The One Who Wrote Destiny

by Nikesh Shukla

  I have not eaten today, he says, holding out his hands. Please.

  I wave my hand at him, to say no. I am not unkind. I make and serve food at the mandhir where they offer meals to everybody, Hindu or no. He can go there. I walk past him and turn to chivvy Neha and Rakesh to hurry up. He reminds me of something – I can’t quite picture what in my head. It is a photograph I have seen. I turn to watch as Rakesh, and then Neha, place their half-finished mangos in his hands and walk towards me. Neha slips her hand into mine and Rakesh grabs hers. Her hand is sticky and moist. Instinctively, I squeeze it.

  The old man smiles at me, sucking at some mango skin, and winks.

  I am annoyed. Why did you do that? I ask.

  He was hungry.

  That was your mango, I say, squeezing her hand tight till I feel her resistance, trying to pull it away. I clutch her hand tighter to stop her from squirming.

  I say to her, I give you my food. You eat my food. I give him my food. He eats my food. You do not give anyone my food. That is for me to decide, not you. Okay? Do you understand me?

  Neha nods.

  I do not know why I am angry.

  We walk home in silence. It is hot and by the time we get to the house, my back is slick with rivers of sweat. I wet a cloth and place it on my head as I sit down on a chair and close my eyes.

  I open my eyes to stillness.

  My body becomes alert and aware that I am surrounded by quiet. There is no movement in the room. I sit up and look around. Rakesh, Neha, neither of them is in sight. The chair crunches against the ground as I stand up.

  I call their names but there is nothing – only the clammy hand of heat and stillness in my ears. I look in the kitchen. Neither of them is there. I look out of the back door to the toilet.

  Neither of them is there, nor are they playing in the courtyard outside my house. Not that either of these two sluggish children would be doing what normal children do, running around and playing chase. No, they sit and they read and they stare and they eat. They are lazy. They are mine. Children after my own heart. I do not move unless I have to, which is rare when these two are not here.

  I call their names again.

  Kantha, who lives across the road from me, walks past the house. I shout her name, and ask if she has seen my grandchildren. She does not stop walking as she turns to me and she shakes her head. I calmly step outside and look around.

  Dogs tear at nappies strewn across the waste ground next to Kantha’s house.

  A car splutters goodbye as it judders off into the distance but I cannot hear any human voices, least of all any children playing.

  My stomach churns, as though I’m turning over ghee, again and again.

  I step out of the house and shout Rakesh’s name, then Neha’s, then Rakesh’s again. All I can hear is the hushed roar of the sea.

  I don’t know where to go, whether towards the shore, or into town or through the wasteland to where they used to have a race track when the British were here. I don’t know. I just don’t know.

  These pagal chokrao.

  I picture the old man for a second. Maybe he – no, who is he?

  I decide to head back towards the town and walk as fast as I can with my knees and my gout.

  I lead with my head. Stopping. Panting. Walking. Towards the town. Where there are people.

  I begin to run, but my body is slowed by age and weakened by inactivity. Adrenaline drills at my brain and I push myself faster.

  All of this was supposed to be easier than it is. What is life, if it is constantly grieving for you, and for Nisha, and for Chumchee? What is life, if it is trying to ensure none of you are ever forgotten? What is life, if I am the one who outlives you all – who am I? Am I the one who writes destiny for our family? A scribe, who records all these things, in order that they hold our family to account? No. I do not control any of this. I do not control our destiny. I am like the rusty car that will not die, the cockroach which cannot be killed. I am the moment in time when you can see neither ahead nor behind, only down to your feet. I live on my knees. And they are worn.

  Desperate, I call for my grandchildren. I cannot outlive them. I cannot see their bodies put into the ground, cannot be the one who remembers them for ever. Is my destiny to be a record of our family’s suffering? Is my destiny to be the memory banks for who we were and what we could have done? I do not want this for life. I want to live again. I want to take everything we can achieve and throw it into the sky. I want to be a person again.

