An Extraordinary Destiny

by Shekhar Paleja

  Anush stood in his underwear at the foot of the bed, admiring his physique in the full-length mirror. He dropped to the floor, did forty pushups, and then jumped back up, flexing his thin but muscled torso and biceps, and then with his hairbrush began to preen the thick, jet-black hair that he carefully styled every day. He was already late for college, but it was only a maths class he was missing. Nothing he was learning now would ever be of use and so Anush kept brushing his hair, even though he’d soon be showering and restyling it. Now that he’d started playing with it he couldn’t stop. The front had to be a little wavy with a bounce to it, suggesting a kind of heroic vivaciousness. After finally getting the last few tufts just so, he picked up his cigarette from the ashtray, still looking at himself in the mirror, pleased with the ab muscles he could faintly make out under his smooth brown skin, and muttered at his own reflection, “Kitne aadmi thhe? ”—a famous line from Sholay in which the villain, Gabbar Singh, asks his top bandits, who’ve been duped by the two heroes out of all their loot, how large the crew of men was that foiled them. The bandits respond meekly, in terror, “Two—there were only two,” and Gabbar Singh begins to snicker, then laugh riotously, maniacally, for a long minute before shooting his men dead with his pistol. It was an infamous bit that he and Paresh used to re-enact as children, taking turns being Gabbar Singh.

  Anush hadn’t seen Paresh since he left nearly ten years ago, but Anush was going to visit him in Canada soon. Once or twice a year Anush and the old man spoke to Paresh and his parents. The phone line was echoey and often got cut. They talked over one another and asked banal questions with enthusiasm: “How’s the weather?” “Oh my god, two feet of snow! How’s the weather there?” “Are the mangos good this season?” The calls became less frequent as the years passed. The old man was courteous but brief with Anush’s aunt and uncle; perhaps speaking with his dead wife’s sister brought back too many memories.

  Anush did another forty pushups before taking off his underwear to shower. He was about to go into his bathroom when he caught himself in the mirror at an attractive angle and started to flex his arms again. He wondered what exercises would broaden his shoulders so he’d look more like his father. Just then, two construction workers came into his room carrying tools and buckets. They didn’t notice Anush at first, but stopped abruptly as soon as they did.

  Anush was instantly enraged. He yelled, “ Chale jao! Get out!”

  They backed out of the room, apologizing profusely. “Please, beg your pardon, sahib. We thought you’d already gone . . .”

  But Anush was too angry for excuses. Kicking at their buckets, he shouted, “You’re stupider than a fly that sits on a whore’s ass! You’re worth less than the semen of a street dog!”

  He was outside his room now, near the dining area, shouting at the top of his lungs at two dozen workers, until he realized he was naked. Covering his penis with a cupped hand, he retreated back into his bedroom and slammed the door shut. His heart was pounding nearly out of his chest. The construction had stopped altogether and everything was silent. Through the door he was sure he could hear a few of them trying to stifle their snickering.

  His face went red. He’d never been so embarrassed. He looked down angrily at his penis for choosing such a time to become so flaccid. Of course now he’d have to endure them all, every day, looking at him with the knowledge that he’d been posing and flexing in front of his mirror, naked. They wouldn’t dare snicker in front of him, but it’d be tacit. He could imagine them during their lunch break, mocking him, cackling with laughter as they did impressions of him flexing his arms. He tried to reassure himself that it wasn’t a big deal; at least it wasn’t his friends, his peers, mocking him behind his back, but that provided little comfort.

  Slamming his bathroom door shut, he stepped into the shower, imagining himself as Gabbar Singh, shooting the workers like bandits with his pistol. Eventually the cold water from the shower nozzle quelled his exasperation somewhat as it cooled his hot skin.

