The One Who Wrote Destiny

by Nikesh Shukla

  Prash pulls at the triangle fold of the dhoti and lets it fall to the floor.

  He strides confidently towards his pile of clothes and begins to dress. He winks at Anjali.

  Chumchee watches Prash’s graceful body with a curious mixture of alarm and admiration. His eyes are fixated on Prash’s muscles, visibly doing what they should be, moving him around the room with a power and a grace and a presence that only the strongest and most arrogant of us are afforded. Usually, they are white. Universally, they are men.

  No one is going to see if Nisha is okay.

  I walk, quietly, so as not to draw attention to myself, to the door at the back of the hall. I pause as I place my hand on the doorknob. As I start to turn it, I wonder whether Nisha needs me to run after her. Am I making any claims on her by following her? Am I encroaching on her space? Perhaps one of the girls might make her feel more comfortable?

  Maybe, I think. But I love her, and this is my chance to be seen as nice, if anything – and nice is the opposite of Prash right now.

  I open the door.

  It is a cupboard. Where sports equipment lives. Big enough for someone to change in.

  Nisha is lying on a bench that can be turned upside down to become a balance beam. She is staring at the ceiling, her forearm draped across her forehead.

  I walk in, announcing myself with a firm closing of the door.

  The cupboard is small and dark. I can hear her breathing close to me.

  ‘All right, che?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ she says. I hear a smile in her voice. ‘Haven’t you heard? I’m dying.’

  Choice. Climax

  Just as I am about to step out on stage, I have a sudden memory of being at home. Shammi Kapoor is on the radio. He is asking for the girl to come here, oh come here, in a stuttering singsong way.

  I’m standing in front of the mirror in the kitchen. I think I am in the house by myself. I want to see what I look like when I dance; there is a Diwali party later that night and Amee has told me there will be music and dancing. It makes me nervous. I am eleven years old and starting to realize people can see me.

  I throw some shapes into the mirror, to see what I look like.

  My hips jerk in every direction. I am emulating Shammi, which is what dancing looks like in my head. I shake myself around until my quiff flaps over my forehead. My hands begin by my sides, but they soon have the confidence to spring up to chest level, where they wiggle and writhe, until before I know it they’re waving above my head, flapping wildly, like a distressed bird.

  But I feel brilliant.

  My eyes close. I am dancing!

  And somebody is watching.

  I feel a presence in the room. I turn.

  Naman and Amee are doubled over in the doorway, stifling their laughter.

  Embarrassed, with nowhere else to run in our tiny kitchen, I barge past them, pushing into Amee, as hers is the bigger betrayal. She stumbles backwards, calling my name angrily.

  Now, standing at the side of the stage, two feet away from the front row, watching the shuffling of what feels like forty Gujaratis waiting for our performance to start, I feel that same melon-sized bulge of embarrassment in my stomach. I watch as Chumchee dims the lights from the switches by the front door and then runs up the aisle, hitching up his dhoti, his nipples shaking as he runs.

  I glance across the stage to Nisha. She looks serious, nervous. Her eyes are closed. She is concentrating, shaking the tension from her hands. She cocks her head from side to side, stretching her neck.

  The harmonium starts, a drone that hushes the crowd.

  My first line is approaching. I want to vomit. It’s not even a line, it’s just one sound, but it has furred over on my tongue.

  Chumchee looks at me intently as he waits for it to come.

  I stare out at the crowd. I feel myself sweat. I sense my pores bursting open and streaming freely.

  Chumchee nudges me. Nisha opens her eyes and glares at me.

  My throat is dry, I can feel the sound I have to make slipping away from my lips, back down into my throat. I open my mouth in the hope that it will encourage the sound to come out. I begin to dribble. The harmonium is fading and the musician, sensing my stage fright, starts the note up again. It’s loud and jarring.

  I close my eyes. I see Naman and Amee laughing.

  Nisha oh oh Nisha oh oh oh Nisha oh oh Nisha.

  I open my eyes. I see Chumchee approaching. He finds this hilarious. He puts a hand on my shoulder and shakes me. He keeps shaking and shaking and shaking until . . .

