The Death of Vishnu

by Manil Suri

  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.

  AT 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.

  It was an idea that had quickly taken root, an idea that had flourished and ripened in the idealism of those youthful days. “Are you sure,” his father had asked, “about this Dongri girl?” And Ahmed’s chest had puffed with assurance when he had said yes.

  His conceit had been that he would transform Arifa, Pygmalion-like, that he would introduce her to art and literature and pure thought. That he would scrape and scrub away at her Dongriness, until she emerged, polished and precious, like a multifaceted jewel, able to hold her own with razor wit and glittering personality. He had dived into this project with great gusto, talking to her about Kant and Plato, reciting to her works by Shaw and Tagore, shaking her up, baiting her, challenging her to think. She had displayed a particular softness for religion, so he had tried to introduce her to the ideas, sometimes foreign, sometimes contradictory, that formed the essence of other faiths, to show her that these were all man-made inventions, and one could not be preferred over the other. He had especially tried to impress upon her the story of his favorite Mughal emperor, Akbar, who had come to power in India after a long history of Muslim invaders, but followed a completely different course—not only encouraging other religions, but even marrying Hindu princesses, inviting Christian missionaries to educate his son, and eventually renouncing so much in the pursuit of his own Din Ilahi religion that people said he was no longer a Muslim.

  “Think of it, Arifa. An emperor who gave up Islam to unify the subjects in his land, a ruler who said all men were equal, no matter to which religion they were born.”

  His wife chose not to think about it. “Isn’t it enough to lecture me from morning to night about every topic under the sun? What need is there to push this further rubbish down my throat?”

  Arifa’s resistance only made his resolve grow stronger. He would not rest until he had forced her to confront the irrationality of her beliefs. The harder he labored, though, the more stubbornly she resisted. Eventually, it was she who won—a victory that appalled him, since it represented the defeat of everything he championed—rationality and reason—to so primitive a force as faith.

  That was when the absurdity of his situation struck Mr. Jalal. He had knowingly pursued and tied himself to a woman with whom he had little in common. Now she turned out to not even be the blank slate he had expected to fill. Instead, she came programmed with ideas of her own, convictions he had not been able to dislodge, beliefs he might never exorcise.

  What was it about Arifa’s faith that had such tenacity in the face of his efforts? How could he have underestimated it so disastrously? He had always been proud of his conversance with not only Islam, but all the major religions of the world. He could explain how different beliefs arose and melded with their parent philosophies, detail obscure rituals from Africa to the Amazon practiced in the name of worship. Why, then, did he not understand the mechanism of faith? What did religion do to people, to provoke such obstinacy, such hysteria—how did it push people to the stage of torturing themselves and killing each other?

  He had always assumed it was a flaw in people, a human failing, that created this need to believe in something beyond the ordinary. Religion existed to control society, to monitor those without the capacity to think things through for themselves, to provide promises and shimmering images in the sky, so that the urges of the masses could be calmed and regulated. What, after all, did the word ‘fai
th’ connote, except a willing blindness to the lack of actual proof? It was only natural that Arifa, with her untended intellect, had to lean on this crutch of faith to negotiate the inscrutability of life. Whereas he did not, in fact could not, have any use for the same.

  But then an unexpected doubt arose in Mr. Jalal’s mind. What if he was being too arrogant? What if there was another dimension to faith, another way of understanding it, of experiencing it, of which he was simply not capable? What if the shortcoming lay not with Arifa’s outlook, but his own—if it was he who was limited, closed-minded? After all, wasn’t he constantly amazed at the number of very smart people who were believers—hadn’t even Einstein professed the existence of God?

  The question began to gnaw at Mr. Jalal. The possibility that it was his intellect that might be wanting jabbed at his ego. He brooded for weeks on end about being less complete than Arifa, about being somehow inferior to the hordes of people thronging through the mosques and temples and churches of the city. Every time he saw a sadhu or a mullah, or even a group of worshipers with red temple marks on their foreheads, Mr. Jalal was confronted with the question: was it they who were flawed, or was it he?

