“And what about the ladies?” Ali winked. “You lost your virginity in my flat, didn’t you? What was the chick’s name?”
“Sophia.”
“If only my parents knew you did it on their bed …” Ali convulsed with laughter. Sanjit smiled sheepishly when he recalled that night. The awkward kissing and shedding of clothes, fumbling with the condom, the stained sheet.
“So are you seeing someone?” Ali asked.
“I was engaged … until this morning. She wasn’t happy about breaking up,” Sanjit said, fighting a cramp of guilt. “I told her that she didn’t need to suffer with me. One day she’ll thank me.”
The sun dipped lower in the sky, withering like a dying campfire. The street sank in gloomy shadows. The world that had disappeared in a bubble of kebabs and laughter returned. The waiter in a tatty Barcelona T-shirt, arguing with a customer. A stray dog, skin stretched tight over its ribs, eagerly lapping up scraps of food on the pavement. The incessant rumble of traffic in the distance. And the bloody disease.
Sanjit’s gaze fell on Ali’s hand, resting on his belly: two fingers missing, the rest splayed and crooked.
What happened there? For a brief moment, Sanjit considered voicing the question. Then decided against it. Tragedy came with a right to privacy. He understood this better than anyone.
The conversation resumed after a spell of ponderous silence, more memories uncorking more laughter.
“Remember the trip to film city—we had the autograph competition?”
“Remember Santosh’s mum? What big tits.”
“Remember trying our first cigarette? Charminar filterless? Wasn’t it awful … Glad we didn’t keep it up.”
“Remember our first drink? Rum from the army canteen?”
That morning, Sanjit had set out on his motorcycle, determined to sever ties with the past. He was now realizing how foolish that was. Because for him, at this point, happiness was only found by looking back, not ahead.
5.
SOMETHING EXTRAORDINARY HAPPENED AFTER Sanjit moved into Ali’s flat. The twitching in his muscles stopped. There were no signs of wasting anywhere in his body. But most importantly, he didn’t experience those dreadful falls, even once.
At first, he didn’t think much of it. But as the days passed, he couldn’t help wondering. As incurable as the disease was, a rare few had managed to beat it. They all had one thing in common: a positive mindset.
Could it be possible that hanging out with Ali was having some kind of a psychosomatic effect? All that laughter and banter, going to the cinema, eating out, checking out girls. Never a mention of the disease. Not even an oblique reference like “How do you feel?” Could this change actually be reversing his symptoms?
Sanjit realized this was a dangerous thought. Yet from time to time, he couldn’t help but hold it in his hand and feel its soothing warmth, if only for a few moments.
Then came his birthday. The big three-O. Sanjit sat up in bed, nursing a strange dilemma, one part of him wanting to celebrate, the other counseling caution. If the malevolent force that gave him the disease had forgotten, then wasn’t it best not to draw its attention?
After some deliberation, he decided to lie low. But as soon as he left his room, he discovered that Ali had other plans. Sanjit was treated to a tuneless rendition of “Happy Birthday,” followed by a present: tickets to a cricket match between India and England. He could hardly say no.
Later in the afternoon, they joined the long queue snaking into Wankhede Stadium, both wearing the blue India jersey, the tricolor painted on their cheeks. Once in, they rushed to their seats, getting there just in time to see their hero, Sachin Tendulkar, arrive at the crease. Three and a half hours later, when the Indian innings finished, their lungs were exhausted from nonstop cheering.
“What a game,” Sanjit exclaimed as they left the stadium in search of dinner. “A century from Sachin. Couldn’t have asked for a better present. Thank you, Ali. This has been my best birthday ever.”
Ali waved his hand dismissively. “It’s not over yet. We’ve batted brilliantly, but the pitch is flat. We need to bowl well, too.”
“We do indeed.”
They stopped in front of a sandwich stall, a type that could be packed away quickly in the event of a police raid: a small folding table bearing piles of sliced tomatoes, cucumber and beetroot on a chopping board, alongside an open bottle of mint chutney.
