The One Who Wrote Destiny

by Nikesh Shukla

  I’m naming him after your husband, she tells me. He looks like the photo you showed me. Same nose.

  We already have a Vijay, my cousin tells her in Gujarati. He looks at me. Sorry, sister. Had a Vijay. God rest his soul. Does she know it is a girl donkey?

  She runs out of the house and sits down opposite Vijay.

  She even eats her dinner out there, feeding sugar rotlis to a nonplussed donkey.

  Rakesh wakes in the middle of the night, calling for his daddy. It is pitch black and I am sleeping between him and Neha.

  I rub at his hair but it does nothing to stop the screaming. His eyes are closed and he is still fast asleep. I try talking to him, reassuring him.

  Beta, I say. Beta, beta, beta.

  But it is not enough.

  The light is switched on, making me squint.

  Neha crosses over to Rakesh’s side of the bed. She rubs at his back and then whacks him across the shoulder blades.

  Rakesh gasps, opens his eyes for a few seconds and looks at me.

  Neha looks at me too.

  Then Rakesh closes his eyes again.

  Neha walks over to the light switch again, turns it off. I feel her shuffling back into bed.

  He needs somebody to show him he is okay, she tells me quietly.

  I tell her to go to sleep.

  I thought I would be comforted by the stillness and the blackness that come from being on this island. The whoosh and rush of the sea in the background.

  Instead I feel as though I am waiting for something.

  I’m waiting for Mukesh to come home, to take these children away from me.

  I’m waiting for Yama. I do not know how long my reprieve is. I’m waiting to see you.

  Neha asks if she can ride the donkey.

  I have called him Little Vijay, she says. He is younger than Vijay mama.

  I look at my cousin for his approval of the name, but Ajay tuts and flings his hands up as if to say, this conversation is not appropriate. The donkey is ill, which is why it’s not working. There are no vehicles on the island. Donkeys are transportation and couriers.

  The donkey has back problems, he tells me in Gujarati. Soon it will no longer be with us.

  I tell Neha about the back problem.

  He seems bored, she replies.

  I know, I say.

  I take Rakesh to the beach. Neha insists on staying with Vijay.

  It is quiet here. My cousin told me as we left that the locals tell the tourists that sharks feed there. It keeps the beach free for the Kenyans. The dunes make me feel small. I imagine myself sinking into them and disappearing.

  Rakesh splashes in the water and I read the book I have brought with me. On page 67, I raise an eyebrow and look around me. There is nobody else on the beach, luckily. They cannot see what I am reading.

  I am fucking you, Tania, so that you’ll stay fucked. And if you are afraid of being fucked publicly I will fuck you privately. I will bite your clitoris and spit out two francs.

  I close the book. This should shock me. Or arouse me. It should make me feel something. I have not felt anything since that night with Jonathan.

  How a man can wander about all day on an empty stomach, and even get an erection once in a while, is one of those mysteries which are all too easily explained.

  How, indeed? Ask only men about men, I think.

  Rakesh trips and falls into the water. He looks up at me and cries, so I stand and walk over. When I help him to get up he hugs me and manages to get sand between my saree and skin.

  As he wades out into the water again, I walk back to where I’ve left our things.

  The book has gone.

  I can see the imprint of it in the sand but it is not there. I can see the shaal I sat on, and the tiffin with the samosas and tamarind chutney. Not the book.

  I look around. I cannot see any footprints other than my own leading to and from this point.

  Help, I hear. Help.

  Rakesh has caught a wave straight in his face. I stand him up in the water and ask if he is okay.

  Am I okay? he asks.

  Drowning, cancer, these things run in our family.

  Ba, Rakesh asks me, holding up the book he chose at Shukla’s shop. Can I tell you a joke?

  Neha has untied Little Vijay and is walking her around in a circle in front of the house when we get home.

  Inside, my cousin is standing by the door, slurping masala chai loudly and watching her. I can tell by how upright he is that he is not happy.

  She has untied him, he says. Why are you not telling off your child?

  Even though Rakesh cannot understand Gujarati, I know he understands tone. I tell him to go and wash off the salt water and get himself clean for dinner.

  Bhai, I tell him. She is a child.

  Does not matter. It is my donkey. She has given it a name. She is ruining its back, making it feel like part of the family. Shall my wife set a place for it for dinner?

  I walk outside, silently.

  Without explanation, I take the rope from Neha’s hand and pull the donkey, as delicately as I can, back towards the fence. Neha sits on the ground and cries loudly. Finally, I think, she is behaving like a child. I look back towards the house. My cousin has disappeared from view.

  I hate how much I am intimidated by him and yet he is my family.

  You only met him once. At our wedding. He bruised my wrist, squeezing it too hard as I went to touch his feet and he reached to stop me.

  I look at Neha and debate between telling her off so she doesn’t untie the donkey again – we are guests, after all – and trying to explain to her what the problem is. I’m not sure I know, other than a sense of property. I try not to understand a cousin I have not seen since I came back to Kenya and who, as a child, would beat me and my brother with sticks and call it playing. I try to understand his second family. He tried again. After his wife died of cancer. Years later, he got what he always wanted. A family. And yet they seem like actors he has hired for my benefit.

