The flame snuffs as the bottle smashes across the parquet flooring, but it is enough to send squeals of panic through the gathered Gujaratis.
Another Molotov is thrown in, and this one bursts into yellow flames. One of the squeaky wooden chairs catches fire. This is how we are going to die.
Chumchee pushes me forward. ‘You are the hero. Go and be the hero.’
I turn and grab him by the shoulders, his dry skin shedding into my hands.
‘Choop,’ I scream into his face. ‘Choop re. Choop.’
I have to do something.
My mother will need to know about this.
I don’t know where my bravery comes from. I ask a stranger for his shoes. He is reluctant, but gives me the shiny black brogues nonetheless, and I slip them on. They are warm and ingrained with the contours of someone else’s steps.
I jump down from the stage.
‘What are you doing?’ Nisha asks.
‘I do not know,’ I say.
She jumps down as well.
‘Come on then, hero,’ she says. ‘Let’s rescue our people.’
I realize in that moment that I will never love anyone as much as I do her, so if she is not willing to love me, then I’d be better off dying tonight.
‘What’s the plan?’ I ask Nisha, who is smiling.
‘I don’t know yet,’ she replies.
We laugh at our lack of planning. I can feel people behind us bristle. But still we laugh. Your mother and I, for the first time together. I will remember that moment for my entire life.
I feel as though she has finally noticed me. Without thinking, I grab her hand. She tightens her grip around my fingers. We edge forward.
Other chairs are beginning to catch fire.
The shoes are too small for me. I need to cut my big toenails.
The feeling in the pit of my stomach is like a mango stone, trying to force its way into my throat. I want to throw up.
The banging on the door subsides as we reach it. It goes quiet. I cautiously peer through the hole in the frosted window. Figures in the dark are moving away from the entrance. I look at Nisha.
We shrug lightly at each other. Maybe they’ve got bored and are moving on, away, I think. I look at the flaming chairs; black smoke coils to the ceiling. The air in the room is being sucked into the fire. I am finding it harder to breathe.
I squeeze Nisha’s hand more. She reciprocates. I go to open the door.
There is a roar and a cheer as something large and heavy flies through the smashed frosted glass and rattles to the floor. It’s a bench. A whole bench.
Through the window frame, we can see two men using another bench as a battering ram. One, two and three loud bangs against the weakening doors before, finally, they accept defeat and smash open.
A group of men, five of them, stand on the threshold, fists clenched, balaclavas pulled over their faces, menacing.
I can see their chests heaving as they stand to attention.
They are waiting, perhaps uncertain as to what comes next.
‘Paach che,’ I suddenly cry out, surprising myself. ‘Only five!’
We outnumber them and could easily overpower them if we act together as one.
I look behind me.
The audience members couldn’t be further away from me if they tried. They are panicking about the flames and mutter to each other anxiously. They all look up at me as if I am Rama and must save them.
‘Chalo, benchod na marr,’ Nisha screams. She raises her fists like a boxer, dropping her chin to her chest.
This stirs our people into action. Each one moves slowly off the stage, skirting the flaming chairs and standing behind Nisha and me. I smile at how slowly everyone moves despite the peril. It reminds me of my amee and her slow shuffle.
I can see bricks in these people’s hands, but it’s too late. We are now committed.
Paki-bashing. I’ve heard whispers. Stories. When Sailesh told me about it, he laughed.
‘But we are not Pakistani,’ he said. ‘We are not even Indian. We’re Kenyans, bwana.’
‘Will they know that?’ I asked. ‘Will they care?’
Sailesh died three days after I left for England. His mother wrote to tell me this. It was a perfunctory letter which arrived this morning. I read it once and left it in my room before I went to wait for Nisha.
Sailesh is not coming.
It did not register until now. I read the words but they didn’t sink into my head. Seeing the Gujarati script made me feel as though I was at home, so I ignored the content, and kept the warm feeling of belonging inside me. You know that song? About keeping me in your heart? That is what I wanted to do with him. Keep him there, in my heart.
