The Death of Vishnu (21 page)

“Wait,” Mr. Pathak cried, as people started filing past him.

“Wait,” he said once more, his face ashen behind the harsh black frame of his glasses, as the cigarettewalla led the gathering into the courtyard at the back of the building.

A
T FIRST, VISHNU
does not notice them. The tiny flames at his feet. He is standing before the Jalals’ door, stopped by a single thought. If he is Vishnu come to life on earth, which one of the ten avatars is he?

His mind races through the names his mother has taught him. All the times that Vishnu has descended to earth to battle evil. He wonders if he could be Narasimha, the man-lion, who sprang out of a pillar to slay a demon. Or Vamana, the dwarf, who taught the tyrant Bali a lesson. Or one of the later avatars, like Krishna or Buddha, the ones who came down as humans. But then he thinks that Narasimha has already come and gone, as have Vamana and Rama and Krishna. How could he be an incarnation that has already been lived? The flames begin to grow a little, they raise their heads and glance curiously around.

There is only one avatar yet to descend. The last avatar of Vishnu. The one they call Kalki. Destined to cut the thread of time and purify all of mankind.

The flames have discovered their mobility. They spread over the floor and lick the walls. They spiral up the handrail and race down the steps.

Kalki. Riding in on the white horse that carries his name. Wielding his burning sword. Striking it on the ground and setting the world aflame.

Through the smoke he sees his mother. She is on the floor of the hut, on all fours. He is seated on her back, with a stick in his hand, which he waves about like a sword.

“Tell me who you are,” he demands, as his mother bears him across the floor.

“I am your horse, O great Vishnu,” she replies. “Kalki is also my name. Together we will descend to earth to battle the wicked—come, hold on fast to my mane.”

He smells the coconut in his mother’s sweat. Her body rocks and sways. He feels its leanness beneath him, and hugs it as tight as he can. They fly down from the heavens and alight on the spreading plains.

“I am Kalki,” he says, brandishing his stick. “I have come on my horse to end this age. I will gallop across the land to save the good and set the wicked aflame.”

The walls have come alive. The ceiling has begun to dance. The Jalals’ door starts to buckle, plaster begins to fall.

His stick becomes a sword. He looks at it in amazement. From behind the burning walls come the sounds of screams. The flames leap higher and higher.

Suddenly he is astride a real horse. Its body is pristine white. Its back feels strong against his seat, its flanks bulge against his legs.

He wonders from where the horse has come. What does it want from him? He looks around for his mother. But her scent has swirled away in the smoke, and she is nowhere in sight.

The horse is raring to go. It gives an eager snort. It strikes its hoof impatiently on the step and strains against his thighs.

The wall in front of them crumbles. The church across the street ignites. They stand together at the landing’s edge and watch the buildings burn below.

The horse prepares to jump. He feels its muscles tense. He wants to pull it back from the edge, but it wears neither bridle nor restraint.

They leap into the air, leaving behind the blazing frame of his building. The white of the horse’s mane gleams against the blackness of the night around. A cool wind begins to blow over his head. As he hugs the animal’s body, as he holds on tightly to its neck, he wonders: Who is this horse, and where is it taking him?

I
AM KALKI
, the white horse of Vishnu. His final avatar is known by my name. From the heavens I descend with Vishnu to gallop across the waning days.

For so many miles do I bear him. His legs pressing into my flanks. The dampness of his sweat anointing my skin, his body sliding against my back.

Sometimes, when I smell his scent mixed in with mine, when he pets my mane and whispers in my ear, when I see him donning his battle gear, I wish I had wings. I wish I had wings to fly away with him, to some heavenly paradise, before time comes to an end.

Then I remember the work we have come down to do. The work that may never get done if I am not strong. For the country has been overrun by barbarians. Infidels rule the land. They have buried the teachings of the Vedas, they have poisoned the air with their alien ways.

Vishnu seems less outraged at this invasion. “Evil is evil,” he says. “It springs up from inside the hearts of people, it needs no external source to appear. The land is impure because the people are impure, they have grown careless and allowed the seeds of evil to sprout.”

“Yes,” I say, “but who is nourishing these seeds? From where are the winds blowing in the clouds to water the sprouts? From lands far away, bearing not only moisture, but also the seeds themselves.”

