Not wanting to arouse Vishnu in case he hadn't died yet, Mrs. Asrani tiptoed down to the third step above the landing on which he lived, teakettle in hand. Vishnu lay sprawled on the stone, his figure aligned with the curve of the stairs. The laces of a pair of sneakers twined around the fingers of one hand; the other lay outstretched, as if trying to pull his body up the next step. During the night, Mrs. Asrani noted with distress, Vishnu had not only thrown up, but also soiled himself. She had warned her neighbor, Mrs. Pathak, not to feed Vishnu when he was so sick, but did that woman ever listen? She tried not to look at the large stain spreading through the worn material of Vishnu's khaki pants, the ones that her husband had given him last Divali. What a mess-the jamadarni would have to be brought in to clean up such a mess, and it would not be free, either, someone would have to pay. Her large frame heaving against the sari in which it was swaddled, Mrs. Asrani peered at Vishnu from the safety of the third step and vowed it would not be her.
A more immediate problem had to be dealt with first-what to do about the cup of tea she brought Vishnu every morning? On the one hand, it was obvious that Vishnu did not have much need for tea right now. Even yesterday, he had barely stirred when she had filled his plastic cup, and she had felt a flutter of resentment at not having received her usual salaam in return. On the other hand, giving tea to a dying man was surely a very propitious thing to do. Since she had taken this daily task upon herself, it would be foolish to stop now, when at most a few more cups could possibly be required. Besides, who knew what sort of repercussions would rain down upon her if she failed to fulfill this daily ritual?
Pressing the edge of her sari against her nose to keep out the smell, Mrs. Asrani descended gingerly to the landing. Using the scrap of brown paper she had brought along for the purpose, she fished out the cup from the small pile of belongings near Vishnu's head, taking care to always keep the paper between her fingers and the cup, so as not to infect herself with whatever he had. She placed the cup on the step above the landing and poured tea from the kettle. Hating the idea of good tea being wasted, she hesitated when the cup was half full, but only for a second, filling it to its usual level to fulfill her pledge. Then she ascended the steps and surveyed her handiwork. The cup lay steaming where she had left it-but now Vishnu looked like he was stretching out across the landing to try and reach it, like a man dead in the desert, grasping for the drink that could have saved him. She thought about moving the cup to correct this, but the scrap of paper she had used now lay on the landing, and she couldn't be sure which surface had touched the cup. There was nothing she could do anymore, so she turned and climbed up the remaining steps. At the door of her flat, it occurred to her that she still didn't know if Vishnu was alive or dead. But it didn't really matter, she had done her duty in either case. Satisfied, Mrs, Asrani entered her flat and closed the door behind her.
The stream rises lazily from the surface of the tea. It is thick with the aroma of boiled milk, streaked with the perfume of cardamom and clove. It wisps and curls and rises and falls, tracing letters from some fleeting alphabet.
A sudden gust leads it spiraling down to the motionless man. It reaches his face, almost invisible now, and wafts playfully under his nose. Surely the smells it carries awaken memories in the man. Memories of his mother in the tin-and-cardboard hut, brewing tea in the old iron kettle. She would squeeze and press at the leaves, and use them several times over, throwing them away only when no more flavor could be coaxed out. Memories of Padmini, the vapor still devoid of cardamom or clove, but smelling now of chameli flowers fastened like strings of pearls around her wrists. After they had made love, and if she did not have another person waiting, the tea would be carried in by one of the children at the brothel, and they would sit on the bed in silence and sip it from metal tumblers. Memories of Kavita, the steam finally milk-rich and perfumed, her long black tresses framing her smiling face as she bends to fill his cup. For almost a month last year while Mrs. Asrani was sick, it was her daughter Kavita who performed the daily ritual. Vishnu would scrape a broken comb through his knotted hair every morning and wait to deliver a toothy "Salaam, memsahib!" when she came, winking at her with his good eye.
All these memories and more the steam tries to evoke in the man. His mother discarding all her used leaves on festivals, even scooping out a few spoonfuls of sugar to sweeten the tea. Padmini pressing her lips against the metal rim, laughing as she offers him the tumbler stained with unnatural red. Kavita trying to keep her dupatta from falling off as she bends down, passing the kettle from hand to hand so as to not bum her fingers.
