The One Who Wrote Destiny

by Nikesh Shukla

‘Dad, you are hilarious,’ he tells me. ‘This is really, really funny. Anyway, it’s good to see you. Thanks for coming up to my show. I can’t believe it. I think this is the first time any of my family except Neha has ever seen my act. And what a show to come and see. The one about you. I mean, it would have been less awkward for me if you’d seen the one I did last year, about how I became an internet meme, but there you go.’

  ‘I listened to the show on your website,’ I tell him. ‘I still do not understand what a meme is, but did you ever think to tell those people that you are not Muslim and therefore using your face as a way of describing angry Muslims is offensive to you?’

  ‘No. Like I say in the show, whether I’m a Muslim or not isn’t the infuriating part. It’s that they thought I was an angry one. You have to show solidarity. Those people don’t give you the benefit of nuance. So you have to stand side by side.’

  ‘I have stood side by side,’ I tell him. ‘It is not a place I wish to be again. Have I told you about the story of how I met your mother?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rakesh says, looking down at his potato, shovelling a big piece into his mouth.

  ‘Let me see. I have no reason to be anywhere. I find myself in an in-between world, with no purpose, except to lean with my back against the wall, across the road from Nisha’s amee and papa’s house . . .’

  This show is different from the earlier one. This time the comedians, who are drunk, come up to do five minutes of material about the politics of the day. We are in a pub. The stage area has been dressed in a big black curtain. A man is talking about the Prime Minister and people are booing. There is chatter from the back of the pub. Rakesh is sitting next to me, shaking his right leg furiously. I put my hand on his knee to steady it. He must be nervous.

  He takes out his phone and looks at something on the screen, then looks around him.

  When his name is announced, he bounds on to the stage. I do not know how he has this much energy. I can feel the bottom of my stomach swimming with baked-bean juice and melted cheese. I feel heavy.

  Rakesh’s energy, on stage, is that of someone who has just been electrocuted and has five minutes of intensity before falling over. He is shrill. He talks in a voice I have not heard before. Normally, his voice is like mine, slow and mumbly. On stage, he is shrill, loud, a fast-talker brimming with nerves. His voice goes quickly up and down from falsetto to loud and assertive, sometimes in the same word. He is someone I have not met before.

  ‘Colonialism,’ he says. ‘What’s up with that?’

  People laugh. I smirk. Colonialism was silly.

  ‘Thanks for the railways. I always have to say thanks for the railways, it seems. Forty per cent of the country said colonialism was a good thing. Forty per cent? I don’t understand it. That’s a lot of people who think that the systemic rape, pillage and resource-mining of countries across the world, enslaving whole generations, forcing them to be Christian – then when some countries fight back, giving them the illusion of democracy and dividing the people – is a good thing. A positive thing. Well done, the Brits. Wasn’t colonialism great? It was shit. I know it was shit. My dad knows it was shit. He grew up during the British Empire, did you know that? The British Empire. And he thought it was shit. And the forty per cent of you who thought colonialism was a good thing – if you’d been alive at the time, it wouldn’t have been like Downton Abbey for the majority of you fuckers. No, you feudal serfs would all be dead of scurvy and syphilis. How’s that for white privilege? Everyone wants to go back to the good old days, no matter how shit their place in society would have been, because at least they would have owned the coloureds. Am I right, ladies and gentlemen? Colonialism, what’s up with that?’

  ‘Fuck off back to where you came from then . . .’

  The audience gasps. I look around me, angry. How dare they interrupt my son? Go back to where he came from? My bloody son is from Harrow.

  Rakesh freezes. He looks out into the crowd, a hand on his hip, and sighs. He doesn’t know what to say. The audience is waiting for his response. He has none. Whispers start.

  I stand up, trembling with the same combination of anger and fear as I did all those years ago, when Nisha and I stormed the community hall doors.

  ‘Who said that?’ I shout to the crowd.

  ‘Yup,’ Rakesh says. ‘I brought my dad and he’s going to beat up the dad of whichever fucker said that, so goodnight and always punch a Nazi and see you in the car park. I’m bringing my dad.’