  - 7 -

  1995

  AFTER GRADUATING FROM COLEGE, ANUSH was put to work at Sharma Shipping, but instead of working alongside his father in the plush, air-conditioned office, he was given a small desk alongside the accounting peons to go over ledgers, inventory, revenue, expenditures. Bullshit sandwich. He didn’t see why the boss’s son should have to suffer that type of boring minutiae. Sharma Shipping exported fabrics, leather bags, purses, belts, shoes, etc. But the big money was quietly being made in construction, real estate, and whatever else the old man was always on the phone about in his private office. If the old man wouldn’t let him play in the big leagues right away, that meant there was more money involved in the real estate ventures than he first thought, and so Anush prepared himself to work in the shipping side of the business for a while, eventually earning his father’s trust in order to one day advance to construction and real estate. For years now, he’d imagined himself being a bigwig at Sharma Shipping, taking clients out for seafood lunches at Trishna, hobnobbing over drinks at exclusive clubs like the Bombay Gymkhana—not working alongside lowly clerks and making a paltry salary.

  It was humiliating that with all his father’s success, Anush still drove a Jurassic Fiat that wheezed and sputtered. Most of Anush’s friends had nicer cars now that they were all out of college. One even had an imported American left-hand drive, limited-edition Ford Mustang (despite the fact that it was a killer ride, the loser was chauffeured by a driver).

  After a few weeks at the same desk with an onion-smelling account peon, Anush began to wonder if the old man would ever want to promote Anush. Was middle management the best he could hope for? No. Life had better things in store for him. Or did it? He hadn’t thought about his kundali for a while. He wasn’t sure exactly when, but sometime after coming to Bharat Academy he’d begun to wonder if astrology was nothing but a bullshit sandwich. Did destinies even exist? If so, did he truly have a special destiny? Perhaps getting it read by a panditji was the answer. If it was all bogus, then was this as much loyalty, mentoring, and generosity as the old man was capable of? Maybe it was part of his plan to make Anush feel unwelcome, hoping Anush would just quit, disappear.

  Often in the old man’s presence, Anush bore the weight of being a failure, and so he couldn’t help daydream what it’d be like if his father were no longer around. In this fantasy, the old man wasn’t dead per se—just absent—and for the briefest of moments, the weight dissipated and Anush felt as though he could finally breathe, that he was no longer a disappointment, and an effervescence buoyed him. The more he felt this way, the more he indulged in the fantasy.

  But after a few months Anush was fed up. It had occurred to him perhaps this was all a test. A real leader wouldn’t put up with this kind of humiliation. A real leader would speak up for himself and demand to be taken seriously. One day he finally strode into his father’s office and said, “I can’t work out there any longer. I’m not—I’m not a low-level accountant.”

  The old man was on the phone and said into the mouthpiece, “Let me call you right back,” and hung up.

  “So, you think you’re better than everyone else. Is that it?” he said, lighting a cigarette.

  “Well, no, not exactly—”

  “How many times did you promise to do better in school, huh? I bought you the Fiat for receiving passing grades—not even a single A. But I thought rewarding success, no matter how little, would encourage you to work harder. But you never did. And how the hell do you think you managed to get your degree, let alone not get kicked out, even though you failed so many of your damn classes? Because I kept making sizeable donations every year!” He was yelling loud enough now that the entire office could hear. His words stung harder than any slap.

  As Anush left the old man’s office, he wished he was anyone else’s son, and almost said it out loud but knew better. Instead, he stepped out for a Marlboro.

  It was lunchtime in the Fort District and throngs of people passed by on th
e crowded footpath. As they bumped and nudged their way past Anush, he realized that his father had no faith in him, in his kundali even. Maybe the old man was jealous.

  After his cigarette, he walked back into his father’s office and said, “Why don’t I sell the furniture shop? You’re always complaining how it hasn’t made a profit in years.”

  The furniture shop had been languishing for over two decades, since Anush’s grandfather had passed away. Anush’s father had intended to sell it but didn’t have time to deal with the ludicrous amounts of bureaucracy involved, so he ignored it. Over the years most of the three dozen workers had been let go; only about a dozen remained.