  I call their names.

  I remember when Nisha died, and Chumchee, and you; when Papa and Amee died – I knew of one thing only. I knew this would all happen. There, in the factory, that one long night, watching as those men played cards with us, and joked with you, and one of them looked at me and said, she carries the weight of the world in her eyes. She never forgets a thing, that one. It will be the death of her.

  And I said, you can talk to me as an equal. You do not talk about me as though I am not in this room. Women are not servants and spectres.

  The man laughed, and said, I’m sorry. You remind me of Martha. St Martha.

  Who is she? I asked.

  As Jesus and his disciples were out walking, they came to a village where a woman named Martha opened her home to them. She had a sister called Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet listening to what he said. But Martha was distracted by all the preparations that had to be made. She came to him and asked, Lord, don’t you care that my sister has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me. Martha, Martha, the Lord answered, you are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her. Luke chapter ten, verses thirty-eight to forty-two. She is the patron saint of servants and cooks.

  What a beautiful example for women everywhere, I told him, as I poured out some tea.

  He laughed.

  I laughed with him. The situation itself was ridiculous. It seemed like the wrong time for us to descend into arguments about the roles we must inherit.

  He kept looking at me. When you were helping some of the other men make beds, he said – his name was John – when you remember all this, it’s important not just to remember our names, but to try and take something of who we are.

  I asked what he meant.

  He said, you will remember all this. You will look out on to the ashes of everyone you loved and wonder how you outlived them. Do not question why. Just remember them. That is their right and your duty. Your daughter will find love. Briefly, but she will find it. Tragedy is a community, not a singularity. A community. A man without a donkey is a donkey. This is your burden.

  He smiled. I told him I was tired and he said, we all are. I understood. And I hated the know-it-all.

  By the time I woke up in the morning, ready to tell John where all the things for breakfast were so that he and his friends could make it themselves, they had already tidied up after themselves and left.

  He did tell me this would all happen.

  Tragedy.

  This was my burden, my destiny. Both, hand in hand. In bed together, lying naked next to each other. Tragedy and destiny, the strange bedfellows of my life.

  I reach the fruit market and look around, wildly, for my children. My babies.

  I want to live again.

  I listen. I cannot hear them.

  Mtoto, I shout. Watoto. Wako wapi watoto wangu? Nisaidie.

  People gather around me.

  I ask them, Wajukuu zangu kuwa na kukimbia mbali. Msaada mimi kupata yao.

  Apart from the odd word, the odd noun, the odd thing I need, I do not speak Swahili. I do not speak English except to my grandchildren. I do not speak Gujarati except to you. I do not speak at all in this world. My mouth is dry.

  Nisaidie, I say again, strained. Desperate.

  I give a brief description in a mixture of English, Swahili and Gujarati, all of my tongues, and people smile and nod and disappear into the streets,
calling out their names. Rakesh. Neha. Rakesh, the lord of the full-moon day, and Neha, love. Where are you?

  I walk around the perimeter of the fruit market. It has been packed away now. It is empty and I can see through the space. The stalls and tables have been moved to the edges, making it easier to clean away the rotten fruit on the ground. Not that anyone does this.

  I walk and I walk and I seem to get lost in the streets I’ve known since I was born. Each one looks exactly the same. Emptying out as the evening approaches and people retreat home to sit, and wait for the sea breeze to cool off a hot day.

  I am lost.

  The house is dark. There are no lights on. The door is still open from when I ran out earlier.

  I turn on the single bulb for the main room and call out Neha and Rakesh’s names. I hear nothing.

  I stand outside my door, under the wooden awning, and wait.

  I fix my stare on a single point in the distance – it’s the gap between the trees behind my across-the-road neighbour’s house where you can see the sea. I watch it as the dusk grows and feel an ache in my stomach. I am hungry but this does not feel like the time to be eating. Nor preparing food. Who am I preparing food for?

  The children have gone.

  Everybody leaves me.

