The Death of Vishnu

not been ready to go back and tell his wife about his failure with the Asranis just yet.
    He tore open the wax paper and took out a biscuit, then dipped it halfway into the tea, and bit the wet part off. The warm biscuit melted over his tongue, releasing its intensely sweet Gluco and tea flavors. This was what he liked most about Irani hotels—sitting at a white marble-top table on one of the black cane chairs, staring at the quotes from holy books painted in Urdu on the mirrored walls, hearing the orders being called out by the busboys, letting the tea-soaked Gluco biscuits dissolve one by one in his mouth. It was a shame so many of them were closing down. Just last month, the one down the street had been converted into a clothes boutique (the fifth boutique on their street), while there was talk of this one being sold to make way for a video store. Mr. Pathak stared at the yellowed ceiling through the slowly revolving overhead fans, and wondered how many more times he had left, to escape to this private haven.
    A red double-decker bus roared by the open doors of the hotel, and Mr. Pathak smelled the hot dust churned up in its wake. There was so much noise everywhere and things these days seemed to move so fast. All Mr. Pathak ever wanted was peace, and it seemed as if he spent all his free time trying to find it. Even when he thought he had found it, like this morning, there was always something that caused it to be short-lived.
    It was not his fault that Mrs. Asrani was so unreasonable. It was not his fault that Vishnu was sick. It was certainly not his fault that Usha had arranged the kitty party for today. Nothing was his fault, yet he knew he would be blamed for everything. A wave of self-pity swept over Mr. Pathak, and the Gluco turned chalky in his mouth.
    Already, he could see his wife’s face narrowing with anger, lips flaring around a stream of cruel words, eyes darkening with derision— He had failed her again. He would slink back to his chair after his chastisement and stare at his newspaper. The words would dissolve meaninglessly on the page as he planned his revenge—little acts of rebellion, tiny nips of retaliation, administered in carefully camouflaged ways, that helped balance things out in his mind. There would be ample opportunity today, what with Usha’s impending kitty party. He would sit at the dining table instead of in his chair to read his newspaper, serene in the knowledge that his presence in the middle of all his wife’s preparations would drive her crazy. She would bustle around him in increasingly frenetic circles, trying to dislodge him with dirty looks and inaudible mutterings, but he would feign obliviousness while secretly savoring her every move. She would have to finally break down, of course, and tell him to move, at which point he would do so with much reluctance, pulling out that expression of long-suffering, injured misery that he knew she hated so much. And when the friends arrived and were all assembled at the table, he would shuffle into the room, unshaven and in a torn kurta perhaps, to ask after the women’s husbands, or to generally hover around, until he was certain his wife’s embarrassment was complete, and no more could be squeezed out.
    The thought of getting even brightened Mr. Pathak’s mood somewhat, but also enervated him. Revenge took too much out of him, it was exhausting to plan and draining to execute. He would much rather have the ambulance pick Vishnu up, so that he didn’t have to deal with this issue. Perhaps he should call one and pay the money himself—Usha need never know.
    Or perhaps he could call for it, but give Mr. Asrani’s name instead. Mr. Pathak adjusted his glasses, as if he had just spotted a new and particularly interesting inscription on the wall. Wouldn’t that be a surprise! The corners of his mouth curled up devilishly as he inserted a whole Gluco biscuit between his lips. Or better still, Mrs. Asrani’s name. That would be a riot! Excited, Mr. Pathak crammed the last two biscuits into his mouth as well, and began to chew on them vigorously. He imagined the look on Mrs. Asrani’s face when the ambulance driver presented her with the bill, and his lips twisted into a smile. Her eyes bulging like someone being throttled, her mouth opening and closing silently like that of a fish, no sound emerging from it for once, what a sight it would be! Mr. Pathak began to laugh. Bits of Gluco biscuit flew from his mouth, and the imam