The One Who Wrote Destiny

  THE ONE

  WHO

  WROTE

  DESTINY

  THE ONE

  WHO

  WROTE

  DESTINY

  NIKESH SHUKLA

  First published in hardback in Great Britain in 2018 by Atlantic Books, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

  Copyright © Nikesh Shukla, 2018

  The moral right of Nikesh Shukla to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

  P.335, reproduced with permission from Curtis Brown Group Ltd, London on behalf of The Beneficiaries of the Literary Estate of Henry Miller, copyright © Henry Miller, 1934

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library.

  Hardback ISBN: 978 1 78649 278 4

  EBook ISBN: 978 1 78649 279 1

  Printed in Great Britain

  Atlantic Books

  An Imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

  Ormond House

  26–27 Boswell Street

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  For my sisters, kakis, masis, fais, mamis, faibas.

  For my kız kardeş. For Harrow ba, for other

  house ba. For mum.

  MUKESH

  Keighley, 1966

  What stories will they tell about me?

  Or will I have to give people my own history?

  Mukesh Jani

  Stasis

  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. Not like a stalker, yaar. No, instead, I am posed like the poet I am, my pen poised to make ink marks and etchings on an open notebook page.

  So far, all I have written is Nisha’s name: her first name, her full name, her first name with my surname, my first name with her surname, our names together. I write the openings of poems, but I never get past the first word of the first line. I have never written a poem before. I know that the first line starts with the word Nisha, though. Despite my lack of experience as a writer, her very existence inspires me, convinces me I was born to tell stories. Nisha means night. Maybe there is something in this for me to spin into poetry.

  Nisha, tonight, you are . . .

  Night.

  I wear my best clothes because they’re all I have that isn’t my white pyjama lengha or my exercise shorts. And now that I’m not in school, I don’t need to subject myself to the level of humiliation that comes with wearing short shorts.

  The damp breeze reminds me that I am alone in England, in a navy-blue suit jacket that used to belong to my father, which I cannot button up. Amee tried to find me blue trousers that matched it, but failed. In the grey of Keighley, the difference between the two is extremely noticeable. I have two white shirts which, due to the climate, I can wear all day every day as there is never any chance of getting hot enough to stain the collar. I look down at my father’s black tie, thin, with a pin that bears his name in Gujarati: Rakesh. I wonder what has happened to my wardrobe, now that I’m here. Amee has probably given everything to my younger brother. Because why take clothes invented for hotter climates to the wet and grey of England’s green and pleasant land? Neha, you were born here, but up until my teenage years, all I knew was Kenya.

  Nisha, are you my destiny?

  I scribble over this nonsense and stare at the half-empty page. I hope I seem deep in thought. Especially if Nisha is looking out of her window. The trick is to arrive twenty minutes before she is due home from school and stay until five minutes after she leaves for rehearsals for the big Diwali show. I practise my pensive face every morning in the mirror above the basin in my room. My thoughtful look, my deep-in-thought expression, initially looked constipated. It then went through a phase of looking as though I might have squirted lemon juice into my eye. Now I look blank. It is the best I can muster but I prefer it to looking as though I am in pain.

  I glance at my watch again – my father’s watch; everything I own is my father’s. I have to preserve these heirlooms to pass on to my younger brother. Until then, I am the head of the family, and thus inherit all his fancy items.

  The watch says 5.30 p.m.

  On the nose.

  The British have funny expressions for things. 5.30 p.m. on the nose. Everything has a nose, it seems. Everything has human features and human responses. They did not teach me this in school. I learned about verb conjugations, about vocabulary, about pronouns, adjectives, adverbs. I was never taught vernacular. Slang. The entire English language is composed of idioms. I feel lost most days when overhearing conversations at breakfast between the owners of the house where I lodge.

  I never say anything.

  They assume it is because I speak no English.

  Actually, it is because I do not speak their version of English.

  I hear keys in the door across the street and stare more intently than ever at my notebook. I want her to notice me and yet I do not wish to be seen. I can just about see Nisha in my periphery. Oh, Nisha, I write, changing my style, not having Nisha as the first word. Oh, Nisha, where is your head?

  I frown. What does it mean?

  Nisha closes her front door. I scribble over the line and try again.

  Oh, Nisha, what are we going to do with you?

  I cross this out. It sounds as though I am her dad.

  Oh, Nisha, let me in.

  I cross this one out too, as it borders on murderous.

  Poetry is difficult.

  The door opens again and I look up from my book. Nisha is struggling to balance a bag on her shoulder and a bundle of sarees under an arm. I look down again when I feel as though she’s spotted me.

  Nisha steps out into the road and drops her keys. She bends down to pick them up. I don’t think she notices the bike coming along. Something overwhelms me and, fearing for her safety, I spring into the road, dropping my notebook and pen in my haste to get to her. I have to protect her. I have to save her. I have to stop her from getting hurt. I have to keep her out of harm’s way.