  When I hear the man’s voice I don’t know how long I have been standing there watching the darkness descend over a single spot of sea. That man. I know his voice. I can hear him in the distance.

  Those who remember me at the time of death will come to me. Do not doubt this. Whatever occupies the mind at the time of death determines the destination of the dying; always they will tend towards that state of being.

  He is reciting Gitas. I look for him in the darkness.

  His dhoti, now unfolded down to his ankles, gleams at me.

  He holds the hands of Neha and Rakesh.

  I run to them both, screaming, my hand aloft ready for a severe thapad.

  Undur ja! I scream at them both. Get inside.

  Neha and Rakesh release themselves from the old man and disappear into the house, holding each other’s hands.

  I slap the air behind Rakesh’s head with the back of my hand and turn to the man.

  What did you do with them? I hiss.

  Auntie, he says, even though he is at least ten years older than me, Auntie, they come to me when they need me the most. When their hurt is so great that they cannot contain it any more. I give them what they need. And they help me get closer to God.

  Who are you? I ask.

  I step closer to him to show I am not afraid. Except here we are. In the dark. In front of my house. A man who is mostly muscle despite his age, half-naked, and me. I barely move. I am scared but he must not know this. He adjusts his round glasses.

  Do not be afraid, he tells me. This was supposed to happen. You knew this day would come.

  What are you talking about?

  Princess, you see me only by the power of your prayer and fasting. I am Yama, god of death. Now is the time I must take the spirit of Satyavan.

  I stare at him and take a step backwards, turning away from his eyes. He has come for me. Finally, death has come for me.

  Did you hurt them? I ask, edging quietly back towards the door.

  Why would I hurt them? I am not ready for them. I whispered to them when I would come for them. Then I took them swimming. You know, neither of those two children knows how to swim. You should teach them while you can.

  I am not ready to come with you, I whisper.

  I can feel everything around us slow down. Every sound is a muffled cacophony. Everything in my view fades into darkness as I try to focus on his face, to remember it. Where have I seen him before?

  Happiness awaits you in my kingdom, he says, smiling.

  His mouth, open, shows not teeth but a black empty hole. He smiles, and his mouth is wider, bigger than his face, for a second, just for a fragment of a second. I am dreaming still, I think. I must be. I realize that my feet are throbbing with all the blood pumping around my body. I turn around to face the house, to check on my babies, make sure they are okay, but the house has faded into darkness.

  You leave them alone, I tell him.

  I am not ready for them.

  Please, I need more time, I beg.

  Princess, even love must bend to fate. Still, I admire your devotion. I will grant you a favour.

  I need more time, I tell him. I need more time.

  I hear snarling. Dogs, I think. I check for the number of their eyes.

  Yes, this the Immortals seek of thee with longing, progeny of the sole existing mortal.

  He smiles, and he nods.

  Please, I say again. Please.

  This time when he smiles, he has teeth. He nods.

  I will see you soon, Mrs Mehta. I will see you soon.

  He turns and walks slowly away. Everything seems to get lighter as he does so. I hear dogs growling in the wasteland and I can see their eyes glint off the lamp on my porch. Only two eyes. I breathe quietly, slowing my breath.

  He has come for me, to bring me to you. Finally. But I am not ready for him. I am not ready to see you yet. All these years, to come back to you is all I have wanted to do. But now I am not ready.

  I turn and rush into the house to gather my two babies up and give them valis that will last into their adult years. What did he whisper to them?

  When will he come for me?

  I rush in to find that Neha has curled up into Rakesh’s arm and they are both asleep, on the gadi, next to where I lie. They are tired but they look fine and breathe deeply, peaceful in their sleep.

  It is a cruel realization, as I watch them both sleeping, that I am not ready for him. I am not ready for my destiny. All this time I have been static and waiting, and now it is undone by these two children. When they came into my life, I wanted nothing more than for them to be gone. But they are here, for a few more days, and I want that time with them. I want them to know me, and our family, and this country. This country that is so significant to our history. I have been waiting for him for so long, and now he has come for me, I don’t feel ready. I do not feel ready.