Sailesh isn’t coming. And because he was at home, his mother could mourn him, tell his friends and family.
Me? In this burning little community hall in the north of England? I am not going to die here. I am not going to die on the soil of those who ruled over my people.
This is not destiny, I think. This is coincidence. Sailesh may not be alive any more, but I want to live.
A brick hits me in the ribs and I fall down, winded.
My chest feels caved in, useless. I struggle to breathe and stare at the ceiling. Nisha stands over me, shouting. I cannot understand her. I cannot hear her words though I know the intonation. I realize she is checking in. Am I okay?
My ears bleed into white noise. Everything slows. I can feel the brick, by my thigh. I put my hand on it. I close my eyes, then open them.
Nisha is looking towards the door, her fists clenched. I look up, noticing that the five men in masks have entered the school hall and are advancing, threateningly, on our position.
Sailesh is not coming.
I get to my feet, picking the brick up with me and hurling it at our attackers.
It strikes one of the men on his temple. He swears and crumples to the floor. One of the remaining four wields a cricket bat.
I look at Nisha. She cocks her head to one side and then shrugs. We run at them. All of us, tight and together. The aunties are in the middle, the uncles on the outside.
I glimpse Prash in the doorway. He catches my eye as he sizes up the danger, then turns and runs into the night again. Came back for his love. Disappeared when things got tough.
Nisha and I come face to face with a masked man, the one with a cricket bat. He swings it wildly, barely missing the top of my head as I duck and jump at him. Nisha and her dancers advance on another masked man, who is frozen still. He won’t hit a girl. They pummel at him and he backs out of the hall.
The remaining two men are more effective and lash out at the fleeing audience. One manages to wrestle the harmonium player’s box away from him and smashes it over his head, letting go on impact, so that both musician and instrument crash to the floor.
Two other men, uncles, balding, small and slight, help me fight the man with the cricket bat. He swipes at one of the uncles, the momentum of his own swing taking him off balance, which gives me the opportunity to push him over.
I hear a shout behind me and spin around to see the harmonium player about to get the imprint of a boot in his face. I run to him, tackling the attacker on the way. We tumble to the floor, and I land heavily on top of him. His mask comes off in the struggle, exposing his face. It’s the man whose bike I collided with today. He is beneath me. Hours ago, I was under his bike. I pin his arms down with my knees and we look at one another. He looks at me with a mixture of pity and fear. My instinct is to punch him, but then I think of something much worse. I rub my sweaty cheek against his. He recoils.
Whatever happens, whatever victory we call this, I will still wake up Indian tomorrow.
‘Benchod,’ I hiss at him as I stand up.
He runs away.
In years to come, I will remember this night as the thing that made me feel afraid of white men and shiver in their presence. And whenever you and your brother ask me why I think you are both too Western, you’ll tell
me I have not integrated.
Why integrate into a country that wanted me annihilated, Neha? That wanted to beat my body with bricks and cricket bats until I bled to death?
But I cannot go home. I haven’t enough money to get back. Besides, what have I got left there? I look at Nisha, helping people push through the door. She looks beautiful. No, I cannot go home. My body is rooted firmly here. With hers. In this green and unpleasant land.
Oh, Nisha, my Nisha
Your fists are like leather.
Outside, the night is crisp. The harmonium player, still a little groggy, looks at me and bows. He is clutching a cracked shard of his instrument like a blade.
The fires are dying out. The car park is empty, both the attackers and the victims already fled. My clothes, my only smart clothes. They are gone.
I am Rama now.
I look out into the night of Keighley.
Sailesh is not coming.
I let out a tear for my friend. He is not coming.
I walk home. Cold. Topless.
No one is around to see my shame.
‘Mukesh,’ I hear my name gently as I approach home.
I look up. Nisha is standing, leaning against the wall where I usually am.
She smiles.
‘Hi,’ I say.