  The entire audience bursts into laughter. They clap. Some stand up. People pat me on the shoulder. My face slips from anger into laughter.

  Rakesh jumps off the stage.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he whispers.

  ‘Why?’ I say.

  ‘Because I’ve just challenged someone to a fight and I want to go in case they actually accept.’

  We have a drink in my hotel bar. People approach Rakesh and say well done. One of them, a desi with round glasses, smiles at me as Rakesh signs his DVD.

  Rakesh is distracted. He is looking through social media. Someone has uploaded a video of the entire encounter and people are either calling us heroes or dismissing the whole thing as a set-up.

  ‘Dad, man, I was going to be angry about you interrupting me and embarrassing me, but people are really rating this online. We’re getting so many retweets. I think this might go viral.’

  ‘What is a retweet?’ I ask.

  ‘A lot of people are talking about it online, let’s just say that.’

  ‘Is that good?’

  ‘Yes, definitely,’ Rakesh says, sipping at his gin and tonic. ‘It means more people will come and see my show. Maybe they’ll expect to see you. Should you stay? No. Okay, look, it was very funny. Just don’t do it again. I can handle that sort of shit.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’ I ask.

  ‘What do you mean? I was just working out what to say to him, and then you interrupted.’

  ‘No, you stood there for so long in silence, the audience was getting nervous. I had to say something. You cannot let people talk to you like that,’ I say. ‘You cannot let them tell you to go home. This is your home.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad, I appreciate the support. But that’s my job, tearing down those ignorant dickheads. You didn’t give me a chance.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘You do not tear them down. You tell them this is not acceptable. No excuse, no racism, no laughter about racist jokes, no letting them getting away with it, no debate. Never. I told you the story tonight of how I nearly got beaten to death defending your mum.’

  ‘You fought together.’

  ‘We fought. For you to stand in silence, and let that man tell you to fuck off back to where you came from.’

  ‘It’s not that simple, Dad. I get a lot worse in nicer places, in worse places. You have to be able to take a joke. People say horrendous things to non-white comedians all the time.’

  ‘And you think that’s okay?’ I ask.

  I finish my pint and stand up, walking over to the bar to order two more drinks.

  When I sit down, Rakesh is still staring at his phone.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I ask, trying to imagine his online world and what it means.

  ‘Ricky Gervais said it’s a set-up, but cute. Piers Morgan has retweeted it. People are calling me a fake, saying it never happened.’

  ‘You should take it down.’

  ‘I can’t,’ he says, sipping at his next gin and tonic and running his hand through his shaggy hair and then his beard. I wish he would shave.

  ‘We need to talk about Neha,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about Neha.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because, Dad, it’s painful. And I need to do this month where I stand on stage and talk about her for an hour, and I just can’t dwell on the death too much. She would have wanted me to do this show and not mope about her.’

  ‘She is your sister, beta. You have to think about her. It is unfair to think that yo
u can ignore these feelings. To her memory, and to your health.’

  ‘Dad, I am committed to this theatre and this show for one more week. Every day, I see people, I talk to people, I tell jokes to people, I make people laugh, people tweet about my work online, people rate me, invite me to do paid gigs, invite me on the radio, I’m even due to go on the telly soon. It’s all exhausting. Being so public, especially when something so private is destroying me. But it is what it is. When this month is over, I am doing as promised in her will, and I am taking her ashes to Kenya so she can be near Ba.’

  ‘Why does she want to be near Ba? Besides, Ba might not even be in Kenya any more.’

  ‘Where is she, then?’ Rakesh asks.

  ‘Why do you both keep asking me this? I don’t know the answers. We lost contact. She is probably no longer alive.’

  ‘I want to go and look for her. When I’m in Kenya.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she’s my ba.’

  ‘Son, I am sure she is not alive any more. She was old. It has been nearly twenty-five years since you were both with her.’

  ‘I need to find her, Dad.’

  Then I lose Rakesh to his phone again.

  We finish our drinks and I can tell that my boy is ready for bed. I want to go up to my room and listen to my music and talk to Nisha.

  ‘Shall we call it a night, bwana?’ I say.