  The old man finally agreed to Anush’s plan, instructed him which lawyers to talk to, and warned that he’d need a mountain of patience as there were decades of old paperwork to clear up for the sale of a building bought nearly fifty years ago. He’d have to go to court and sit with lawyers for hours on end, figuring out which officials to bribe. It wouldn’t be an easy task, but Anush agreed. He understood that getting through all the red tape was a kind of test, one that the old man thought Anush would likely abandon and fail, but Anush would prove him wrong, and so he left the office, without saying goodbye to the onion-smelling accountant, got into the Jurassic Fiat, and drove to the other side of Marine Drive.

  Anush hadn’t been to the shop in over a decade, since he was about eight years old. One of the older workers recognized him and said, “Anush sahib, welcome, welcome.” In the office, Anush drew open curtains that had been shut for decades. The air was stale, with dust settled thick on the tables and chairs. Inside a large glass cabinet there were at least a hundred miniatures of chairs and tables. On the wall was an old black-and-white framed photograph of Anush’s dadaji. The grandfather had gone mad and jumped out the window at Sea Face Terraces when Anush was a baby. No one knew why. Anush had no memory of it but when he was older he’d overheard boys in the courtyard: “The old man lost his marbles and jumped!” “Splat! Like a watermelon all over the pavement!”

  Although Anush never knew his dadaji, now as he stood staring at the dust-laden photograph, he couldn’t help but wonder what his last moments were like. Did his life flash before him in that split second he flew? Was there pain? Or just nothing? Anush wondered if the swooping eagles fell faster than a human body when they tucked their wings and dove. He still threw them bits of roti when he was bored, curious to see if an eagle would ever miss unfolding its wings at the last split second. He wanted to see what he’d missed, what no one had seen—his grandfather falling to his death in the middle of the night twenty years ago.

  Opening the curtains to another window, Anush took in the view. Marine Drive could partially be seen through the verdant trees. The long, curving road separated the city from the sea, which sparkled under the midday sun. There was a rustle in the trees outside, followed by a screech that startled Anush.

  “It’s just the monkeys, sahib,” a voice said.

  Anush turned around to find a small man standing in the darkness of the doorway. “Don’t mind them, sahib. They’re just quarrelling for fruit.”

  “You’re one of the workers here?”

  “Yes, sahib,” the man replied. He remained in the doorway, his face hidden by shadow.

  “I want everything cleaned up in here. Dusted and mopped. Shining like new,” Anush said. He’d learned from his time at Sharma Shipping the error in befriending workers. In lowering himself to their status it had given them permission to snicker at him when he made a mistake or asked a question he should’ve known the answer to. From now on, he would be in charge.

  “Of course, sahib,” the man said, continuing to stand there.

  Was the idiot awaiting further instructions on how to clean? Anush snapped his fingers and said, “Chal, clean the whole place. Tell the others. Top to bottom.”

  “Yes, sahib. Is the shop opening again?” the man asked, stepping into the light of the office. He was so thin that Anush wondered if the men at the shop were getting enough to eat. Just then he noticed the man’s eye patch—the lift boy. The night of the fireworks came back to him. The ground spinners, the rockets, the Roman candle. Anush had lied and said it was an accident, repeated it so much that he nearly believed it himself. But deep down, he knew he’d wanted to hurt the lift boy, that he’d aimed the Roman candle at him. The long-dormant guilt in him began to bubble up.

  The lift boy wasn’t a boy anymore, and yet except for the patch on his eye he was nearly unchanged. The same thin, angular face and dark skin. Even though he was in his mid-twenties, he’d barely grown and was dressed like a boy years younger, wearing shorts and a threadbare shirt.

  As he squatted low to the floor and began sweeping, Anush wondered if the lift boy recognized him. A number of things occurred to Anush rather quickly. He realized the old man must have given the lift boy a job when the shop was fully functional all those years ago, providing the appearance of giving the boy a better future, teaching him a skilled trade, while the old man’s real motives were more selfish. Having the lift boy stay at Sea Face Terraces with his eye patch would have been a constant reminder of Anush’s delinquency, humiliating Varoon Sharma. It was the same reason Anush was sent to boarding school—having him around would only remind people of the horrible accident, jeopardizing Varoon Sharma’s position as president of one of the most sought-after properties in the area. With Anush at boarding school, and the lift boy working in some godown, people forgot about the ugly incident and the old man not only kept his post but sat on other boards, and as land became rarer on the island of Bombay and real estate prices surged, massive chunks of earth were dug up and reallocated by large bulldozers to make new foundations for new high-rises, and fortunes were made by those in power, by those who brushed unwanted things under the rug.