  Gradually, it dawned on him that there was only one way to find out. He would have to try and personally experience this thing they called faith. Perhaps by switching off his intellect and inviting religion to come and seek him out. Offering himself to be swept away like the mourners in the Muharram procession, like the Krishna devotees dancing through the streets on Fridays. So far, his interest in religion had always been clinical—never possessing his spirit, never penetrating the caul of his intellect. He would prove that he was just as complete as the next person, just as capable of having his spirit moved. The difference would be that for him it would be an experiment, one that would afford him an insider’s view on faith. Afterwards, when he had returned to his normal self, he would sift through the experience to see if it contained anything of substance. Who knew, perhaps he might even encounter Arifa on his journey to the other side, and persuade her to accompany him back.

  The more Mr. Jalal thought about this project, the more he was filled with enthusiasm. The idea of being an interloper among those of faith fascinated him. But how should he go about curbing his intellect? Where did one find the recipe to lure religion to one’s doorstep?

  Mr. Jalal pulled out his books on the Buddha and Mahavira Jain and the Hindu sadhus and fakirs. He pored over the accounts about sitting under trees, roaming in forests, subsisting on whatever food and water could be found. Wasn’t renunciation the key to what all these people had achieved? Hadn’t they succeeded in focusing their minds by denying the needs of their bodies? Could this be the prescription he was himself seeking?

  That very week, he took the local train to Borivili, to wander around barefoot in the wilderness of the national park there. It was difficult to avoid all the families on picnics, but Mr. Jalal persevered, walking across the rocky soil until his feet were well blistered. He was astonished, and quite pleased, to come upon a magnificent banyan tree, right in the middle of the park. Surely this was a sign, he thought, a little guiltily, since he forbade himself from believing in signs. He cleared a site among the gnarled roots of the tree and sat down on the ground self-consciously. He tried crossing his legs into the lotus position, but gave up, and just closed his eyes instead.

  He had been sitting there for some time, refusing to be disturbed by the footsteps, the voices, the occasional giggles, even the roar of a jet passing overhead, when it happened. Suddenly, he felt light surge into his face, a momentary flash which turned the insides of his eyelids a vivid red. He kept his eyes shut, and wondered if he was imagining things. Seconds later, he felt the flash again, and this time, his heart began pounding. Something was occurring, something unexpected, something extraordinary, and he was the medium through which it was being manifested. His mind raced through the books he had read—had the Buddha spoken of a flash, had Mahavira? What did it mean, what did it signify? The flash returned, lingering a little longer this time, and for an instant he wondered if this could be the first step towards enlightenment. A feeling of warmth began to permeate his shoulders, and he suddenly started feeling very light. Then he heard a laugh, his eyes flickered open, and he was greeted by the sight of a group of schoolchildren gathered around him. One of them flashed the mirror a final time into his eyes, another kicked dirt into his face, and then they all ran away laughing.

  Wearily, Mr. Jalal got up and shook the mud out of his hair. As he limped bleary-eyed towards the taxi-stand, he decided the world had become too overpopulated a place to recreate the conditions for renunciation from the Buddha’s time.

  Even though he had been tricked, one thing about the experience stayed with him. It was the memory of those last few instants, when the exhilaration had spread like a drug through his body, when his mind had surged with optimism, and he had felt himself floating, as weightless as a balloon. Mr. Jalal wanted to relive that feeling, he wanted to be able to recreate the conditions that produced it. He found himself diving into his quest with a new urgency, and starting to hope, against the grain of his nature, that he would find something. That the trials he was putting himself through, the pain, the deprivation, would yield a more authentic sign—one that he would not be able to refute, one that would blaze its energy through every cell and fiber of his body. With each new attempt he made, this longing only grew, and soon Mr. Jalal had to periodically remind himself of the skepticism that had always been such an essential part of him.