  ‘Auuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,’ I intone, suddenly.

  I just have to do the first one by myself and then the audience knows to join in automatically.

  ‘Auuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,’ forty tuneless voices repeat.

  ‘Auuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,’ they say again.

  I mouth it the fourth time, my job is momentarily done.

  ‘Auuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,’ they all say, softer.

  ‘Auuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,’ we all say, the big finale, the primordial sound opening up the channels to the gods.

  Then we all sing. And it is bad, let me tell you. It is tuneless, lacking in energy, characterless, but we do it.

  Aum Bhoor Bhuwah Swaha, Tat Savitur Varenyam Bhargo Devasaya Dheemahi Dhiyo Yo Naha Prachodayat.

  It’s repeated four more times. I find the repetition comforting. Naman used to whisper this prayer every morning before breakfast.

  Oh God, the Protector, the basis of all life, Who is self-existent, Who is free from all pains and Whose contact frees the soul from all troubles, Who pervades the Universe and sustains all, the Creator and Energizer of the whole Universe, the Giver of happiness, Who is worthy of acceptance, the most excellent, Who is Pure and the Purifier of all, let us embrace that very God, so that He may direct our mental faculties in the right direction.

  I find it calming. I feel as though I’m at home. I almost forget that I am part of a show where I am playing an incarnation of Vishnu, a hero, a king, a strong-willed young man called Rama. A young man they will tell stories about for generations.

  What stories will they tell about me? Or will I have to give people my own history? Neha, this is why I tell you all this. So you know my history. Because who else tells the great stories of the little people?

  The play opens just as Rama has slain Ravana, the demon king.

  On freeing his kidnapped wife, Sita, Rama asks her to undergo an agni pariksha to prove that she is chaste and thereby dispel rumours about her fidelity. When Sita plunges into the sacrificial fire, Agni, the lord of fire, attests to her purity. Rama and Sita triumphantly return to their kingdom, where they are crowned as rulers. This is the beginning of Ram Rajya, a golden time in which Rama establishes an ideal state with good morals.

  This is who I am supposed to be.

  Chumchee, playing the role of my most faithful warrior brother, and I are supposed to walk on stage with our bows cocked with arrows, searching for Sita. She will then appear and dance for me to prove she is my love. I will watch her dance before asking her to prove her purity. I do not understand the order of things. I do not understand why Rama thinks the first thing he should suggest to Sita after she has been traumatically kidnapped by a demon king is that she prove herself to him. Which, after all she has been through, seems like an imposition.

  I am lost in thought and miss my cue. Chumchee pushes me on to the steps leading up to the stage. I trip and my arrow is released, disappearing into the darkness above Nisha and her dancers’ heads. I duck even though it is flying in the opposite direction to me.

  No one notices that I nearly assassinate my lead actress, or that I walk up the steps without an arrow. Luckily, I have a quiver with me and two arrows rattle around in it. Unluckily, I cannot reach them and walk at the same time. I wrench my arm over the top of my head, hunching my shoulder blades and twisting around to t
ry and grab another arrow. They both spin in the quiver and elude my fingertips.

  The more I twist around, the more I look like a dog chasing its own tail. I hear titters from the audience. I look ridiculous, whirling and wheeling on the spot, but it is important that I don’t mess this up. I claw frantically at the quiver, and the titters become laughter, and just as I am at my most desperate, I stop.

  The letter I received this morning comes back to me.

  The letter I’ve been trying to hide in the depths of my brain.

  As soon as I had read the opening line, I merely skimmed the rest and put it under my bed, heading out to wait for Nisha.

  Sailesh is not coming.

  I can feel the entire room watching me. Chumchee looks at me askance. I notice that his quiver has ten arrows in it. Mine, two. It’s as if he has intended me to fail. He said it would make me look more heroic because I appear to have fired off more arrows. Now Chumchee pulls one from his quiver and hands it to me.

  I realize I am standing stock-still in front of the audience.