‘I’m glad you are okay,’ she says.
Nisha, my Nisha, this is my heart. For you.
Reverse. Resolve
Falling in love is easy. Staying in love is the problem.
She is in my room. She sits on my bed and looks at my meagre possessions, judging me. She smiles, embarrassed. I am leaning against the door, until I realize this seems as though I am barring her exit, so I shift until I am propped against the basin.
My bottom is cold.
We do not talk.
The quiet reflective moment after the violence.
‘My friend died,’ I suddenly say, to break the silence. ‘The one I’m waiting for. The one I’m moving to London with.’
‘My cousin Sailesh?’ she asks. ‘I did not meet him. Sorry. I know he meant a lot to you.’
‘He is family,’ I say, uselessly.
‘Yes,’ she says, quietly. ‘He was.’ She pauses, unsure of what to say next. ‘How did he die?’
‘It was three days after I left. Always such a dangerous driver. I’d tell him, drive carefully. Why? he says to me. Other drivers are the problem, not me. And he was right. It was another driver. I wonder how I ended up in Keighley. So far from where I am supposed to be. The only thing I can think of, is maybe I am supposed to be here. It is written for me to be here. I do not believe in destiny. But what we saw tonight, that was a prelude to murder. They wanted to kill us. I could see it in their eyes. Why am I supposed to be here? I think it is for you. Maybe there is such a thing as destiny after all.’
I say this last bit looking at the floor.
She is quiet for a while.
‘My mother tells me no one will want me,’ she finally replies. ‘I have pulmonary fibrosis, a respiratory disease in which scars are formed in the lung tissues, leading to serious breathing problems. It has a high-percentage chance of turning into cancer. I am broken. No one will take me, my mummy says. Even Chumchee will find someone, she tells me. Even that pendoo, Chumchee. Me? I will get a job, I will earn money, I will die financially comfortable, and my family will remember me as a failure. Is that my fate? Or is that just called one of those things?’
‘We are both failures then,’ I say.
‘I think so.’ She looks at me with kind eyes. ‘Destined to fail together.’
‘What about Prash?’ I ask.
‘What about him? Prash is only interested in my body. Nothing else. I think he showed his true colours two or three times tonight. Nah?’
‘Hahn-ji,’ I reply, smiling.
‘You were very brave tonight,’ she says, standing up. ‘I need to go home now. Thank you. I think your bravery helped. We all got out safely. Well, except Mr Shah. He banged his foot on the door as he ran. He’s in hospital. But the rest of us did, thanks to you.’
‘Can I tell you something?’ I ask.
She nods.
I pause. She scratches at her neck, impatient.
‘My biggest fear was dying in a strange place and no one knowing where I am or how to mourn me. I didn’t want to be forgotten. It made me angry. Who would write to my friends and family and tell them I had passed away, just as Sailesh’s amee is now having to do? Is this selfish?’
‘Maybe a little. But it is okay. Will you come to our house tomorrow? For Diwali? How are you celebrating?’
I gesture to the room.
‘I am here.’
‘No,’ she says. ‘After tonight, we should at least feed you some nasto, give you some rus, maybe some gulab jamun. It is important. Come to us tomorrow.’
I do not sleep that night.
All I can do is picture our life together. I come home from work. I put my hat on the hat stand, smell the hot dhoklas in the oven and crouch down to receive my children as they run gleefully towards me. I pick them both up and stomp like Frankenstein to the kitchen to greet my wife and my dhokla.
She is lying on the table, still, a garland around her neck, lifeless.
We are in black and white.
I wake up.
When your ba told you to believe in destiny, she did not know what she was talking about, darling. This is real life. We live, we love, we die, hoping we have left some love in the world. There is nothing else. If there was, why was Nisha taken from me?
This is why I only believe in coincidence. It can change your life, but it is not cruel.