  When Seema emerges from the bedroom, her baby is silent and does not cry, and the toddler is silent and does not want to play. They compliantly sit with her, as she cooks for us. When she requires two hands to roll out chapattis, I offer to help, but she tells me to sit. I suggest taking the baby but she says it is okay. I am fine. I walk outside and watch my grandchildren instead. I cannot keep watching Seema struggle. Rakesh reads his joke book to himself and falls about laughing. Neha is talking to this donkey, always talking to this donkey.

  Neha does not come for dinner when she is called. She sits in protest where I have left her but we can all hear her talking to the donkey in a high-pitched voice. Rakesh goes out to speak to her even though, he tells me, she won’t change her mind. I go out and tell her that dinner is getting cold. She ignores me and carries on talking to the donkey.

  Inside, I can see my cousin, his wife, their children and Rakesh all sitting at the table, their food uneaten. My cousin has been complaining about how hungry he is since he arrived home.

  He told me that snacks are for the rich. He is a worker. He eats two big meals a day because that is what he works hard to provide. Snacking is a luxury he cannot afford. He moved to Lamu because there was rumour of it becoming a tourist resort, with a big hotel, beach parties, maybe even discos. However, the lack of vehicles on the small island, the abundance of infrastructure needed, makes it very unlikely. I ask if he ever plans to come back to Mombasa. Or even go to Nairobi.

  No, he says.

  My cousin has seemed on edge since our arrival. This is such a different reaction from when I phoned him that night and he said he was so happy to hear from me. It would be exciting to meet his London family. He had not seen or heard from me for years but Seema always tied his rakhri on when I sent it. He called me beta, as though I was his dearest young sister. I even got excited at the prospect of seeing him.

  He will keep us safe, I thought. While I spend time with my grandchildren. While we grow to kno
w each other.

  He will offer me refuge.

  When we arrived, the gate was locked. He let us into his compound and immediately locked the gate behind him again. He is a worse version of the person I remember. And though I feel a duty to introduce family members to each other, as soon as I saw him, I knew I had made a mistake in bringing my babies to him. He does not socialize. Every door must be locked, every gate, every fence barbed. He is living in his compound, scared to go outside, but outside he must go in order to provide two big meals a day.

  A cup of masala chai and a single Parle-G biscuit for breakfast. Every day.

  I wish I had not brought my children here. I wanted to show them paradise. I wish I had not suppressed memories of what a bully my cousin is.

  Please start, I tell them, coming back into the house.

  Is she coming? he asks.

  She will come in her own time.

  Bloody bastard, he says in English, standing up and edging away from the table.

  He thumps his feet. His children recoil.

  I stand in his way, dumbly, frozen. He makes me still.

  He walks outside, grumbling about his hunger.

  I run to the door.

  He picks Neha up off the ground and as she shouts in protest, I call for him to stop.

  He hisses, Choop, at me and smacks her bottom hard three times, chewing at his lip.

  There is something in his eyes. A glint.

  She cries.

  He hits her again and tells her to be quiet as he enters the house, then puts her in the chair.

  She is crying.

  Eat, he shouts. I have worked hard for this meal. You will eat. Eat.

  I stand in the doorway, frozen.

  He looks up at me.

  Why does he have this power still?

  He gestures at my empty seat and smiles with a mouth only.

  I sit down.

  I watch as he tears a mouthful of chapatti, dunks it into the dhal and shoves it into Neha’s crying mouth. It falls back out on to her lap.

  He grabs a fistful of khichdi and thrusts it towards her.

  Stop, I scream, getting to my feet.

  I pick Neha up and I grab Rakesh’s hand, greasy with ghee from the sugar rotli. And I pull them both towards our bedroom.

  We lie in the dark.

  I have massaged lotion into Neha’s sore bottom, which caused hilarity for Raks. I have fed them both theplas and Parle-G biscuits squirrelled away for the long journey. They’re so hungry, they do not fuss.

  We lie there.

  He told us not to love you because soon you will be gone, Neha says, breaking the darkness with a whisper.

  Who told you that? I ask, trying to not show concern in my voice.

  A man.

  I prod her for more information, but she remains quiet. I know who she means. He is preparing me. He is preparing my family to be without me.

  I am sorry for my cousin, I say. That was cruel.

  Neha turns to me. I do not like that he keeps Little Vijay tied up. Little Vijay should be free. I love him.

  Sometimes, we marvel at a child’s capacity to forget. Sometimes, we marvel at what they remember and retain.

  I am sorry about the food.

  I love Little Vijay, she says sleepily. He is my friend.

  We have not left the room.

  Rakesh has urinated in a water glass and I have emptied it out of the window. Neha wants to see Little Vijay, to make sure the donkey is okay.

  I say, we have one more day here tomorrow. We need to keep out of people’s way.

  I leave our bedroom to go and find water.

  As soon as I open the door and see the light on, I realize my mistake. My cousin is sitting, with a whisky, upright in a chair. He looks at me and swirls his drink.

  Get yourself a glass, he says. Join me.