  They are looking at me, waiting for me. Some of them even have their hands in front of them as if they are unsure whether or not to clap.

  I turn around. I cannot look at them.

  Chumchee hisses at me, ‘Come on, hero. We need you. Jaldi, jaldi.’

  Sailesh used to make a quiet breathy uh-uh-uh-uh-uh sound when he performed, to help him concentrate and drown out noise from the people around him.

  He juggled with his tongue lodged in his cheek.

  He started learning with three soft red balls. They belonged to Mr Shukla, the owner of the bookshop where Sailesh worked, cleaning dust off the stock and keeping the shelves neat. He became fascinated with a book about juggling. When Mr Shukla noticed his interest, he produced the balls, and gave him the book for free.

  ‘I learned with these,’ Mr Shukla told him.

  And when Sailesh had figured out the technique, and he was able to make the three balls stay in the air, Mr Shukla said, ‘Those balls are meant for beginners. When you get too good for them, give them to someone else. Until then, keep them.’

  He gave the balls to me so I could practise before he came. I haven’t touched them since I arrived.

  When he had mastered three balls, he added a pen, which made the rhythm difficult. The pen had a different centre of gravity to the balls and never arced in the same trajectory. Perfecting this awkward rhythm gave him the confidence to build on his skills, his hands becoming more attuned to every possibility and parabola, acting before his brain could process what was happening in front of him. Sailesh became obsessed with improving. Above Cheap Ration Store, there were three flats. We lived in one, Sailesh’s family in another and the third belonged to Mr Shukla who worked so many hours we never saw him at home, only in the shop downstairs. They were all small and opened out on to a communal rooftop courtyard, where we dried clothes. Each afternoon, after school, Sailesh stood there and practised. No one but Sailesh was stupid enough to risk the intense burst of sun you’d be scorched by if you ventured into the centre of the courtyard. He stood there most afternoons and juggled till it was his time to go downstairs and help with the end-of-day chores in Cheap Ration Store.

  It’s important to remember these things, Neha. This is why I tell myself them again and again. So I do not forget.

  And he huffed, that uh-uh-uh-uh-uh, repeatedly. It centred him.

  ‘Uh-uh-uh-uh-uh,’ I mumble now, my voice cracking slightly.

  I feel a thump and look up to see Nisha banging on the stage and flinging her hand upwards to ask what is happening? I notice I have been holding on to Chumchee’s arrow so tightly that it has snapped in my fist.

  I’m reminded of the audience and I look out to them. I walk to the front of the stage and stand with my fists bunched on my hips. ‘Uh-uh-uh-uh-uh,’ I whisper. I am Rama. I breathe in to say my first line when I hear the echoes of a noise outside.

  ‘Wogs out, wogs out, wogs out, wogs out!’

  I look at Nisha but it’s as if she hasn’t heard the venom in the voices. She gestures for me to continue.

  I hold my broken arrow against the useless bow, almost as if to protect myself.

  ‘Wogs out, wogs out, wogs out, wogs out! Go home, go home, go home!’

  People in the audience begin looking behind them, just as Nisha and her dancers emerge on stage. I look at them. I say my only line quietly, because I am distracted by the noise at the doors. There is banging. The crowd inside grow concerned, shifting in their seats and murmuring amongst themselves.

  Nisha, undeterred, moves into the centre of the stage.

  Nervously, I intone, ‘Sita, it is you. Is it you?’

  No one is listening to me. People are barely watching us on stage.

  Nisha, as Sita, dances for me. She snakes in and around me, so close I can smell the coconut oil in her hair and the sweat across her neck. She smiles, but it is a rictus; I can tell she is annoyed. The show is not working, not coming together. I want her to be happy.

  The banging gets louder, a beat to accompany the chants.

  Even Chumchee looks worried, and the boy has the vacant smile of a chicken with a chapatti, as Amee would say.

  Nisha continues to dance.

  The drone of the harmonium is making my sweaty skin itch. I want it to stop.

  In the gloom, I see a man from the audience stand up and walk to the door to see what is happening.

