The Death of Vishnu by Manil Suri

Author:Manil Suri
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Contemporary, Azizex666, Adult
ISBN: 9780060004385
Publisher: Perennial
Published: 2001-01-17T05:00:00+00:00

ALTHOUGH HE CERTAINLY knew the way down to Vishnu’s landing, Mr. Pathak followed Short Ganga down the stairs, as if she were leading them on some recently discovered treasure path. Mrs. Pathak brought up the rear of the procession, prepared, it seemed, to use her husband’s body as a shield in case of trouble, but making quick darting movements outside the realm of protection to offer advice or spur them on.

“Stranger and stranger this thing gets,” Mrs. Pathak announced unnecessarily. “Now we will go see who is this Mr. Mystery Man who has dropped by to take a nap.”

Short Ganga shushed Mrs. Pathak, who put a finger on her own mouth in obedience, even though this was a needless exercise since they were, after all, descending to awaken the Mystery Man.

They stood over the sheet-and-dupatta-covered figure. “Look, he’s stolen my sheet from poor Vishnu—what a Mystery Man and a half, to steal the covering from a dying person,” Mrs. Pathak exclaimed. She bent down to take a closer look. “And this dupatta—I’ve seen it before—who wears this color dress? Is it Mrs. Asrani or Mrs. Jalal?”

Short Ganga turned to Mr. Pathak, who cleared his throat. “You can take off the sheet and see who it is,” he instructed her, loath to do the task himself.

Short Ganga thought about protesting, but a part of her was excited at the prospect of being the one to unmask the Mystery Man. Besides, if it did turn out to be Radiowalla, and he attacked her, she would have evidence against him to take to the cigarettewalla, with both the Pathaks present as witnesses. She extended a hand to the edge of the sheet, but just before she could touch it, the figure underneath stirred, then sat bolt upright, its face still obscured.

Short Ganga drew back, and Mrs. Pathak let out a squeal of fright. Even Mr. Pathak’s voice wavered, as he mustered all the sternness he could. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Vishnu? Is that you? Who is it? Why can’t I see anyone? What is this over my head?”

“Jalal sahib? What are you doing here? Ganga, help Mr. Jalal to get the cloth off, will you?” Mr. Pathak said, still hesitant to touch anything himself. “What happened, did you fall in the dark?”

Short Ganga pulled the dupatta off, to reveal Mr. Jalal blinking in the landing light, looking as disoriented as an insect emerging from its pupa.

“Did I fall?” he repeated dully, as if asking the question to himself. Then, suddenly remembering, he sat up straight. “Vishnu!” he said. “You won’t believe what I saw. He came to me. As a god.”

“Maybe he did fall,” Short Ganga suggested. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of refuse and phenol emanating from Vishnu and now lingering like a cloud over Mr. Jalal as well.

“You can’t imagine what he looks like. It’s scary even now to think of it.”

“Mr. Jalal, what are you talking about?”

“He showed me. I saw him. Hundreds of eyes and arms and legs.

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