“The seeds are always there, my friend,” Vishnu tells me, patting my head. “Embedded in the human condition. Constant vigilance is what is needed to keep them in their dormant state.”

“My lord, it is written in the Puranas,” I remind him. “That the barbarians are to blame. That you will get rid of them to restore the Vedic order to the land.”

Vishnu smiles but does not answer. The problem, I sometimes think, is he is too full of charity. Is this a virtue, I wonder, or a weakness in him?

For I have seen what the barbarians have done. I have seen them set farmers afire in their fields. Cut the throats of priests in their temples. Behead every sacred idol, even the ones of Vishnu himself.

Fortunately, I am here to make sure that justice is done. That law and order are restored. For I am the one who decides where our campaign will take us. A rider can only journey where his horse conveys him. I look at the sky and listen to the wind. I follow them to where the barbarians are. Fire and the sword are the only purifiers they understand. And sometimes, if Vishnu falters, if he leaves a job half done, a barbarian half alive, I finish things off myself. For Kalki, remember, is not only Vishnu’s name, but also mine.

Today we ride along the bank of the Ganges. Across plains that rise from the water’s edge and carpet the earth. Here and there, the green is interrupted by the torn huts of abandoned villages. Behind us recede the remains of a city we have razed, smoke rises from it and blots the sun. A thin trickle of blood drips down my side from Vishnu’s sword—he will wait until this evening to dip it in the Ganges and wash it clean.

We come to a village. Colored flags flutter against the sky. The adults are all in the fields somewhere. Only the children remain, playing in the central square.

“Barbarians,” I say, looking at the flags. “Barbarian children,” I gesture, pointing with my head.

“They are young,” he says, and I know he will waver again.

“You do not kill,” I remind him. “You just send them to a less ignoble rebirth. Sweep down your sword, and let them be borne away.”

“I can’t,” he says. “To kill someone that young? How can it be in my lot to perform such cruel acts?”

“It would be more cruel to let them live. To grow and become barbarians as well. Why not give them another chance? These acts before you are not dishonorable, Vishnu. Free them from the existence to which they have been condemned.”

But he does not unsheathe his sword. In his face, I can see the stain of pity, discoloring his judgment.

“It is your sacred duty,” I urge him. “Your dharma, as foretold in the Agni Purana. To cleanse the barbarians from this land. The earth is parched, it has been insulted enough. Quench it, irrigate it, fill its barren furrows with red. Accept the dharma you must perform, O Vishnu. For there is nothing more dishonorable than failing in your sacred duty.”

Finally, he raises his sword.

“This land of the Vedas, this land of the holy Ganges—purify it to make it great again. Proudly, O great lord, proudly. Proudly perform your duty today.”

In his heart, he knows I am right. That is why he does what I say. His sword flashes in the sun, once, twice, and more. I watch, as silence descends on the playground.

I gaze past the huts, past the fields, to the blue line of the Ganges. Beyond it, I see the plains sweeping all the way to the edge of the sky. This is the land of the ancients, I think, these are its browns, its blues, its greens. I see a country that shimmers its purity under the sun. I see a civilization restored to the greatness to which it was born. I see villages and towns and cities where rites and rituals are preserved, where children respect their elders, and wives obey their husbands, where castes do not intermarry, and people are honest and moral and upstanding. Somewhere far away, I hear the verses of the Rig Veda begin to be chanted.

Vishnu sits weeping on ground. The sun shines off his armor, his hair. I am wrenched by his beauty, I wonder how a god can look so vulnerable.

“Arise, O great warrior,” I say, allowing myself to betray no emotion. “Arise, and let us be on our way.”

T
HE DOORBELL RANG
, and Mrs. Jalal looked through the mail slot to make sure it wasn’t Mrs. Asrani again. She was surprised to see the cigarettewalla’s face trying to peer inside. Perhaps Ahmed had ordered something, perhaps the cigarettewalla had come upstairs to deliver it. She opened the door.

Mrs. Jalal was nonplussed by what she saw. For next to the cigarettewalla stood the paanwalla, and behind them were more people, most of whom she recognized from downstairs. Sprinkled among the gathering, Mrs. Jalal counted at least a half-dozen lathis, the blunt ends where the bamboo had been cut rising ominously into the air.

