The Death of Vishnu

at the facing table stroked his white beard worriedly and looked away. Then a few of the crumbs flew down Mr. Pathak’s windpipe, Mr. Pathak’s eyes bulged somewhat themselves behind his glasses, and he was beset by a violent coughing fit.
    The coughing subsided, and with it went Mr. Pathak’s planned deception. It was too dangerous. He wished Mr. Asrani and he had been better friends, so they could have somehow, secretly, resolved this matter without their wives knowing. When they had first moved into the flat, Usha had invited Mrs. Asrani to a few of her kitty parties. Mr. Asrani and he had talked politics every time they met, and the four of them had even gone to a movie together once— Main Chup Rahoongi, Mr. Pathak suddenly remembered. And when Kavita, just a baby then, started crying in the darkened theater, his wife accompanied Mrs. Asrani to the lobby and waited with her until the crying stopped.
    Of course, all that was gone forever now, the kitchen had taken care of that. Any friendliness shown to Mr. Asrani (or worse, Mrs. Asrani) was interpreted as treason by Usha, who was constantly vigilant to prevent things from going too far. Both Mr. Asrani and he had been trained not to linger in the kitchen together, and to exchange only the most cursory of pleasantries when they met. Perhaps it was time to break this silence, Mr. Pathak thought, time to become allies. If nothing else, they could at least settle the problem of Vishnu.
    Mr. Pathak drank the last of his tea and used his finger to scoop up the dissolved biscuit pieces from the bottom of the cup. Mr. Asrani, he knew, took the 81 bus every Saturday morning—he had often wondered where his neighbor went. He should be passing by soon on his way to the bus stop. Licking the last of the biscuit mush from his fingers, Mr. Pathak sat back in his chair to wait.

    S ATURDAYS WERE A day of atonement for Mr. Asrani. He would “make the rounds” as he put it, to ask forgiveness for all his sins over the week. Primarily, he supposed, for all the time he spent at the drinkwalla. He would first take the 81 to Mahim, and pay his respects at the big Ram Mandir temple there. Next, he would stop at the Prabhadevi temple, and the Mahalakshmi temple, and sometimes at the small shrine to Hanuman along the way as well. After finishing with the Hindu temples, he would take the bus all the way to the masjid near Metro, and offer his prayers there, covering his scalp with his handkerchief like the Muslim mosque-goers. On the way back, if nobody he knew was watching, he would make one final dash into the Catholic church across the street. Mr. Asrani believed in not taking any chances where appeasement of the heavenly powers was concerned.
    Today he felt a special urgency to get to the safety of the temple. It was bad enough that this was amavas, the dreaded monthly event of no moon. Now, to complicate things further, Vishnu lay dying on their steps. Mr. Asrani shook his head at this awe-inspiring compounding of inauspiciousness.
    The stench on the way down the steps was terrible. Mr. Asrani stopped to look at Vishnu and wondered whether to touch him.
    “Vishnu?” he called. “Are you alive?” Then he realized how absurd his question sounded, and looked around, but nobody else was there. A bubble of saliva grew at Vishnu’s mouth, and Mr. Asrani thought he saw it expand and contract. He decided, finally, not to touch him, partly because of the smell, but more because of an irrational fear that Vishnu would spring to life on contact. Holding his handkerchief to his nose, Mr. Asrani skirted around Vishnu and continued down the steps.
    At the door leading to the street, he paused. He hated venturing out on amavas. He wished someone would invent an umbrella that would ward off the rays of misfortune he could feel raining down upon him on such days. His baldness made him feel extra-vulnerable—he could not even count on a layer of hair to protect him. Had it not been a Saturday, Mr. Asrani would have tried to remain ensconced in the protection of the house. But staying in today and missing his weekly round might be even more dangerous. Pulling up his collar around his neck, as if he were preparing to ward off some great chill, Mr. Asrani stepped through the doorway and exposed his body to the insalubrity of the day outside.
    “Asrani sahib!” He had been walking toward the bus stop, keeping a wary eye on the cars passing by, to make sure they did not mount the pavement