“Two cucumber sandwiches,” Ali said. “On second thought, make that four. We need all the energy we can get to cheer for India.”
“Three. I need just one,” Sanjit said. “And quick. We’ve got to get back to the game.”
The man proceeded to make the order, buttering bread slices and smearing on mint chutney with swift strokes.
“Have you thought about playing again?” Ali asked.
“You mean professionally?”
Ali nodded.
“I’m thirty,” Sanjit said.
“You make it sound like fifty.”
“It is if you’re a sportsman.”
“Nonsense. Didn’t you get Sachin Tendulkar out once? The world’s best batsman.” The sandwichwaala, who was listening to their conversation, raised an eyebrow.
“In a school game, yes.”
“Talent is talent. No matter how old you are.”
Sanjit scoffed while secretly allowing his mind to flirt with the idea. He pictured himself in the Indian jersey. The real thing, unlike the merchandise he was currently wearing, with his name printed on the back. Thirty thousand fans chanting as he ran in to bowl: “Sanjit. Sanjit.”
Okay, maybe the national team was a bridge too far. But club or maybe even state level was a possibility if he trained hard.
At that precise moment, just when he was starting to dream of a future with a cricket ball, when he’d not just ignored the disease but completely forgotten about its existence, it chose to remind him.
It happened as he reached out for his sandwich, almost in slow motion: legs weakening beneath him as if they’d turned to water; knees caving in, dragging the weight of his body to the ground; outstretched hand lunging for the plate; mouth and eyes widening simultaneously with horror.
Reacting with speed belying his size, Ali caught him by the armpit and held him steady. For a moment, Sanjit’s body hung in the air like a limp puppet, Ali’s breath hot in his face.
“Let go,” Sanjit whispered.
Ali slowly lowered him to the ground. He went right down, knees sinking into the heat of the pavement. He kneeled, head bowed, arms hanging at his sides, like a prisoner facing execution.
“I’ll be fine … I just need a few minutes,” he whispered when Ali sat beside him. Meanwhile, a congregation of feet had formed around him, dozens of them released from some secret trapdoor in the street. No one offering to help, just looking as if they were witnessing a freak show. In this city, anything could be a spectator sport. Even a person’s misery. Sanjit lowered his head, hissing slowly under his breath.
“What’s wrong with him?” someone said.
“Maybe he’s had too much to drink,” said someone else.
Ali rose.
“Fuck off. All of you,” he snarled at the crowd. “Fuck off. Now!”
The circle of feet surrounding Sanjit retreated and then dissipated as quickly as it had formed, leaving behind clouds of dust. A few minutes later, Sanjit felt a flicker of life in his legs. He curled his toes inside his sneakers. When they moved, he nodded to Ali, who slipped a hand under his arm. He panted as he rose, even though Ali was hefting him. He gripped tightly when he was upright, unsure whether he could trust his shaking legs to hold him up.
A few moments later, he gingerly took a half-step, arm firmly locked in Ali’s clasp.
Walking. Put one foot in front of the other. Repeat. One of the simplest things in life. For thirty years, he’d performed this action without even thinking. But now he was doing it slowly, fearfully, as if he were in a minefield. A meter felt like
a mile.
They came to Marine Drive. The eight-lane road that followed the curve of the bay was transformed into a carpark by rush-hour traffic. The sky was crimson, the sun a fading memory in the murky horizon. Somewhere in the distance, cheers erupted. A wicket must have fallen.
“The game. You’re missing the game,” Sanjit said.
“Fuck the game.”
“Go.” Sanjit’s voice cracked, as indignity number two was imminent. “Go, please …”
The dam behind his eyes burst, the rush of tears drowning everything in his vision: the darkening street, the endless string of taillights nailed to the road, the neon-lit centaur on the Air India Building.
“You’ve been so good to me. Given me a place to stay. What did I give you in return? Not even the satisfaction of enjoying your birthday present.” That was what Sanjit intended to say, but all his mouth could manage was a string of garbled vowels.