“What have you come here for?” Mrs. Jalal asked, trying to retain normalcy in her voice.

“Is Salim baba here? We’d like a word with him,” the cigarettewalla said.

“He’s gone away to see a friend. What did you want to talk to him about?”

“We have some questions we’d like him to answer.”

“Why don’t you just ask me? I’ll answer whatever I can. Does he owe you some money?”

The paanwalla stepped forward. “Don’t pretend to be so ignorant. You know why we have come. You can’t do dacoity in someone’s house like this and then act so innocent.”

“I don’t know what you mean. We haven’t done dacoity in anyone’s house.”

“Tell us where you have hidden the Asranis’ daughter,” a voice shouted from the back, and there was a chorus of “Yes, tell us.”

The cigarettewalla held up his hand. “We don’t have any fight with you, Jalal memsahib. If your son is visiting a friend, could we speak to your husband? Surely he isn’t visiting a friend also?”

“Actually, he’s not here either. He’s gone to the doctor. He hasn’t been feeling well.”

“Liar,” the paanwalla shouted, banging his lathi on the ground for emphasis, but the cigarettewalla held up his hand again.

“If he’s gone as you say, then you won’t mind if we come inside and look around, will you? He may have come back without you knowing.”

At this, Mrs. Jalal drew in a breath. “Since when did you get so big, Romu?” she said, addressing the cigarettewalla by his first name. “To demand to come in and search
my
house? All this time that I’ve seen you grow up. If your father were still alive, he would hang his head in shame to hear your words.”

Mrs. Jalal pulled her sari firmly around her shoulders. “I’ve already told you we don’t know where the Asranis’ daughter is. If you’re so interested in knowing, go ask
them,
ask them where they’ve hidden her. Now go away, and don’t come back.”

Mrs. Jalal tried to close the door, but the paanwalla stuck his lathi in between the door and doorjamb. “We’re not going anywhere, Jalal memsahib, till we speak to your husband or your son. Now bring them out, unless you want us to come inside and drag them out ourselves.”

“Get your lathi out. Get it out this very instant, or I will call the police.”

“Giving us the threat of the police? Think we’re scared of them? Go ahead and call them,” the paanwalla said, though he took the bamboo out. Then, as if to compensate for this retreat, he feinted threateningly with it.

The cigarettewalla spoke again, this time in a very reasonable tone. “Look, nobody wants a fight. We’re just very concerned about Kavita memsahib. We want to ask Jalal sahib a few questions to solve the mystery, that’s all. There’s no need to call the police.”

“People who want to ask a few questions don’t knock on their neighbors’ doors with lathis. Now please leave—I’ve already said Mr. Jalal is not here.”

Mrs. Jalal was just about to close the door when from the bedroom came Mr. Jalal’s voice. “Who is it, Arifa, and what do they want?”

T
HE IMAGE OF
the horse is still with Vishnu. The full implications of being Kalki, the last avatar, are beginning to dawn on him. All the power he has, all the people for whose fate he is responsible. How will he decide whom to cut down, whom to let stand? A vision of the burnt-out shell of the building comes to his mind.

Mrs. Pathak, for instance. For years she has wrapped her stale chapatis in newspaper and left them on the floor next to his head. Did she act nobly, save him from starvation? Or were her offerings so old, so unwanted, they were an insult, especially to a god? What should be her fate? It is not an easy question, not even for Kalki.

Perhaps he should first practice his power on something small, something less significant. That way, if he errs, the scheme of the universe will not be disturbed too much. He notices there is a line of ants meandering along the edge of the landing. There are so many ants in the building. Surely a few will not be missed if delivered from their ants’ lives. If anything, it will be a boon to them, being promoted to a higher existence.

Vishnu wills the line to be immobilized where it stands. He imagines the ants curling up one by one. He pictures all the freed souls flying to their next appointments. Perhaps he will rid the entire building of ants.

But nothing happens. The ants go on with their industry, unheedful of his efforts to liberate them.

Angered, he tries stepping on them, as Mrs. Pathak had done. But he has forgotten his weightlessness.