  ‘Sure,’ Rakesh says, standing up. ‘We’re having breakfast tomorrow, aren’t we?’

  ‘Of course. Will you meet me here?’

  Rakesh nods. He gives me a hug.

  Someone approaches him. A girl, she waves at him.

  ‘Oh, hey, Raks. Oh, and this is . . . are you really his father?’

  I blush. ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘What you guys did tonight, showing that heckler that racism is unacceptable here, I love it. Love trumps hate,’ she says. ‘Well done.’

  ‘Thanks. We’re just smashing racist fools, one person at a time.’

  ‘Your dad is, at least,’ she says. ‘Not all superheroes wear capes. Anyway, have a great rest of the fest.’

  She walks off. Rakesh looks at me and shakes his head.

  ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Of course I’m not trending on the internet. It’s you, not me. Life is ridiculous.’

  ‘Son,’ I tell him, ‘I love you. And you must not take shit from anyone. Not about this. Promise me. You’re British, Rakesh Jani. You are a British man, and it is your right to be here. If anyone disagrees, punch them in the face.’

  ‘Dad, I’m a joke-teller.’

  ‘Punch them in the face, Rakesh beta.’

  ‘This is your fatherly advice to me? Punch people in the face.’

  ‘You know what we went through to give you a life here. And now you have to ensure that life is preserved for those who come after you.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  ‘You deserve to have great things happen to you, beta. Many, many great things. I am sorry I did not give you much time when you were a child. I have been thinking about it since Neha died. Since she told me this. You deserve only the good things. But remember, only take them if they are good. Do not take opportunities that come with bullshit.’

  ‘I won’t, Dad. Look, I know I’m destined to be great. Ba told me when I was younger, and I’m certain good things will happen. I know that. But that has to be my focus, Dad. It really does. Especially if I have to work twice as hard.’

  ‘Son,’ I say. ‘I don’t have much advice to give you . . .’

  ‘Untrue,’ he quips. ‘You’ve been advising me all night. Carry on . . .’

  ‘Once you are great, remember that people look up to you and you cannot do any of this in isolation.’

  ‘I can feel my ego tingling, the amount of times I’ve called myself great. I need to stop.’

  ‘You should have said something to that man,’ I tell him, pointing my finger into his chest. ‘You should have said something.’

  ‘I know. I’m going to go. I can jump on another late-night set. You know, you’re internet-famous now, Dad. They’re calling you #rakspops.’

  ‘It should have been you who is internet-famous.’

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ he says, turning towards the door.

  ‘Bye-bye, beta,’ I say, to my son, the comedian who will change the world.

  As he leaves, I take out my smartphone and look for his Twitter account on the internet. #rakspops, that’s me.

  He has more followers than I thought. He must become a leader.

  ‘All Cassavas Have the Same Skin but Not All Taste the Same’

  Rakhee. New York

  The first time he comes in, he lectures me about our menu, telling me that calling it a ‘chai tea latte’ is cultural misappropriation. I smile, thinking he’s joking, but then he launches into a whole spiel about it, and I’m like, dude, I just work here.

  ‘You know chai tea latte is a redundant phrase, right?’ he says. He’s from London. He might think that over here, we’re all gonna be fawning over his accent but no chance, buddy, this city? This city is full of tight-asses just like you. ‘It’s cultural misappropriation. Chai means tea, right? So you’re pretty much serving tea-tea, like tea-flavoured tea. I’d like some tea – what flavour, sir? Tea-flavoured tea, please. And anyway, seeing as you mean masala chai, not chai chai, so I guess a spiced tea, you know it’s made with mostly milk, right? Half milk, half water, probably. Or if you’re being really luxurious, all milk, all day. So having a masala chai latte is redundant, because it’s already made with milk? What are you going to do? Add milk to the tea-flavoured tea that’s made with milk? Mmmmm, delicious.’

  I can’t help but smile at him committing to the bit. Like, he really wants to own this moment.

  ‘And what can I get you?’ I ask.

  ‘I’d like an Americano coffee, please,’ he says, laughing. ‘Surely, if it’s American, you’d just call it an American coffee, right?’

