak the last sentence, though the thought came so vividly into her mind that it almost felt like she had blurted it out. She supposed she was being unfair. After all, it had been she herself who had initiated the scheme to elope. But on the other hand, Salim had been the one to agree. She couldn’t imagine someone as decent as Pran—an engineer, a
stamp-collector
no less—agreeing to such an escapade.

Where would she be twenty years from now? Kavita closed her eyes and imagined herself married to Pran. They’d have two children—the elder, a boy, good in mathematics like his father. They would go to a top school—a Catholic one, naturally—Campion or St. Mary’s or (if one was a girl) to Villa Teresa. Every summer, the four of them would pile into the family car and drive to Matheran. Her friends might tease her about Pran—good old dependable engineer sahib. But she would be the only one who would know that special look he had, the blush that came over his face, that spread up his cheeks and into his eyes as she began to unwrap her sari for him.

But no, she would be with Salim. Salim and herself, twenty years hence. Nothing came to her mind. Their future was an unknown, a blank. No, blank was too harsh a word to describe it—it was a
mystery
—yes, that was it—for when one embarks on adventure, one can hardly be expected to know the end.

The truth growled at her suddenly, like a cheetah surprising its prey.
She was not sure.
She did not know if she wanted to accompany Salim down that stairway, into the city waiting below. She needed more time—more time to breathe, more time to think, more time to understand. But it was too late, already too, too late. The money from the bank burned in her purse, and only Vishnu’s landing separated them from the street.

How peaceful Vishnu looked. She could see him stretched out below, and in the dark, there seemed to glow an aura of tranquillity around him. She followed Salim down the steps to his landing, snapping open her purse and taking out the currency note she had reserved for him. As she bent down to tuck it under his head, an image from her childhood sprang into her mind—Vishnu playing hide and seek with her on the steps.

“He’s not going to need money where he’s going,” Salim said. “You might as well keep that.”

“What?”

“Even the ambulance came and went yesterday. It’s too late for the bechara.”

“What lies. He’s going to be fine. It’s only a hundred rupees that I’m giving him—you don’t have to get hunger in your eyes for that even.”

“Is that what you think of me? That I’m eyeing your hundred rupees? That I’m running away with you for your money?”

This was the moment. She could either take it, and goad Salim on, to make a clean break of it, or leave it, and follow him into the life he was leading her into. Years later, when she was old and her life was spent, perhaps she would look back to this juncture, and feel relief or maybe regret, but one thing would be clear. This would have been her chance to act.

What should she do? Whom should she choose? There was so little time to think. It was so unfair—in the movies, there would be a song right now, and the good and bad points of each suitor would be clearly spelled out to music. The kind of song with the long, soothing notes in the background, the kind Lata would sing, with multiple flashbacks of each of the prospects superimposed on the heroine’s face. (Though this would be a little difficult with Pran, since she’d only met him today.) But no, she would have to choose herself, without the benefit of such a summary.

“I’m sorry,” Kavita said finally. “I’m all nervous, you know, and what you said about Vishnu—that just made me—” She broke off.

At this, Salim came to her, and took her in his arms. “It’ll be okay. They don’t really know how he is. He’ll be fine. You don’t have to worry.”

“But how can we leave him like this? When he’s so sick? When we don’t even know? How can I leave my Vishnu?”

Kavita went up to the recumbent body. “Vishnu, talk to me. Please, open your eyes, say something, it’s your Kavita.”

She put her hand to his cheek. “I wonder if he’s feeling cold,” she said. Unwinding her dupatta from around her neck, she spread it over the top half of his body. “Maybe that will help a little.” She stood up.

“Take care of yourself,” Kavita said. Then she turned, and with her hand covering her mouth, and the background music welling up in her ears, ran down the stairs with all the drama the scene demanded.

Salim went over to Vishnu and bent down to retrieve the money Kavita had left. “Goodbye, my friend,” he said, pocketing the bill, then followed Kavita down the steps.

O
H, THE SCENTS
she has left behind, the leaves and fruits and flowers. The beauty she has carried to earth, the pleasure it has brought. The dupatta that I can feel on me, with the perfume of her skin.

Come back, Lakshmi, come back. Don’t you see your place is here with me? Don’t you know you were meant for Vishnu, don’t you know you are his strength? Come back so I can touch your face, come back so I can caress your feet. Come back, and keep me eternal company, O Lakshmi of mine.

What will happen to the flowers, now that you are gone? The earth that clings to the steps, the tulsi that begins to sprout. The colors that brighten the darkness of the stairs, the scents that perfume the air. Must I climb alone the petal-strewn trail of your descent?

