Age of Vice

by Deepti Kapoor

wallah

She closed her eyes and tried to rise from her body, look down on herself, see herself as nothing but a speck, an insignificance, nothing at all. From the heaven of her mind she looked down on the coastline. Bombay to the north, Sri Lanka off the southern tip, higher, higher, rising into space, the Arabian Peninsula, the East African coast, Europe, the Americas, the curve of the planet, the deep, impenetrable void. —

“The chains of existence,” she said, “have to be weak enough to break.” She kissed him. “But strong enough to carry you through in the first place.” She turned to face the stars. “By the way . . . Happy birthday.”

He woke the afternoon after the crash in the villa at the farmhouse estate. In the bedroom with the plate-glass windows looking out at the pool, and the skylights above like the eyes of a corpse staring up at the sun. The sun was strong. Hot glass on sun. Cold, empty air. Tangled in the white duvet. The creamy sheets soaked with sweat. A perfect late winter’s day. Remember it. Turn your head to look outside. Bare trees. Leaves falling into the pool. Remember it. Clouds pass quickly through the blue and cover the sun. Brightness muted, heat scattered, hiding. The damp sheets remember it. His perception not connected to his senses. Still a ringing in his ears. The sun returning.