Every novelist searches for that always elusive, but often compelling strong opening sentence and Manil Suri appears to have hit the jackpot with his introductory statement in a novel of surprises. "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." Suri's lively debut is as good as the hype proclaims, even good enough to withstand the garish jacket, which can only be justified if it is deliberately intended as a parody of an Indian movie poster. That said, Suri, who is brave enough to allow his central character to spend the duration of the novel dying or dead on a stinking stairwell, has great fun throughout at the expense of the conventions of Indian cinema, religion, society, marriage customs and, it must be said, fiction.
Dying, dead and certainly less than saintly, the smelly Vishnu is everyone's problem. At least that is how the warring tenants of a Bombay apartment block see it. The Pathaks and Asranis bicker over everything remotely territorial and are currently in dispute over the bill to pay the ambulance bringing Vishnu to the hospital. Into the chaos is brought a cup of tea, calmly injecting its presence. "The steam rises lazily from the surface of the tea. It is thick with the aroma of boiled milk, streaked with the perfume of cardamon and clove. It wisps and curls and rises and falls, tracing letters from some fleeting alphabet." The ceremonial giving of the tea acts as more than a life-giving gesture towards a dying or dead man, it arouses his memories.
Its lingering, lovingly physical languor also represents one of the two most dominant qualities of Suri's prose, its erotic, sensuous side. This returns throughout the novel in the many dream-like sequences in which Vishnu's fading consciousness evokes memories of a sexual relationship with the petulant but seductive Padmini. In contrast to this is Suri's other self, a writer of fast-moving, earthy domestic comedy dominated by the exasperated exchanges which appear to come as second nature to many Indian writers. The narrative is both shaped and served by colourful characterisation. Even his most stereotypical fat disappointed housewives and defeated husbands emerge as cunning and engagingly human characters. Suri moves in and takes closer looks at each of his main characters and none of them is without their complications and contradictions. While the rival couples battle it out, mainly through the activities of the wives, a sub-plot involving an elopement inspired by the movies is being arranged.
The genius of this novel is that everyone thinks he or she knows exactly what is going on. The truth is no one does. It is no coincidence that the presiding consciousness of the narrative is a character believed to be possibly dead and certainly dying. Considering the pace of the admittedly slight, if complicated, plot, Suri never loses sight of the outcome while also maintaining control of most of his digressions. Vishnu, of course, is far more than a loser whose entire life has failed to match the romance and beauty of his childhood. He has come to represent the best as well as the most petty aspects of the people whose individual dramas are unravelling around his prostrate form.
It seems fitting that another outsider, Mr Jalal, a Muslim, should become inspired or crazy enough to decide that the Vishnu lying on the landing is a god. Of course the Hindu tenants are angered by a Muslim presuming to tell them about a Hindu god. A riot develops. Suri approaches his narrative with equal measures of cleverness and naivety. It works. Yet again, another fine Indian writer has emerged fully formed in a debut which is as funny as it is intelligent and worthy of one of the most consistently exciting national groups of contemporary fiction. Neither Suri nor his characters miss much. Determined to impress her guests, Mrs Pathak will not allow the collapse of her elaborate samosas to torpedo her plans. She goes to the bedroom cupboard where she keeps her valuables. There she finds success contained in a metal cylinder. "She 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 colours of the American flag?) . . . As she had ground together the green chillies and coriander for the chutney, Mrs Pathak had wondered how Americans liked to eat their Kraft Cheese."
The snobbish Mrs Jaiswal, arriving at the party, announces: "If I'd known I'd see a dead man on your stairs, I would never have come!" Learning Vishnu is merely drunk does not help. "Drunk? You have drunk people on your steps? What kind of building have you brought us to here, that there are drunk people on the steps?"
Away from the bickering of the couples, each determined the other will pay for the removal of Vishnu, is lonely Mr Taneja, who has dwelt in the shadows since the early death of his young wife. Suri confirms that he is as comfortable creating sympathetic characters as he is writing comic survivors. There is a subtle change of tone when Mr Jalal, the wouldbe prophet, encounters difficulties during his daring escape on the balcony. Hanging from the balcony, his neighbours banging at his door, "suddenly Mr Jalal felt a sharp nip between the thumb and index finger of his right hand, a nip that almost made him let go his hold. He looked up and saw a flutter of brown feathers. It was the sparrow . . . Was this a conspiracy - first people, now birds - was he to be attacked by locusts next? Didn't the sparrow have anything better to do than go after him?"
Even the elopement fails when the beautiful and impatient Kavita discovers she does not like her beloved all that much. She decides to see herself as a movie star rather than a romantic heroine. It is this constant juxtaposing of the banal and the profound, the domestic and the quasi-supernatural, the earthy and the lyric, combined with Suri's feel for his characters which makes The Death of Vishnu not just a very fine Indian novel, but a superb, cinematic performance of texture and humour. Between it and Peter Carey's True History of the Kelly Gang, international fiction has made an impressive start to the literary year.
Eileen Battersby is Literary Correspondent of The Irish Times