  Still Nisha carries on dancing, as if this is the only chance she will ever have to perform this show.

  The man looks outside, through the frosted glass. I cannot see what he can see but suddenly he flings up his arms to shield his balding head, just moments before a brick bursts through the pane, shattering glass everywhere. It lands in front of his bare feet and he jumps backwards. The harmonium player plays a bum note and stops. Lights flicker on throughout the hall.

  Nisha stops dancing and balls her fists in frustration. I move to stand in front of her, like a hero. I am still holding my bow, the broken arrow notched in the string, ready to fire. She pushes me aside and stands level with me.

  The din from outside fills the hall. I cannot tell how many people are there.

  ‘Wogs out, wogs out, wogs out, wogs out! Go home, go home, go home!’

  Within that chant, there are the standard eys and raaaarrs of communal male shouting. The hole in the glass makes it all seem louder and closer. People are putting their shoes on, standing up, hurrying towards the stage. The harmonium player is wrapping a cloth around his instrument and putting it back in its box.

  ‘Who is it?’ I ask.

  Nisha moves closer to me.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘We received a note earlier this week saying that we had to cancel the performance. Signed by the League of Empire Loyalists.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  Chumchee leans in to me. ‘Why don’t you go outside and ask them?’ he says.

  ‘Do not do that,’ retorts Nisha.

  I smile at her and rub her arm. She raises her eyebrows questioningly and flicks my hand away.

  ‘Of course I won’t,’ I reassure her.

  ‘I don’t know, Mukesh. I only met you this afternoon and on the day of performance you agreed to act in a show that has been rehearsing for three weeks, as the lead hero. You are either brave or a bevakoof. I don’t know yet. I haven’t decided.’

  The doors rattle, shuddering against their hinges.

  Now the lights are on and I can see that the Gujarati population of Keighley is smaller than I had realized. There are fifteen aunties and uncles in front of me, all barefoot and anxious. Slowly, they form a hub in front of the stage. The front door is the only way out and the only way in.

  We are trapped.

  Mounds of something brown are thrown through the hole in the glass.

  Chumchee laughs. This time I can tell he is nervous.

  ‘Will that door hold?’ Nisha asks.

  ‘What are they goin
g to do to us?’ I say.

  ‘Why don’t you go and ask them?’ Chumchee responds.

  We are scared, I think, but we are together. Sailesh won’t be coming. I am here alone. These are my friends and family now. I cannot go home. I cannot afford a ticket. Will they send my body home if I die tonight? I feel so far away from Mombasa.

  This is what I’m telling you now. Measure what you call micro-aggressions against a real fear like this. I cannot describe to you how I felt. You tell me about white girls wearing bindis at festivals and I will tell you about that moment, when I thought I was going to die and no one who loved me would even know.

  I could disappear completely.

  My biggest fear is that nobody will tell my amee what happened to me. I am here, by myself. The only times she will hear from me will be when I write her letters. What if there is no one to write to her about me? Who will record the violence against my body? History?

  No one will mourn me.

  What will happen to my body?

  I drop my bow to the floor.

  ‘Everybody,’ I say. ‘Get up on to the stage.’

  ‘Kem?’ comes the reply from the concerned hubbub before me.

  ‘If we are a tight group, we stay together, whatever happens,’ I say.

  This makes no sense but it is empowering enough that everyone slowly joins us on stage. They stand behind Nisha and me. The harmonium player is hugging his instrument. We are together in our isolation – I have never felt more part of a community.

  I am Rama.

  My hands are on my hips, in hero pose. I turn to Nisha.

  ‘What now?’ I whisper.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘This is not a regular occurrence for me.’

  Chumchee pushes me forward. I turn around to glare at him.

  ‘Go and see,’ he says. ‘Go and see if they will let us out.’

  The door is shaking.

  Why is the door even locked? I wonder. Were we trying to keep people out or in?

  Gloved fingers poke through the hole in the frosted glass, trying to widen it.

  A milk bottle, stuffed with a flaming rag, is dropped into the room and it rolls across the floor.