It is then the thought comes to his brain. What sense does it make that he is Kalki, if he cannot even dispatch an ant?

W
HEN MR. JALAL
called from the bedroom, Mrs. Jalal seized the opportunity, and slammed the door while people were still reacting. She went immediately to her husband. “Quick, call the police, before they come in.”

“Nonsense. Let me talk to them.”

“Ahmed, don’t be crazy. They’re armed with lathis and God knows what else. They want blood, they’ll tear you to pieces.”

As if to emphasize Mrs. Jalal’s words, the doorbell rang, first in short musical tinkles, then in a medley of chimes that would have been a pleasing background tune had the situation been different.

“Open the door, Mrs. Jalal,” the cigarettewalla’s muffled voice came through the door. “We only want to talk to him, not hurt him.”

“See?” Mr. Jalal said to his wife. “They just have some questions—I can go and clear things up.”

“If you won’t call the police, I will—I’m calling them right now.”

“It’ll really look foolish when they come and find us all chatting. But you do what you want. I’m going to the door.”

“Ahmed!” Mrs. Jalal grabbed her husband’s arm. “Don’t do it.”

Mr. Jalal turned around and held his wife with both hands. “Tell me, what would the Buddha have done at a time like this? What would Akbar have done? Would they have turned their backs and run? Would they have been too afraid to face whatever lay ahead?” Mr. Jalal shook his head. “No, they would have been grateful. That’s right, grateful at the sight of such a crowd, grateful so many people had been led to them.”

“Ahmed, don’t start that again. We just went over all that. You aren’t the Buddha. You aren’t a prophet. That was a
dream,
do you understand? A
dream
.”

“Call it what you will, Arifa, but look how everything is suddenly making sense. Everything I’ve been trying, and now all these people being led here to hear me. It’s all bubbling up inside, it’s all coming together. I feel like Akbar must have in the jungle all those years ago.”

“Ahmed, listen to me.” Mrs. Jalal tried not to let the panic crack her voice. “Listen to me. You just stay in this room. Read one of your books. Just stay here till the police come.”

“Take my hand, Arifa. Be by my side. I want to share it with you. You come before all these other people. You and Salim.” Mr. Jalal took her hand urgently. “Call Salim. Let’s all hold hands, here, in this room. Let’s all concentrate and try to see.”

“Yes, Ahmed, I’ll go call him.” Holding his hand, Mrs. Jalal led her husband to a chair, and sat him down.

Mr. Jalal seemed lost in thought for a moment. Then the doorbell chimed again, and he jumped up. “No. I can’t keep them waiting. They might go away. Let me answer that. This is such an opportunity. You and Salim and I can talk right afterwards.”

“Ahmed,” his wife shouted. “Don’t go. If not for your own sake, then mine. Answer the door and something awful will happen.”

“Don’t be silly, Arifa. Nothing’s going to happen.” Mr. Jalal patted his wife’s hand as if reassuring a child. “You know I have to talk to them. They’ve come here all confused. I’m the only one who knows about Vishnu. I can tell them about him. Think of how rewarding it is. To set someone’s mind free.”

“Stop, Ahmed, stop. For the sake of Allah, have some fear. Don’t open the door. Don’t let my hand go, just stay here.” Mrs. Jalal started sobbing.

“Come now, go call Salim, and you can both listen as well.”

Before Mrs. Jalal could protest further, Mr. Jalal strode to the door and threw it open.

V
ISHNU IS UNEASY
about his powers. The riddle of the ants haunts him. What if he is not a god after all? He reminds himself again of the evidence. Willing himself up the stairs, gazing through walls as if they were glass. Surely only gods can do that.

But could he have squandered too much of his power on such acts? Drained it before he was fully infused? Should he return to climbing once more like a mortal?

Climb he must. The answer, he is convinced, is waiting at the top. He does not know exactly what he will find there. Perhaps the white horse, who will thunder away somewhere with him. Perhaps Lakshmi, who will transfer to him the energy that he needs from her own body. Perhaps Krishna, whose flute-playing will invigorate him. There is not so much further to go—soon he will have the strength, soon he will have Kalki’s power to kill the ants.