  Tonight, as he edged his way down the dark and moonless steps, it was not skepticism but excitement that hummed in Mr. Jalal’s mind. He had been waiting for this all day, he had a feeling about this experiment—perhaps this would be the stop on his journey when he finally arrived somewhere.

  He eased himself into the calm that hung over Vishnu’s landing. It was like entering a different dimension, one where the nature of every object had been softened, the sharpness of every corner rounded away. Vishnu’s form lay covered by a bedsheet, and the bright orange floral pattern on the cloth gleamed in the dark around his feet. Mr. Jalal noted that the sheet had changed since the last night, as had Vishnu’s position on the floor. Even the smell was different—mixed in with the odor of excretion was the astringency of phenol, hanging over the landing like the air in a hospital. He wondered who had cleaned Vishnu up. The changes worried Mr. Jalal, since he had counted on the filth to make it more of a test than it might turn out to be now.

  As Mr. Jalal prepared to join Vishnu, he tried to imagine what the Buddha might have done before lying down. Surely there must have been some prayer uttered before settling into meditation. And what about Mother Teresa and St. Francis? For a second, Mr. Jalal toyed with the idea of crossing himself, but then decided not to. Using his sense of touch, he aligned himself with Vishnu’s body in the darkness. He stretched out on the ground, thankful that it felt harder, somehow, than the floor of his bedroom.

  The edge of Vishnu’s sheet brushed against Mr. Jalal’s pajamas. Body and flesh, he had promised. He eased out some of the sheet from under Vishnu and arranged it over his nightshirt. Then, reaching in with his arm, Mr. Jalal felt around under the sheet until his fingers came into contact with Vishnu’s.

  LET ME TELL you, my little Vishnu, of a yogi-spirit named Jeev. A yogi-spirit named Jeev born nine hundred and ninety thousand times.

  Vishnu stops on the stairway to listen. Which one of Jeev’s stories is his mother going to relate?

  Many, many centuries ago, during the days that the Pandavas and Kauravas were living the Mahabharata, Jeev had just risen from being an insect. Sometimes he would be born a bird, and a few times even a small animal. Brahma had awoken from his sleep and breathed out the universe only recently. The air was still new, the streams had cool, clear water; there were enchanted forests in the land, and even the trees had spirits living in them. The lives Jeev led were easy ones—he hopped and flew and ran, using the tin
y quantities of pure air and water that he needed for his existence. He went through many deaths and rebirths, it is true, but when one is so small, it is not too painful to be born again.

  It was during one of his lifetimes as a bird that Jeev found himself being carried to the Pandavas’ house. He had been about to alight in a tree when an arrow came flying through the leaves and grazed his skin. A puff of feathers flew into the air, the sight of which caused him to fall to the ground in shock.

  “Open your eyes, little sparrow,” a voice said, and Jeev found himself cradled in a palm. “The arrow was not meant for you. I was practicing hitting that branch without looking, and you had not appeared when I put on the blindfold.”

  The voice belonged to Arjun, the greatest archer who ever lived. Jeev saw Arjun’s handsome face, saw the rippling chest made strong by archery, and felt a surge in his little feathered breast.

  “Such a pretty bird you are,” Arjun said, stroking Jeev’s beak. “Come, I will take you home—you can stay with us till you feel better.”

  Arjun wrapped Jeev in a handkerchief and tucked him into his vest. As they made their way home, Jeev lost himself in the scent of Arjun’s body. Even in the time it took to be carried to the Pandavas’ hut, Jeev found himself helplessly in love.

  They reached the hut, and Arjun called out, “Look, Mother, come and see what I have found.”

  His mother answered from inside, “Whatever it is, you must share with your brothers.”

  Being a Rajput, Arjun was bound by his mother’s words, words that once spoken could not be retracted. So it was that Jeev became a mascot for all five of the Pandava brothers. They took care of him day by day in turn, feeding him from their palms, letting him alight on their shoulders, petting his tiny head with a finger. And when they traveled, they took him along wherever they went, carrying him in a golden cage when his wings could not flap fast enough to keep up.