  We need to go from here. We need to escape, to get out of Mombasa. I cannot be in the same place as him, now that he is waiting for me.

  We will go to Lamu, I think. I have a cousin there. We have not seen each other for years and I barely remember him, but he is family. These children should meet him. When I am gone, he will be their connection here.

  When I am gone. I shudder. I have waited so long for this but now it is close, I feel nothing but fear.

  I lock the children in the house and go to a phone kiosk. I have my cousin’s telephone number written down at the top of a letter he sent me, thanking me for the rakhri I send every year without fail.

  He seems happy to hear from me. Of course, he says. Come and stay. Bring the children.

  He sounds so friendly on the phone, not like the cousin I remember as cruel and quick-tempered. But he is family.

  I rush home. I am nervous, watching for him everywhere, for the one who wrote destiny.

  I unlock the door and enter my small house. My grandchildren, my beautiful grandchildren, are still asleep and I burst into tears at the sight of them. They know only loss and absence.

  I walk to my mixing bowl and pour out flour, making sugar rotlis for the morning.

  We have a long journey ahead.

  Walking, Walking

  They fall about the coach seats, laughing. The joke has a strange effect on me, of being funny, then really funny, then not funny, then tedious, then funny again.

  They shake hands.

  Good. Bye, Neha says firmly. Good. Bye. One day you will die. Until then, good. Bye.

  Rakesh shakes her hand back.

  Goodbye, he replies, giggling. When I die, I’m bringing you down with me. Goodbye.

  They fall all about their seats on the coach. We’ve been travelling for over a day and we are all feeling a little
crazy.

  But this is torture.

  They giggle.

  They look at each other.

  They shake hands.

  Good. Bye, Neha says firmly. Good. Bye. One day you will die. Until then, good. Bye.

  Rakesh shakes her hand back.

  Goodbye, he replies, giggling. When I die, I’m bringing you down with me. Goodbye.

  Neha shows affection to a donkey and it surprises me.

  She does not like hugs, is not tactile, will not hold my hand. She rarely shows her brother any affection, is not very good at acknowledging other people in the room, and backs away from neighbourhood cats and dogs.

  There is a donkey tied up outside the house we are staying in. It belongs to my cousin – the house and the donkey.

  My cousin, Ajay, lives in a small house with a big gate in front of it. Though there are two bedrooms, they all sleep on mattresses in his room: Ajay, his wife, their baby and their two-year-old. Their children are both silent and immobile, and neither is offered to play with Rakesh and Neha. Ajay’s wife, Seema, keeps them with her in the bedroom until mealtimes, when they emerge, smiling and obliging. Seema seems too young for my cousin, and with a two-year-old as well.

  My cousin has got fatter but is largely the same: short, frowning, tense. As soon as we arrived, I remembered why I have not seen him for so long. All the way to Lamu, I convinced myself that he would protect me from the one who writes destiny. For all his anger and temper, I am family and thus under his protection.

  But on arrival, it appears that we are an imposition. I can tell because of how Seema bends over backgrounds to accommodate our simple needs. As we sit down to refresh ourselves from the long journey, we are offered water, which she tops up from a jug each time one of us takes a sip. After that, we do not see her again till the mealtime. Whenever one of us enters from outside and takes our sandals off, Ajay straightens them. Each time it is done with the right amount of annoyance and aggression, a tut and a tense small act, all to remind me we are strangers. It feels entirely consistent with my cousin and I start to regret bringing our children here. Then there is the donkey.

  Neha spends the whole first day sitting cross-legged in front of it. The only time she leaves it is when she runs in for a glass of limbu pani and to ask the animal’s name. She is horrified when she is told it doesn’t have one. It’s a donkey. She suggests Spock but the way my cousin pronounces the name, Spack, ruins it. Then she suggests Vijay. She looks at me and tells me she is naming it after you.