The Death of Vishnu by Manil Suri Read Free Book Online Page B

itch in her palm seemed to get worse, but still she refrained from scratching it.
    Since they had come to Bombay, she had strived to claim her place in the circles her mother had promised her. It had taken work to get this far—she had learned to cultivate and flatter, to aggrandize her family’s status and her husband’s position, and to gamble away a few hundred rupees she could ill afford to lose. Now that she was recognized in the kitty party circle as one of the women eligible to be a hostess, what was the next step? Start her own kitty party? Try to wrest control of this one? Mrs. Pathak looked at Mrs. Jaiswal displaying the gold-and-blue silk border of her sari to the women around and scratched her palm distractedly. She would never be as rich and powerful (or even as coordinated) as Mrs. Jaiswal, she could never become her, so what was the use?
    But this was no time for self-pity. There was one thing she could do, one thing she would do—and that was to make mincemeat of Mrs. Jaiswal’s “tocos” from last week. She went into the adjacent room to assemble her tray. After the disintegration of the samosas, she had gone straight to the steel bedroom cupboard, the one where she kept all the valuables she owned. Rummaging under the pile of her Benarasi saris, her fingers had closed around the metal cylinder. She had pulled it out and looked at it—“Kraft” it said, in letters so proudly red and yellow against the bright blue curve of the tin that they practically screamed “Imported,” practically screamed “American.” (In fact, weren’t red and blue the colors of the American flag?) She had been saving it ever since her cousin had brought it for her from his trip abroad—if ever there was a time to use it, it was now.
    She had opened the can and peered at the cheese inside—it was definitely more orange, more rich-looking, than the pale yellow Amul cheese she was used to. She had decided to cut it into cubes and serve it from the can—better not to take any chances with these old goats, who probably couldn’t tell the difference between Kraft and paneer. The taste had been surprisingly disappointing—bland and a little plastic, like something wrapped in cellophane, but without the wrapper taken off. But it was nothing a little hot chutney couldn’t fix. Maybe some spicy roasted peas too, she had thought, and some lentils fried with chili powder—that should zip things up. As she had ground together the green chilies and coriander for the chutney, Mrs. Pathak had wondered how the Americans liked to eat their Kraft cheese.
    The bell rang just as Mrs. Pathak was putting the final touches on her tray. She looked at the cheese all neatly cut into cubes, at the peas and lentils glistening with spices, at the bowl filled with dark green chutney. There were voices from the other room, but Mrs. Pathak would not be hurried—she carefully turned the tin around until the lettering was facing the front of the tray. She was still adjusting the cubes of cheese when Mrs. Mirchandani burst into the room. “Usha, come to the door quickly. The ambulancewalla is here, and your neighbor is demanding you pay him!”

    “V ISHNU, WAKE UP !” The words come from far away. He opens his eyes. Kavita is standing over him in the dark. “Wake up! Has Salim come down yet?” Slowly, he remembers. It is the night he fell asleep, waiting for her to come.
    “Not yet, memsahib.”
    “Not yet?” Her brow furrows. “Tell him then I’ll be waiting upstairs. Right near the terrace door this time, even above Mr. Taneja’s landing—last time we almost got caught. And, Vishnu, warn us again, will you, if anyone comes?” Kavita reaches out her hand as if to touch his cheek. But her fingertips stop just before they make contact with his face, and she waves instead.
    Salim descends some minutes later. He is the Jalals’ only child. Vishnu wonders why Kavita has chosen this Muslim boy, why she risks her parents’ wrath to see