by Manil Suri
One year she stumbled upon the actual sacrifice. She had followed the cadence of her uncle’s voice, and come upon her father and cousins crowded around a doorway. The white cotton kurtas felt soft and smelled of attar as she squeezed through between the men. She saw her uncle standing in his embroidered robe next to the butcher, the cloth streaming down from arms raised at right angles to his body. He lowered them, and she looked past and saw the head of the goat. Its neck lolled against the curved blade, the eyelids twitched, as if awakening from deep slumber. There was a trough on the ground, with blood so black and viscous it looked like tar. The tiles around were stained in red, and she noticed that her uncle’s own shoes were spattered as well. She screamed and tried to squirm back through the men, but got caught in the suffocating folds of white cloth. She screamed and screamed, surrounded by the white, until her father’s arms found her and lifted her away.
Her uncle came to see her afterwards. She was unable to look at him at first, terrified that she would find drops of blood in his beard. Once she stared into his eyes, she was pulled into the deep calm in them.
“Do you know why we do this, Arifa? Why we sacrifice a goat?”
She looked at his shoes in silence. The blood had dried to a dark brown along their edges.
“It’s to remind us how precious life is. To remind us that anyone who sacrifices a goat must be prepared to sacrifice themselves in the same way, for God.”
The words did not make sense to her, but she nodded in agreement, nodded to let him know that she had understood, nodded to escape the incriminating calmness that emanated from his eyes.
Now, so many years later, her uncle’s words had an immediacy for her that she found frightening. Ahmed had already crossed the line, and the Koran was clear on blasphemy. Would she be called upon to repudiate him? The Koran recommended divorce, it prescribed death. Would she be able to banish him from her life?
Ahmed opened his eyes, and she looked into them. No, she was not strong enough. She could not abandon Ahmed. She could not draw a knife across his throat. She would stay by his side, and carry him through, come what may. There would be time later to atone, to settle her debts with God.
“Tell me again, Ahmed,” she said, “what Vishnu told you last night.”
THE CLAMORING DOWNSTAIRS was getting louder. “We can’t let these Muslims carry away our daughters.” “Who do they think they are? They should be put back in their place.” “We have to teach them a lesson, before they get out of hand.”
When Mr. Pathak came down for cigarettes, a group of people congregated around him, as if he were a film star. “What did Mr. Jalal tell you?” they asked. “Did he reveal where Salim is hiding?”
Mr. Pathak was overwhelmed by all this attention. “I’ll answer all your questions, just let me get my cigarettes.” As he paid for his packet of Charminar, he imagined reporters milling around and flash-bulbs popping in his face. He gestured to the questioners to follow him, and sat down on the third step of the building stairway.
Mr. Pathak pulled out a Charminar and tapped it on the packet. He put it in his mouth and searched for his matches, but a lighter miraculously appeared to light his cigarette. He inhaled deeply, then blew out the smoke while looking skyward, as he had seen important film people do while talking about their work. “Mr. Jalal is apparently a very complex man,” he began.
Unfortunately, Mr. Pathak had overestimated the gathering’s appetite for analysis. What they were hungry for was facts—or, if those were not available, then the next best thing, rumors. “Did Mr. Jalal confess?” “Was Vishnu badly hurt in the fight?” “Did you see blood on the dupatta?” they pressed.
Anxious to retain his grip on his audience, Mr. Pathak began answering all their questions, some with half-truths, some with a random yes or no, taking care to lubricate things with adequate amounts of embellishment.
“Yes, there was blood on the dupatta, but at this point it’s impossible to tell whether it was Mr. Jalal’s or Vishnu’s when they got into a fight, or perhaps it could even be Kavita’s if God knows who tried to outrage her modesty.
“Yes, Vishnu was hurt in the fight, which is so bad because he was doing quite well yesterday—even the ambulance people said he didn’t need to go to the hospital, but now he’s lying there near death.
“No, Mr. Jalal didn’t confess, not exactly, though he did say that if Hindus aren’t prepared to give their daughters in marriage, then Muslims have no alternative but to take them by force.”
These answers seemed to be the right ones, since they suitably roiled the congregation. There were shouts to protect the honor of the Hindu bride pool, and to beat a confession out of Mr. Jalal. “Nobody should be able to get away like this with impunity.”
At the idea of violence, Mr. Pathak started getting nervous. Perhaps the Hindu-Muslim bit had been too much, perhaps he should take it back. But he was loath to relinquish the position of leadership the people had bestowed on him. He tried to search for a middle way. “Let’s go inform the police,” he said, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Let’s go ask them to search for Kavita.”
But the gathering was having none of it. “The Jalals must pay for what they have done. Who do they think they are, doing this in a Hindu country?”
By now, Mr. Pathak was perspiring. The situation was getting quite out of hand, and he hadn’t even mentioned to his wife that he was going downstairs. The assembly was becoming nastier before his eyes—already, he could see one or two bamboo lathis being wielded at the periphery. What would his wife say if she heard he had incited a lathi-armed mob up the stairs to beat up poor Mr. Jalal? “Let’s just calm down for a moment,” he tried saying, but a chorus of voices drowned him out. Sensing his weakness, the congregation turned instead to the cigarettewalla, who had emerged from his shop, a lathi held expertly in one hand.
“All we want is justice for Kavita,” the cigarettewalla said, and there were cries of approval. The cigarettewalla slapped a palm on his forearm and thigh, and then held his lathi up. “Let’s go get some more lathis and some more people,” he said.
“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.
AT 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.”
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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.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE 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 li
ke 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.”