Walking into her parents’ house, I feel at home. With Rafi on the radio, the steel vadkis of water and the glass bowls of chakris and dhoklas, freshly made, I know that Gujaratis live here. I take my shoes off as I enter.
Nisha, dressed in a saree, serves me. I smile at her. She seems different here, in this space – she is not herself. She projects who her amee wants her to be. She’s more formal. Deferential, even. I do not like this Nisha.
She does not speak to me but keeps her head bowed. She lets her father tell her to fetch things. This is not the woman I plan to spend the rest of my life with. Chumchee is resting in his room, Nisha’s father tells me. He was so overcome by the events of yesterday, he is bedridden.
Her father asks about my family, where they are from. We talk about Sailesh, and how sorry he and his wife were to learn of his death. They talk of him as if he is an abstract. They have not met the boy. Instead, he is my friend and I try to show them how important he is to me. Because they are family, they have more of a claim to grief, yet they do not cry for Sailesh. Neither of them knows anything about him. We migrate across the world, removing links to everyone but those in the room with us.
Your ba looks at me, bemused, the whole time. She sits in an armchair and slices and dices potatoes into the palm of her hand. She must think I am funny. There is half a smile there.
Nisha kneels at her feet, ready to spring up should it look as though my cup needs refilling or more food needs to be fetched and offered.
Eventually, after we have exhausted all conversations about Sailesh, we slip into silence.
I ask about cricket – there is a test series imminent – but her father does not follow it.
I ask Ba what she is making.
‘Are you staying for dinner?’ she asks by way of reply.
‘I would love to,’ I say, before realizing that it wasn’t an invitation. It was a test.
Over dinner, I try to ask Nisha questions – about the show, about the men who came, about how she feels, about the League of Empire Loyalists. She is interrupted by her father.
‘We do not speak of such things in this house,’ he says, quietly.
‘Those men,’ I tell him. ‘They wanted to kill us. I saw it in their eyes. We are lucky to be alive. So lucky.’
‘We do not speak of such things. Such is life. Such is the wa
y of this country,’ her father says.
You never met him but he was eventually killed at a bus stop. By the same sort of people who wanted to murder us all that night.
I shoot a look at Nisha and she grimaces, as if to say, stop talking, now. I stop. In the silence, Chumchee calls out for water. Nisha places a hand on her mum’s arm and stands up to take it to him.
The garden behind the house is a short stretch of concrete leading to an outside toilet. I’m nervously holding a small box of fireworks. Nisha and her mother stand in the kitchen doorway, waiting for the display. Her father appears behind them, leans over and hands me a lit incense stick. I have never done this before. I look to the upstairs window where Chumchee stares out, directly at me. When I wave he does not respond.
Diwali at home was brilliant. Because we had master showman Sailesh, and an open rooftop courtyard between our apartments, we could let all the fireworks off at once. I never had to do anything. All I was required to do was to ooh and aah and to say wow and so forth.
It was the one day a year we were religious. Diwali was a day to remember your roots and how far you had not come from them. Diwali was about singing tunelessly, my father leading us all in prathna. Diwali was about atoning for your lack of achievements and your lack of integrity. Diwali was about eating your body weight in gulab jamun. Diwali was about others, people less fortunate. Diwali was about staying out of your father and your uncles’ way because that was the one day a year they would mix charras into their tobacco and churn it in their mouths till their eyes were red and glassy and their lips bled. Diwali was about family.
Standing here, in front of Nisha and her parents, is not Diwali.
I put the box down on the ground and select a tall thin firework. I twist at the crêpe lighting paper at its tip and place it in the empty milk bottle Nisha’s amee has given me, as far away from the house as possible. I lift the incense stick to the firework and hold it to the fuse. The bottle topples over.
I pick it back up, to cries of encouragement from Nisha’s dad, laughter from her and her mum. I lift the incense stick to the firework again, this time holding it upright with my free hand until the paper lights.
Red flares stream from the firework. It startles me and I drop it, jumping backwards.
The One Who Wrote Destiny Page 6