Ali guided him to a bus stop. The metal bench was narrow and contained the day’s heat. He wept, covering his face with both hands, a tightly drawn curtain of fingers to hide his shame from passersby.
For nearly a month, nothing. Then everything. Another one of the disease’s dirty tricks: luring him into a false sense of security and then pouncing when he was least expecting it. What kind of a disease was this? What sadistic mind conceived it?
Why me?
How often had he whispered the question to the deaf air? And that was only because an explanation would make his fate just that little bit easier to accept. Yet he knew he’d never get one, for a simple reason. The disease didn’t give a fuck whether you accepted it or not. It was there. It was going to run its course. There was nothing he could do about it.
Sanjit cried, God knew for how long, not that time held any significance for him now, except that each tick of the clock chaperoned him to his inevitable destiny.
When he finally stopped, his body crumpled with exhaustion, as if he’d just completed a marathon. His eyes were so parched he was sure they’d crack if he rubbed them.
“Are you okay?” Ali asked, a bearlike silhouette in the dark.
Sanjit nodded, too tired to reply, too tired to even think. But that was when the answers came to you sometimes: when you didn’t have the strength to fight them.
Even if he was powerless to stop the disease, he could deny it the one thing it wanted: death by its means of choosing.
Finally, a plan. A no-brainer.
“If you can’t choose how you live, you should be able to choose how you die. But after a certain point, the disease won’t even let me do that. Do you understand what I’m saying?” he said, surprised by the strength that had come to his voice.
Ali turned away. Of course he understood. Still, Sanjit spelled it out for him.
“A life without dignity is no life. I’m going to finish it before it gets to that. I don’t know when that’s going to happen. But if I’m with you when it does, promise me that you’ll do the right thing? That you won’t stop me?”
Ali sighed.
“Ali. Please answer me.”
The head moved in the darkness. A minute nod.
“Good. Come on, let’s go and enjoy the rest of my birthday. With some luck, my last.”
6.
THAT NIGHT, SANJIT WENT TO BED KNOWING HE was going to sleep well. The relief when you could see an end to your suffering was truly sublime. To top it off, India won the game, a comprehensive hundred-and-two-run victory. So all things considered, the day ended on a good note.
The following morning, he proceeded to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, his stride strangely full of purpose for someone who’d made the decision to terminate his life.
A note caught his eye when he went to open the fridge to get the milk:
“Off to Delhi for a conference. Back early next week. Ali”
Sanjit twisted his mouth in a grimace. He didn’t recall Ali saying anything about a conference. On second thought, maybe he had, and Sanjit had forgotten in all the drama that had occurred the previous day.
There was something else next to Ali’s note, an advertising leaflet affixed to the fridge with a magnet. Sanjit blinked when he saw the headline:
“Are You Financially Prepared for Your Afterlife?”
Intrigued, he removed the magnet and took the leaflet in his hands, turning it over to read the text on the reverse:
We all need money to survive in this life. But what about the next? If you think the answer is no, then you’re in for a rude awakening when you die. The ancient Egyptians were aware of the existence of an afterlife economy. That’s why they buried the Pharaoh’s treasures along with his body. The Chinese knew about it, too, and created hell money. But once again, their efforts didn’t go beyond the symbolic. For centuries, people have attempted transmigration of wealth from one life to another and failed.
Until now.
Combining ancient channeling methods with modern banking technology, we’ve helped millions of customers move their money across the matter-energy barrier to provide financial security in the afterlife. We can do the same for you. Want to know how?
Visit www.BankofEternity.co.in.
Sanjit scoffed after reading the leaflet. It wasn’t the first time he was hearing stuff like this. He’d once met a sadhu who said he’d flown to Saturn and seen its rings. Another boasted he could pass through solid objects. A third person had played cards with his dead father. Whatever their claims, he didn’t doubt their ability to do one thing: extract money from suckers like his mother. This so-called Bank of Eternity seemed like a venture of the same ilk. He stuck the leaflet back on the fridge and opened it to fetch the milk. He made himself a cup of tea. But as he turned to leave, he was drawn to the leaflet again. He made a note of the website mentioned and went to Ali’s ancient computer in the living room. The machine registered its displeasure at being roused with a series of crotchety noises, before coughing and wheezing its way to cyberspace. Sanjit typed the web address and hit enter.
