The Death of Vishnu (28 page)

“You liar. Didn’t we pay half of that useless ambulancewalla your husband insisted be called? More than a hundred rupees we paid for that, and for what, I ask?”

The inspector held up his hand. “Do either of you know who his next of kin might be?”

“Maybe the ganga does. She’ll be here tomorrow morning.”

“Then tell her she’s to come to the police station. Any other information you can give me?” the inspector asked.

No one said anything, so he examined the notes in his book. “There’s a lot of discrepancy here with what Mr. Jalal says,” he said, looking up thoughtfully. “Which could become quite important,” he paused and eyed everyone in turn, “in the event his wife dies.”

He shut his notebook with a snap, as if he had just trapped an insect between its covers. “Well, your statements have all been recorded—I’ll have them typed and ready to sign by tomorrow.” He put an elastic band around the notebook. “Of course, we’ll locate the son and see if he has any more relevant information.” He slid the notebook into his shirt pocket. “Now if there’s nothing else—”

“Wait,” Kavita said, “I have something to add. About Vishnu.” This was it. The Sad Scene. It was her chance to prove herself. She had to produce a tear, it was the least she could do for poor Vishnu. “When I was little,” she said, trying to think of the games they used to play.

Her mother recovered from her look of alarm, and bulged her eyes warningly. Kavita ignored her.

“When I was little,” she tried again, and the inspector put his pencil to his lips and regarded her gravely. Why was it so hard to conjure up those images of firecrackers, of phuljadis?

“When I was little,” she began a third time, and this time, she felt it. The moisture welling up in the corner of her eye. Growing, coalescing, trembling—and then, when her lashes could support it no more, rolling. Rolling from the cup of her eyelid, rolling over the rise of her cheek, rolling across the lush sweep of her face, like condensation tracing down the skin of an apple, like a rivulet of morning dew. Each drop radiant with the glow of her youth, each tear a pearl around a grain of her sorrow.

Kavita raised her face to her mother, she raised it to Mrs. Pathak, to the inspector; and as the sun shone in over the landing, she felt its energy glistening in her cheeks, its warmth caressing her face.

A
FTER THE LIGHT
comes darkness. Someone is playing a flute. It is so sweet, it makes Vishnu want to cry. He follows the strands of sound, they guide him like a rope through the darkness.

He feels the trees before he sees them. Twigs brush against his face, fallen leaves rustle under his feet. The branches above sweep over his head as he walks past, like giant hands reaching down unseen to bless him.

The darkness fades, and he sees the mist of a forest. Gradually, that clears as well, and the trees, green and stately, come into focus.

Through the trees, he sees the boy. Beyond lies the meadow, a hut in the forefront, cows grazing on the grass behind. The boy is hiding behind a tree, watching a woman churn milk. As Vishnu comes up behind him, the boy turns.

“Shhh!” he whispers, a finger to his lips, and Vishnu sees that the color of his skin is tinged blue. Vishnu creeps up beside him and they watch the woman together. She is singing a song, as she pulls the rope attached to the churn, first with the left hand, then with the right, in a rhythm that matches the tune.

The boy looks at Vishnu. “Are you ready?” he asks. Before Vishnu can answer, the boy is off, running towards the woman. In one speedy bound, he reaches her, and knocks over the churn. Milk splashes onto the grass, a white sheet that spreads over the green. The woman screams as the milk cascades over her feet. The boy dips his hand into the churn, and runs back to the trees as fast as he went.

“Wait till I tell Yashoda!” the woman calls out after him.

Vishnu sees something white and creamy in the boy’s palm. The boy holds it out to him. Vishnu looks at it, but doesn’t move.

“Don’t you want any?” the boy asks, plunging a finger across his palm and licking it clean. Vishnu does the same—it is butter. But butter so smooth and rich, such as he has never tasted before. They eat the butter, fingerful by fingerful, and then the boy licks his palm clean.

“Would you like to play with me in the forest?” the boy asks. Then he frolics into the trees. Vishnu looks after him for an instant, then runs in behind.

V
ISHNU HAS BEEN
sleeping in the forest, tired from all the play with the boy. A melody awakens him—it is the flute again, as agonizing as before. He rises and follows the sound—it leads him deeper and deeper into the forest.

He comes to a clearing. There stands the boy with the blue skin, his eyes closed, one leg bent at the knee, so that the tip of one foot touches the heel of the other. He is the one playing the flute, on his face is a look of rapture, so intense that Vishnu wonders if he is in pain.

He stands near the boy and listens to him play. The notes continue for a while, then stop. The boy opens his eyes.

“Who are you?” Vishnu asks, but the boy does not reply.

“Are you Krishna?”

The boy smiles. “You know who I am,” he says.

The boy raises the flute. “You must be tired. Tonight I will play for you. Tonight, you can rest.” He puts the flute to his mouth.

“And tomorrow?” Vishnu asks.

“Tomorrow, you go back,” the boy says, and Vishnu hears the notes start up again.

There are several people I wish to thank. My family and friends for their support and encouragement and their comments on various drafts of the manuscript. Richard McCann, Matthew Specktor, and Rosemary Zurlo-Cuva for the interest they took and the guidance they provided at crucial junctures. Michael Cunningham for a life-changing workshop at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown. S. Siddarth and Devdutt Pattanaik for sharing with me their knowledge of Hinduism and Hindu mythology. My editor, Jill Bialosky, for all her feedback and her support of the book (and its author). My agent, Nicole Aragi, for being the best agent a writer could hope for. Larry Cole, above all, for making everything possible in so many fundamental ways.

Sections of this book were written during residencies at the Virgina Center for the Creative Arts and the MacDowell Colony. Their support is gratefully acknowledged, as is that of the Jenny McKean Moore Fund at George Washington University.