  ‘One Americano,’ I call out. ‘Would you like it in or out?’

  ‘In, please.’

  ‘For here,’ I shout.

  Behind me, I can feel Maggie pretending I’m invisible again. So I call it out a second time.

  ‘I fucking heard you,’ I hear her mutter.

  I take the payment and carry on serving. Serving’s better than the alternative. If there’s no customers, there’s the code of the barista: if you’ve got time to lean, you’ve got time to clean.

  Hard-ass boss, I mean, this is Brooklyn, I should be sitting with my feet up, reading the book of Zadie Smith essays I brought to read on the L. If I’ve got time to read . . . I must be an essayist and writer living in the most saturated place for essayists and writers in the world, serving up coffee to them.

  I watch this guy sit in the window and stare outside. He’s brought a magazine but he doesn’t touch it. He’s got his phone on the table but he doesn’t touch it. He goes into a deep stare with the crosswalk outside, watching the borough throb.

  The second time he comes in, he orders his Americano. He’s quieter. Less showy.

  ‘Sorry for being an asshole yesterday,’ he tells me.

  I shake my head. ‘I fed your feedback to the owner. Wait – can you feed feedback?’

  ‘I think you just feed back.’

  ‘No, but I was feeding back your feedback.’

  ‘So you fed back to the owner that I had commented . . .’

  ‘Wait, no, because you had feedback, that I relayed. Yes, I relayed your feedback to the owner.’

  ‘And . . .’

  ‘He thinks you’re an asshole,’ I say, laughing.

  ‘That’s fair.’

  ‘I think you’re fine. You’re okay. Americano? Or as the Americans call it, coffee?’

  ‘Please, thank you. Can I have it to go?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘No people-watching today?’

  He doesn’t reply. A call comes through on his phone and he takes it, listening intently as he pays, jugg
les with phone, change and wallet, and goes to wait for Maggie, the slow-ass, to pour him a fucking coffee.

  The next customer tries to give me his number. I decline it. He drops it into the tip jar anyway, winking at me. Fucking creep.

  The third time he comes in, he asks if I want to get a cup of coffee some time.

  ‘Or,’ he says, ‘maybe something different. You’re probably sick of coffee, right? What about baos? I could really go for some. You like baos?’

  ‘Baos are fine,’ I say, laughing.

  I look around. Maggie’s listening. This coffee shop has a strict no-fraternization policy. I think it’s because some bigwig hot-shot bullshit whatevers come here and they’ve said to the owner that people keep slipping them their scripts and head shots and manuscripts, and they’re like, I just want my one-drop vanilla macchiato or spiced pumpkin latte in peace.

  ‘I get off at seven,’ I say quietly.

  Noting my secret squirrel nod, he nods and mouths, quarter past, out front. I smile.

  I get asked out for a date every single fucking day.

  He’s the first one not to say I look exotic or ask if I’m related to Riz Ahmed or Mindy Kaling.

  Look, it’s tough being Indian in the most hipster parts of this fucking place, okay? I remember, a guy said namaste when I walked past a yoga studio, and I was like, guy, what the fuck man, you wanna say hello to me? Say hello. Don’t think you’re being all spiritual and shit. Fuck you, buddy.

  I was carrying a tiffin filled with my lunch. Four layers – dhal, bhatt, shaak, rotli – and I think he thought, oh, look, a desi girl with her spiritual food carrier, how exotic and quaint?

  Fuck you, buddy. It keeps things separate. It’s practical as fuck and when I come home late at night, it makes me feel safe to know I’m carrying steel with sharp edges. It’s not exotic. It’s daily life. My dad took one of these to work with him every single day. He told me once that a security guard searched it for a bomb. He worked at that same damn hospital for thirty years and they still treated him like a terrorist.

  I wore a kurti one day. And people were like, oh, is it Diwali or some shit? I was like, Mr Mayonnaise, please, it’s fucking ninety degrees outside. You think I want to wear a T-shirt made of synthetic bullshit, or do I wanna wear breathable cotton and look ek dum first class, you tell me?