A breath of exhaled air emerges from the man's nostrils, fraying the steam into strands. The strands shimmer for a second, then fade away.
It had been almost eleven years now that Mrs. Asrani bad been bringing Vishnu his morning tea. Before that, it had been Tall Ganga for whom she had brought the tea, the old woman who had slept on the landing between the ground and first floors since as far back as anyone could remember. One day, Tall Ganga had announced to Mrs. Pathak and Mrs...
The foregoing is excerpted from The Death of Vishnu by Manil Suri. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission from HarperCollins Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022
"Publishers Weekly Review"
by Publishers Weekly,
"Few have invested their fiction with such luminous language, insight into character and grasp of cultural construct as Suri does....This fluid novel is an irresistible blend of realism, mysticism and religious metaphor, a parable of the universal conditions of human life." Publishers Weekly
by Wall Street Journal,
"A delightful and rich first novel...lyrical."
by Michael Cunningham, author of The Hours,
"Vibrantly alive, beautifully written, full of wonderfully rich and deeply human characters....The depiction of the Asranis and the Pathaks, in all their convincingly human awfulness, brings to mind such masters of scrupulous meanness as Flaubert and Flannery O'Connor."
by Paul Gray, Time,
"Enchanting....Suri's novel achieves an eerie and memorable transcendence."
by Suzy Hansen, Salon,
"Suri's elegant, clever prose and emotional and philosophical probing carry the action of the novel entirely....Suri has created an endlessly complex world that both breaks its inhabitants' hearts and occasionally holds out the prospect of redemption."
by Washington Post Book World,
"[A] literary accomplishment...eloquent, refined and tasteful."
by The Seattle Times,
"The reader is swept away by Suri's fresh, witty observations and tender comic moments."
by Michael Gorra, New York Times Book Review,
"[A] deft and confident first novel....The Death of Vishnu reminds me of the work of an earlier writer, the deliberately modest and beautifully constructed novels of R. K. Narayan."
by Donna Seaman, Booklist,
"Suri...has entered the realm of literature with assurance, agile humor, and an impressive breadth of social and religious concerns.... [A] tenderly comic, wryly metaphysical, and hugely entertaining tale..."
by Elizabeth Kadetsky, San Francisco Chronicle Book Review,
"[P]rovocative....[Suri's] story succeeds by challenging a sitcomlike cast of characters to greater depths with a change of setting....Suri contributes to our understanding of what it means to believe."
by Carol Memmott, USA Today,
"There is an exquisite beauty in Suri's prose....An extraordinarily insightful look at human relationships."
by Francine Prose, Elle,
"Vivid and engrossing....[T]he depth of Suri's characters...takes [the novel] beyond the confines of its particular setting, and raises it into a work of fiction that seems not only universal but absolutely cosmic."
by Anna Mundow, Boston Sunday Globe,
"Enchanting....Suri's penetration of his characters' lives is as precise and cunning as that of a master surgeon like J. M. Coetzee."
by Entertainment Weekly,
"Witness the debut journey of a remarkable writer....[A] combination of ruthlessness, insight, humor, and wickedly perfect pitch....For once, all the hype about a major new literary voice isn't wrong."
by Padma Viswanathan, Book Magazine,
"Suri has a cynic's sense of humor and a seeker's sense of wonder, and the author displays both to penetrating effect in his first novel."
by Navtej Sarna, Times Literary Supplement (U.K.),
"Suri writes with obvious affection about a Bombay perhaps already lost, evoking its moods and attitudes, its light and smells....Suri's eye for detail and natural ability to create a strong sense of place and time define his considerable talent."
by Harper Collins,
Vishnu, the odd-job man in a Bombay apartment block, lies dying on the staircase landing: Around him the lives of the apartment dwellers unfold: the warring housewives on the first floor, lovesick teenagers on the second, and the widower, alone and quietly grieving on the top floor of the building. In a fevered state Vishnu looks back on his love affair with the seductive Padmim and wonders if he might actually be the god Vishnu, guardian of the entire universe.
Blending incisive comedy with Hindu mythology and a dash of Bollywood sparkle, The Death of Vishnuis an intimate and compelling view of an unforgettable world.
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