The page went black, as if someone had turned off the light inside the monitor. A second later, a fierce-looking mythological figure rode across the screen on a buffalo, a mace gleaming in one hand, cash register balanced in the other. Sanjit instantly recognized him as Yama, the Hindu god of death.
The buffalo came to a halt beside a door bursting with gold filigree. Incense fumes rose from the bottom of the screen, animating into wispy type above the door:
“Welcome to the afterlife. Press any key to continue.”
Sanjit hit enter.
The gold door opened with a dizzying special effect, as if he were being propelled to another dimension. Then, a flash of white before the scene settled on a tropical beach, a stretch of powder-white sand following the arc of a tranquil bay; shacks on stilts rising from the swimming-pool-clear water; blue sky, not a cloud in sight.
A headline ran across the photograph:
“We move heaven and earth for our customers.”
For the next while, Sanjit was lost in a labyrinth of pictures, videos and text on the website.
Expenses vary from soul to soul. But here’s an example of the typical charges and fees that one can expect:
Yama’s soul transportation surcharge: $200.
Afterlife lawyer’s fees: refer to Karmic Calculator.
Indraloka Entry: $15,000.
Monthly rental, board & entertainment: check rate card.
Please note: rates are subject to fluctuation. Current exchange rate as set by the Afterlife Central Bank is one rupee for one Afterlife Dollar.
Sanjit returned to the home page and clicked on the “Our story” tab. A photo of a Chinese man appeared on the page with a caption underneath: “Our founder, Raymond Li.” Sanjit read the block of text:
What happens after we die? We’re all troubled by this existential question. But for Raymond Li, it became an obsession after he lost his beloved grandmother at the tender age of seven. An obsession that fueled a lifelong spiritual quest, th
e answer to which came quite literally by accident. The insights gained from the resulting near-death experience prompted Mr. Li to set up Bank of Eternity in 2002. In less than a decade, it has become Asia’s fastest-growing financial institution, with a customer base of 200 million. Although he’s been compared to a modern-day sage, Mr. Li prefers to remain modest about his achievements. “I’m just a businessman helping people get what they want,” he says.
Sanjit opened another window and typed “Afterlife Dollars” in the search field. The hourglass cartwheeled a few times before displaying the results:
“Bank of Eternity listed in Fortune 500 …”
“Afterlife mania grips Hong Kong, China and Southeast Asia …”
“Raymond Li wins Asia’s top business award …”
“Bank of Eternity goes public, listed on Hong Kong, Singapore, Kuala Lumpur and Tokyo exchanges …”
“Raymond Li signals ambitious expansion plans with branches in Africa and South America …”
Sanjit spent the next hour or so glued to the screen, browsing the articles, all from respected publications. At the end of this exhaustive research, what remained in his mind was a collection of numbers.
$7 billion turnover. Seventy-eight offices. 200 million customers. Tenth largest financial institution in Asia.
A giddy Sanjit leaned away from the computer.
Could this be real?
7.
BANK OF ETERNITY LOOKED EVERY BIT AS SLICK as the photographs on the internet: polished marble floor, gleaming teller counters, modern furniture. Sanjit sat on a red-cushioned chair, a welcome change from the hot, uncomfortable seat on the bus he’d traveled on to get there. As he waited for his number to be called, he wondered what his mother would make of this visit, after all the times he’d chided her for her superstitious beliefs. This thought caused his cynicism to creep back.
“Excuse me.” A voice interrupted his thoughts. It belonged to a tall Chinese man who bent down to pick up a small scrap of paper near Sanjit’s feet.
“Attention to detail,” the man said, handing the offending litter to a group of staff members in red uniforms who trailed him respectfully. The rebuke was soft yet sharp, a man who didn’t need to raise his voice to demonstrate his power.
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