  The bike crashes into my side and sends me smacking on to the cobbles of the street, my head banging against a jutting stone. I hear my name being called. I hear someone call me a bloody wog. I hear the click-click-click of a bicycle wheel in a free spin. Before things fade to black, I try to remember my happiest moment, just in case this is the end.

  Amee’s aloo parathas could start wars. And they often did, between me and my brother. The trick to her aloo paratha was to slow-cook the potatoes all morning in water infused with ghee. That way, you could mash them with milk for a smoother texture. My younger brother and I fought over who got to have the first one, straight from the tawa.

  I am sitting at Amee’s table. It is my last meal with her before I leave for England. Though I should feel jubilant, I am mournful. Naman and Amee have both privately scolded me for leaving them with each other. They hate each other so much. He’s at that difficult age where he’s old enough to be desperate for his freedom bu
t young enough that he still needs her to cook and clean for him. She’s at the age where she would like some freedom from a teenage son who is old enough to cook and clean for himself, and responds to every request with an indignant groan like a cow being ushered from the middle of the road. They argue constantly.

  I will not miss this.

  I will not miss being the intermediary for two people who live in opposing camps. He wants freedom, fried foods, a football. She wants help around the house, a money earner, grades befitting a man of industry.

  It’s tough being the clever one. The funny one. I do not complain, though. I’m also the quiet one.

  According to Amee I was always destined to go and study in London. She knew that was always the plan. Before Papa died, after Papa died. Even in the brief moments when he was dying, we all knew this was the plan. Now that we are here, she is not so sure.

  She dresses up her concerns with barbed comments about Sailesh, who is my reason for leaving. If Sailesh were not leaving, nor would I be. I did not want to go on my own. Because Sailesh is coming to do things other than study, she is concerned I will be distracted.

  She is right, I will be.

  If Sailesh is going to be working the Soho clubs, performing to rooms full of sheraabis, eating dinner with white people every night, meeting white girls, hanging out with the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, am I really going to sit at home, quietly studying for my accountancy degree?

  What Amee does not understand is that I can do both. I understand my responsibility: I just have to be twice as good as the other people studying to be accountants, so that I can have fun too. Why not? Why not have fun? Sailesh will be juggling for all these high-society people I’ve seen going in and out of the hotels in Mombasa, all wearing pearls and sparkling dresses or shirts starched whiter than an Englishman holding a milk bottle in winter.

  Amee must know this, that as soon as I am in London I plan to have fun, to drink and party and meet girls and not study, which is why she puts the first aloo paratha, straight off the tawa, on to Naman’s plate.

  He is so surprised, he looks from his plate up to me and then back down again.

  Amee drips ghee on to the paratha.

  I look at her. She is avoiding eye contact with me.

  ‘Bhai, would you like half?’ Naman asks.

  Those five minutes that follow – with Naman and me sharing the aloo paratha the way brothers should, while my mother is too stunned by his moment of generosity to protest – that stillness, when all you can hear is the churn of chewing, that is the happiest I have been in a long time. Certainly since Papa died. Who can remember what life was like before he passed?

  I can hear my name bouncing around in my eardrums.

  ‘Mukesh, Mukesh,’ I hear, in Nisha’s voice.

  My half-conscious brain translates the tone of her voice as one of affection and concern, but as I open my eyes to the blindingly bright white clouds, I can see that she’s angry and impatient.

  ‘I’m late, Mukesh. You okay? Tell me you’re okay. Not today of all days, bhai. Not today.’

  I open my eyes, pat my hands up and down my body, feeling myself, just to make sure I’m still intact. She is frowning at me. Her face is partially obscured by curls, but she is definitely frowning.

  ‘I’m awake, I’m awake,’ I say and sit up, as quickly as I can.

  I have never spoken to her before. She knows my name. How does she know my name?

  She offers me a hand, to pull me up. I hesitate, but she jabs it at me insistently. I take it. Her hand is dry. Lukewarm. I pull on it, but I’m too heavy and overbalance her. She lands heavily next to me, swearing in English. She scowls at me, swears again and then begins gathering the fabrics she has dropped. I try to help but she yanks them from my grasp.

  ‘What are you doing? I’m late,’ she says.

  Announcing his presence, the man who crashed into me straddles his bike and starts cycling away, shaking his head, muttering about bloody wogs.

  I call ‘sorry’ after him.

  He continues to shake his head as he cycles away down the middle of the road.

  ‘Why are you apologizing to him?’ Nisha asks angrily. ‘He called you a wog.’

  I haven’t spoken to anyone since my first day in Keighley a fortnight ago. Not since my landlords asked me if I had any questions after they had shown me around my room and the facilities. I said no, added a thank-you as an afterthought and sat on my bed, watching them both go into their bedroom across the hallway. I heard the door lock, and when I heard them in hushed urgent tones discussing their impressions of me – harmless, teeth, smell, were the words I caught – I closed the door and continued to sit on the bed, hoping for some inspiration.