But wait. Who is this, who emerges from the Jalals’ door? Is this another god, who dares match your step with his own? He grasps onto the banister, and climbs so stealthily down. His shadow moves noiselessly against the walls, his footsteps sound quietly on stone.

The flowers so red and vivid seconds ago succumb under his tread. Petals wither where they lie, their scent fades into the ground. Stamens are crushed under his feet, their pollen blows all around.

The shadow falls thickly across the landing. This is man, not god, not yet. This is Mr. Jalal, his shoes still firm upon the stairs, his weight still heavy upon this earth, his grasp still reaching for the air.

A
T FIRST, MR
. Jalal thought he would bring a sheet with him. But then he decided not to—he was, after all, there to lie next to Vishnu, body and flesh, and a sheet would only insulate against the connection. He did, however, retain his sleeping suit, the one with the red cord around the collar and the matching cord lining the cuffs of the striped pajamas.

It had not been easy tonight. For some reason, Arifa had been very agitated. “Don’t leave me, please,” she said, as Mr. Jalal was spreading out his sheet on the floor. “Not tonight, you mustn’t.”

Mr. Jalal paused, the sheet billowing out from the two corners he was holding in his hands. “You know I like to sleep on the hard floor. I thought we understood that by now. My back—”

“No, Ahmed, not tonight. Not tonight of all nights. Come back to bed, please, I beg you to.”

There was something suffocating about his wife’s pleading. Since this evening, when she had come back from her sister’s, Arifa’s demeanor had been one that foreboded great tragedy. Her wavering voice and plaintive urgency further contributed to this effect. Mr. Jalal had been looking forward for some time to stealing away downstairs.

“What’s so different tonight from other nights?”

Mrs. Jalal did not speak. Instead, she got up from her bed and started pulling off the sheet from her mattress as well.

“If you won’t come back, I’m going to join you on the floor.”

And so it was that Arifa set up her bed right next to his, and lay down by his side. “There, I’m sure it will be good for my back as well.”

Apparently, however, it wasn’t. After tossing and turning for an hour, and after a number of grunts of “Hai,” Arifa (once Mr. Jalal pretended to have fallen asleep) stole back to her mattressed bed. Within minutes, her loud and rhythmic snores told Mr. Jalal it was time to make his move.

It had been years since Mr. Jalal had come down the stairs at so late an hour. He groped around for the light switch, before remembering that the lights had not worked in at least a decade. Some sort of fight with the downstairs neighbors about how to divide the bill between different floors. Cautiously, Mr. Jalal made his way past Radiowalla, past the Asranis and Pathaks, down towards Vishnu’s landing.

He wondered why Arifa had been so insistent this evening about sleeping with him. The first few nights he had spent on the floor, her sighs had filled him with guilt. Was he depriving her of his presence? he had wondered. Was he shirking his spousal duty? Should he be confiding in her, explaining to her the journey on which he had embarked?

He had decided against it. Arifa would not understand. She would be suspicious of his motives and raise doubts and objections about everything. Besides, when was the last time they had even hugged in bed, much less made love? No, it must be something else—one of those generic unhappinesses that women suffered from, that had been unfortunately, unfairly, triggered off by his efforts. He had to be firm, he had to be unwavering—what he was striving after was much too important to lose in the shadows of her gloom. Besides, she was the one always complaining about his lack of faith. This was his chance to do something about it, not only for himself, but also for the two of them.

How different Arifa had been when he had first met her. Or perhaps it was he, Mr. Jalal thought,
his
opinion, that had changed. Could he have really found her neediness so reassuring back then, her insecurity so endearing? And the naiveté with which she stumbled through life—was there really a time when he had been charmed by it?

Those had been the days he was going around with his intellectual friends—the bearded, bespectacled group with whom he met every night to discuss philosophy and the fate of the world. “Every leaf has its story” was his favorite saying, and Arifa had been a leaf that had fallen his way. How touched he had been by her plainness, her lack of a story, when he had smiled his encouraging smile at her that first day. Wasn’t she, too, worthy of a story—didn’t she, too, deserve to have someone write one for her? Why not undertake the task himself, he had thought, perhaps even write himself into the plot? Didn’t he pride himself as being unswayed by wealth or position, didn’t he profess such faith in the innate potential of every human? This was his chance to prove it, prove it once and for all, by marrying this plain person. This person, whose only recommendation so far was the eloquence with which her features had communicated their gratification in the light of the chaatwalla’s lamp.