There is a commotion below. It is the mob at Mr. Jalal’s door. Vishnu realizes he need not concern himself with it anymore. He has risen above it, risen to the landing between the second and the third floor.

He looks around. This is the landing of Thanu Lal. The one they say can sleep for days on end. In fact, he is here now, curled up and snoring on his mat. When he is not asleep, Thanu Lal stands by the pipal tree in the courtyard of the church and chews paan. Nobody has ever seen him work, no one knows where he gets any money. All people know about him is the story. About the day his forehead was brushed by the fingers of God.

It happened, the cigarettewalla says, when Thanu Lal still had a wife and daughter, when he was living in a hut in the Ghatkopar slum. He awoke one morning to find his forehead covered with ash. “A miracle,” his wife, Jamuna Bai, declared, getting him a mirror, “just like those pictures of Sai Baba.”

By the time he came out of the hut, the news had already spread, and a crowd had gathered in front of his door. Thanu Lal sat down cross-legged on his rope charpoy and turned his face to his audience. On his forehead, his cheeks, his neck, and even his arms was the ash—chalky raised patches of it, that looked like the mounds left behind when insects bore through wood. As people watched, the ash above his brow started welling up and dropping to the ground in clumps, where it lay in powdery contrast to the dark earth.

One of the onlookers broke from the rest and advanced to the bed. He ran his fingers through the ash on the ground and smeared it on his forehead, then scurried back. A second person was about to do the same when Jamuna Bai charged at him. “Stay away, you hear? Don’t touch the ash. Do you think he is doing this for your sake, so you can come here and loot us like this?”

Jamuna Bai instructed her daughter, Vasanti, to hold a stainless-steel thali under Thanu Lal’s face. She carefully harvested the ash onto the plate. “I don’t want it flying away or falling to the ground. The newspaperwalla is on his way—he’ll want to see it.”

By the time the
Loksatta
reporter came, however, Thanu Lal had stopped producing ash. In her zeal to conserve it, Jamuna Bai had brushed too much off onto the plate, and the reporter, disappointed by the faded patches on Thanu Lal’s face, asked his photographer to take only one photograph.

“Come tomorrow,” Jamuna Bai said. “He will bring forth even more ash. Fresh for you. It will happen every day.”

The next morning, an even bigger crowd gathered to witness the miracle. At ten o’clock, Thanu Lal came out of the hut and had his wife and daughter wash his feet in a large thali. Jamuna Bai announced that those who had brought offerings of flowers and coconuts should put them in another platter, which she placed at the foot of his charpoy. They began the wait for the newspaper man to come. At eleven, when he still hadn’t shown up, Jamuna Bai asked for silence from the crowd. She announced the ash would be produced anyway.

Thanu Lal closed his eyes and concentrated. But nothing happened. His skin remained clear. There were whispers in the audience, which became louder as Thanu Lal’s forehead contorted, as his cheeks turned dark with effort. Finally, he burst out in tears and ran inside the hut.

For many mornings after that, Thanu Lal sat on his bed outside and tried to produce ash. The crowds came to watch at first, but gradually thinned, until it was mainly a gaggle of children who gathered in front of the hut. In an effort to attract an audience, Jamuna Bai brought out the thali of ash she had saved, and allowed onlookers to mark their foreheads with a fingertip’s worth. One day, when the ash failed to materialize again, Thanu Lal took the thali from her hand and beat her unconscious with it.

The cigarettewalla says that Thanu Lal actually killed Jamuna Bai, and spent many years in prison for the murder. But according to the paanwalla, once Jamuna Bai had been beaten,
she
was the one who started producing ash, and became very rich after she opened a shrine to herself. Vishnu does not know which version, if any, to believe.

He feels the urge to wake Thanu Lal now, and ask him. Talk to him about God and ash, about looking through walls, and being able to kill ants.
Thanu Lal, wake up
, Vishnu says, but the man does not stir.

Wake up, wake up, it’s Vishnu. I have something to ask you.
Thanu Ram keeps sleeping.

Vishnu goes over to shake him awake. But of course he can’t, not without his sense of touch. Thanu Lal turns over on his side, and remains asleep. Vishnu notices another line of ants, taunting him from the wall behind.