  How did I end up here, 213 miles away from London? I hope Sailesh hurries up, I thought. This is not where I was supposed to be.

  I didn’t speak to anyone during my first week – not Nisha when I noticed I lived a street away from other Gujaratis, nor her brother nor her parents, not the people I bought eggs from, which I wasn’t allowed to cook until I provided my own pans, according to Mrs Simpson, my landlady. (She was worried about the smell of curry seeping into her own pans. Did she think I ate fried eggs with curry?) I didn’t speak to people I passed in the street, sat next to on benches, made eye contact with. I learned that I could be introverted when regarded as an alien by all who came across me. So I kept quiet.

  In the evenings, I whispered certain words to myself that I had overheard during the day, to keep my English up to date. I whispered things like cummingwiv, outen, rutching, erwile, dook into my pillow, hoping that the more I repeated them, the more they would make sense to me, start to trickle off my tongue with ease. Down in London, when I eventually get there, I will talk like the locals, charm like the locals, make love like the locals.

  ‘Hello?’ Nisha is still looking at me. Her face is beginning to register concern.

  I smile dumbly in response, showing all my teeth, nodding my head a little.

  ‘Why are you saying sorry to that man? He ran into you. He called you a wog.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say to Nisha.

  I’m mesmerized by the way her nose twitches when she talks. I have not seen her speak before. I’ve not seen her lips move with such careful deliberation to avoid an accent. I have not appreciated how low her voice is, as though she is humming into the wide mouth of a foghorn.

  ‘What is a wog?’

  ‘Are you stupid?’ she asks.

  Nisha, my love, the object of my nightly fantasies and daily morning hygiene rituals, your talking voice is sending me into paroxysms of shivering explosions all over my body.

  ‘Stupid, like dropped on your head as a child?’ she continues.

  I think I love her even more now that she is speaking to me.

  ‘I got in his way,’ I say.

  ‘You were crossing the road. He should have been looking where he was going. Fut-a-fut he was cycling. He didn’t see you. Or he did it on purpose. You never know with these English.’

  ‘How do you know my name?’ I reply, thrilled by the idea that she knows who I am. She knows exactly who I am.

  ‘You’re desi – we all know each other round here. And Mrs Simpson asked my mum if we were related to you. She pronounced it Mooooo-cash. Like she wanted money for a cow.’

  She laughs. Her face changes. She has a smile that erupts from her chin, upwards, like a volcano of positivity. She has a serious face when she is thinking and a serious face when she is walking – I’ve noticed this in my various observations from afar. But this smile, it is utterly beguiling.

  Oh, Nisha, you make me want to believe in destiny.

  ‘I guess there aren’t many of us here,’ I reply.

  ‘How did you end up in Keighley?’ she asks, starting to walk, turning her head back so that I can answer her.

  I assume she wants me to follow her. So I do. And because I haven’t spoken to anyone in two weeks, and because it feels unnatural communi
cating, especially in the tongue I have been suppressing since I arrived, I tell her everything, much more than she needs to know, every excruciating detail. And bless her, Neha, you wouldn’t believe it, but your mother listens to me. Or, at least, she nods her head every now and then as if she’s paying attention.

  ‘My best friend Sailesh, he’s a juggler, one of the most famous jugglers in Mombasa. He has been playing the hotels for a few years now. His papa and my papa were best friends. But his papa died, you see. At the same time as my papa. It was a freak accident. They both drowned at the same time. No one saw it coming. They were trying to save my younger brother, Naman. And they swam out to get him. And they both . . . well, that’s not the question you asked. My brother’s fine, in case you are wondering. But my dad and Sailesh’s dad died. And Sailesh threw himself into juggling, obsessively. At first no one noticed how talented he was, because – you know how it is. We all look the same. Especially to the British expats and holidaymakers. Eventually Sailesh became so well-known he was offered work in the clubs over here. “Come and see the mysteries of the dark country.” He said yes because we’ve both watched movies. We know that this is the home of James Bond. Sailesh had to wait for his work visa to come through. He convinced me to come with him. I had always wanted to come to Great Britain to study. My papa had saved for years for me to study. And I applied to a college. In London. Sailesh’s work visa didn’t come through in time so he suggested I go on ahead and find a place for us both to stay. And he would arrive and pay for the rent and I could start studying. He told me that Keighley is a place near London that has lodgings accepting coloureds. He knows people who live here. So I came here. Here I am. In Keighley.’

  Nisha stops walking and turns round to face me. She looks at my face, trying to read it, understand what is going through my brain. Then her lip quivers before that smile volcanoes upwards across the entirety of her face. She has a gap in her front two teeth that becomes more pronounced the closer it gets to the gum.

  She giggles with the whole of her body.