  He slurs. He is drunk. His eyes are half-closed.

  I walk to the kitchen and pick a steel cup off the side, bring it to where he sits and hold it out. He pours me some whisky. I sit down opposite him and put my feet on his glass table so that my toes are on the edge, pinching. I sip.

  I have not tasted hard alcohol since I left England. Beer, yes, but not harsh and acrid like this whisky.

  I have not missed it. Until this taste. It is delicious. It burns. I cough.

  Good, na? he says.

  Ha, I say. Reminds me of when Bhai was alive.

  I think I hear him snore. I do not know if Ajay is awake.

  My darling, my dearest, I have so many memories in this whisky that tastes like your breath.

  You are different now, he says suddenly, with his eyes closed. I do not know you. You are not my cousin.

  I have not seen you since my wedding.

  You did not come to either of my weddings, he says.

  England was so far away. I thought of you, I reassure him.

  I cannot see that girl in you any more, he says, snarling. You have come back to Kenya changed. You are not African now.

  I am nowhere, I reply. I am nowhere.

  We sit in silence. I let that hang in the air and sip from the whisky. Then I see a jug of water on the table in front of me and reach for it but the movement stirs him and he jerks his body forward to move it out of reach.

  This is my house, he says. I decide who gets what.

  That was cruel, what you did to Neha, I say calmly.

  He opens his eyes and sits forward.

  Who are you to tell me? You will go home and leave me here. She will too. To England. This is my house.

  I gulp down the rest of the whisky and stand up. I am wobbly. I want to be out of this home again and look at him sadly. He did not grow up into himself, I realize now, decades later. He grew into an older version of what he always was.

  When I phoned you, you seemed so happy to hear from me, I say, backing away from him.

  He stands up and holds a hand out to me.

  I am happy, he says. You are family. You are always welcome here. We grew up together.

  I wanted to tell my grandchildren good memories of us from childhood but all I could remember was that you used to beat me with sticks.

  Why did you come, little sister? he asks, smiling.

  You were so happy, I tell him. And I had not heard from my family for so long that I forgot. But now I remember what you did. I think I am supposed to say thank you, for turning me into this. I cannot feel pain. You say I am changed, that I am different. You beat Kenya out of me and I left. And now that I’m back, all I think about is another place at another time. You cannot scare me. I have stared death in the eyes and we are friends now. You are just a bully.

  He laughs.

  Cousin, he says. Never question a man in his own house. Especially when you do not know where you are.

  Big brother, I say, sarcastically. I know where I am. I am in between worlds and you talk to me about houses. You think too small.

  Why did you come? he asks, opening his eyes suddenly as they have been slowly closing. If I am such a bully.

  Because I needed your protection, I say. From death.

  I do not understand, he says, flopping back into his seat, shutting his eyes and putting his palm over them.

  You do not need to, I tell him. Being here has given me the time I need with my grandchildren. You, it was you, I smile. You who made me love them. Who knew your cruelty could bring people together.

  I laugh.

  I edge back into my bedroom, smiling into the darkness, hoping you will hold my hand and guide me away from this place. I am nearly ready to see you, my darling.

  I leave him there, asleep, and walk back into the pitch black of our bedroom. I shift Neha and Rakesh into my arms and cuddle them both. I love them and I am ready to let them both go. I am ready to go home and face what I was waiting for.

  I waited for so long that when it came, I got scared.

  I love you, I whisper to my grandchildren. I always will.

  *

  We wa
ke to bleats and brays, wild and unnerving.

  Neha springs out of bed.

  Little Vijay, she says, running to the door.

  Rakesh is slower to wake. I sit up and stretch, dab at the sweat in my armpits and blink the sleep from my eyes.

  Neha struggles violently with the door, pulling at it till it opens, then runs out of the room.

  I follow her with quick strides through the house.

  She screams when she reaches the front door and I hurry in time to hold her back. Ajay squats over Little Vijay, whose legs are bound in thick rope.

  What are you doing? Neha screams.

  Take her back inside, Ajay says firmly.

  He picks up a big panga and places a knee on Little Vijay’s stomach.

  Go back inside the house, I tell my child.

  She looks up at me with pain in her eyes. I cannot comfort her.

  Please, she says. Little Vijay.

  My cousin holds up the panga.

  I tell her again, firmly, go back inside.

  I feel Rakesh take her hand and pull her. She resists at first but then allows him to lead her away.

  Walking towards Ajay, I thrust my hands out in confusion.

  What are you doing? I ask.

  This donkey is no good to me now. It will not work. Go back inside. Tonight we barbecue – a celebration for your last night.

  Stop, I say. Stop, please stop.

  My cousin stands up. He throws the panga to the ground, leaving Little Vijay to struggle and squirm. Expecting me to retreat, he stomps towards me, but I do not. He thinks he can own my body, show me what space is mine, because this is his house.

  But I do not live in this world any more.

  I wait for him to approach. I have been sitting by myself for too long now, but I understand the frailty of men. He wants me to be defined by him. My reaction to him should be one of fear.

  But I do not live in this world any more. I will deliver these children to their father the day after next.

  I have decided to die.