  As Anush watched the lift boy sweep, he realized they weren’t that different. They’d both been discarded because their presence was a disgrace. An anger began to stir inside Anush, like tectonic plates deep underground, slowly shifting.

  - 8 -

  1996

  WHILE SANDING OUT A FEW scratches from an old sandalwood and teak jewelry box, Reza made sure to apply equal pressure throughout his stroke, and with only a few passes the surface was smooth. Despite having received little training when he’d begun working about thirteen years earlier in the lower godown as an apprentice, Reza found he had a natural talent with wood and had risen to the upper-level godown where he now worked among the higher ranks of the builders. The men in the shop were all Maharashtrians, mostly Hindu, from villages east of the city, and had grown up together, unlike Reza, who was Muslim and whose village was in the north, in Gujarat. Even though he’d learned to speak Marathi, earned their respect and trust over the years, he still felt somewhat of an outsider at times.

  Switching to a finer grit of sandpaper, Reza continued sanding the jewelry box. Wood was unpredictable. Some types of wood seemed to accept coarser grits at first, while others required finer ones. It also depended whether the wood was cut by a sharp or dull blade. What type of finish had last been used on the wood? How many layers? How many years ago had it been stained? An adept sander could even a surface in half the amount of passes that a competent one could. Running his fingers along the jewelry box, Reza assessed the consistency. Were the teak edges equally smooth? The corners abutted snugly?

  One of the sanders, a friend of Reza, was joining the rest of the workers in the courtyard for their midday meal, and walking past Reza, he said, “Chal yaar, you’ll sand that entire thing into sawdust if you keep working on it any longer.”

  Reza took the box with him into the courtyard. Someone handed him a bowl of red lentils and rice. Now that Anush sahib was at the shop, they were eating a bit better. For years they’d been eating the same dhal bhat every day. But now they’d sometimes get red lentils, or a Maharastrian spicy chickpea dhal. If they were lucky, there’d be fenugreek with fresh tomatoes and onions. Reza sat in a shady spot under
a guava tree and kept sanding.

  From under another tree nearby, one of the workers said, “You practising the back and forth, back and forth, for your wedding night?” which drew a round of laughter from the others.

  Reza was getting married in a week. He hadn’t met the girl yet, but a few weeks ago, while in his village, he’d seen a photo in which four girls stood, all sisters. They were close in age and dressed in matching yellow and red salwar kameez and dupattas covering their heads. Reza couldn’t tell them apart.

  “You’ll be married to the one on the left,” his mother had said, excited, proud.

  “Her name is Shareen,” Nabil chacha had said, lying in his bed. He was ill, and it was his last wish to see his favourite nephew get married. So it was all quickly arranged with a family in a neighbouring village. Reza just had to show up for the wedding.

  What was Shareen like? How old was she? Sixteen? Twenty-five? It was difficult to tell from the photo. What kind of movies did she like? Had she seen many? If she didn’t have a brother to chaperone her, she wouldn’t likely have been taken to the cinema in the nearest town. Did she like music? Ghazals? Qawwalis? Had she heard Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan’s soul-piercing voice or Bandanawazi’s sublime lyrics? Would they get a chance to be alone on their wedding night? Having never been with a woman, he was just as eager as he was nervous.

  Before leaving the village, Reza had asked Nabil chacha, “Has she seen a photo of me?”

  Nabil chacha looked at Reza, knowing exactly what he meant. Did the girl know she was going to be married to a one-eyed man who wore an eye patch? “I didn’t have a photo to send, but I told them what a good boy you are, that you have a respectable job in the big city, how you send money home every month . . .”