A Spectacular Map
Photo: Karan Madhok
Fiction: ‘“Please check my future,” you say, as if I were a doctor, and your future a disease.’
This is where you end, and fate begins.
Or so you think.
The hopeless come to me, seeking consolation, wanting me to be the light beckoning at the end of the tunnel. The hopeful come to me, seeking reassurance, wanting me to be the light that enflames precisely where they want. They both come in superfluity, because seldom do people learn to balance hope.
There is some respite in the moon’s ostentation of something it doesn’t own. Look at how proudly it steals the sun’s light and projects it as its own.
As a fortune teller, I work in the same fashion. I fetch things out of you, and in my perfectly prescient voice, I reiterate them in words you desperately wish to hear.
Of course, desperation is your cloak, conflict your sceptre, and I know how to make you feel like a king. You come to me like frozen water; I send you back like melted ice. It has not been easy for you to come here. But misery is a rope around your neck, and I have managed to grab its other end.
I sense your strife: to stay or flee? But has this not been your indecision always? You pay some money to let me see what the future holds for you. How much? If you are a businessman driven here in a car, then it’s too little. If you are a clerk who has cut your expenses to make it here, then it’s too much. It all depends on you. The eroded hinge of the cast iron box creaks as I unclose it and stuff it with wealth. It’s almost at capacity. You are perhaps the last visitor for the day.
With the money paid, you are welcome inside.
Smoke dances in my dimly lit room like a creature of dust. You dance along. You might find the artwork on the walls eerie—because it is. Reluctance runs through your nerves, only to be masked by the conflict inside you. The bitter smell of coffee whispers an obituary of what today is; the sweet scent of sandalwood tells you a fairy tale of what tomorrow could be. You struggle in the latter and struggle for the former. Though you anticipated a sacred experience, you are scared. Fear bridges the gap between your intention and action. You sit in the vast chair, overcoming all indecision. And here it begins.
“Please check my future,” you say, as if I were a doctor, and your future a disease.
“Let's see,” I reply unconvincingly. Uncertainty, after all, is a prelude to curiosity.
I stare into your palm and let the time lapse. I switch expressions so that whenever you look at me, you discover me busy. You have paid me enough to do that. I pull your palm a little closer, staring into its blankness. I hum. Creases run like rivers of fortune on a spectacular map. Are they trying to communicate something? Even if they are, I am as deaf to their voice as you.
Then I look into other things. Things that matter. I see a Citrine stone set in your ring. I grin.
“Wealth is on its way,” I announce. “It will soon knock on your door, just ensure you open it.” I see how you offer a hesitant smile.
Your phone rings, time and again. I sigh.
“The independence you are yearning for is just about to descend upon you,” I say. I see how it startles you. “Turbulent times are transient. Fortune will soon tune your way.” I have the knowledge that times, however good or bad, are always transient.
Every time I tell you that you are on the ultimate cusp of happiness, the brightest dawn is about to break. These are not false promises or deceit. This is what you’ve paid me for, to voice the fears you cannot speak, and pronounce the resolutions you want to hear. And for the amount you have paid, I am happy to oblige.
When I feel that my time in you has surpassed, I look you in the eyes. The trance breaks. You know it’s time to part ways.
You come to me like frozen water; I send you back like melted ice. It has not been easy for you to come here. But misery is a rope around your neck, and I have managed to grab its other end.
You leave with enough satisfaction till you return; I leave with just enough money.
If my premonitions come true, you’ll come back with more conviction and bigger hopes; if they do not, you'll come back with more desperation and the same hopes. Either way, you will return.
Enough about you.
I open the rusted box when you leave. The box is adequately rich. I shut the parlour, calling it a day.
The next day, when the sun is up, I sit in the car and am driven to the address. In front of me stands the fortune teller’s parlour, in all its awe and glory. The friend and the fiend appear on either of my shoulders, but as I enter the dimly lit room, the swift dance of the smoke causes them both to vanish. It wasn’t easy for me to come here, but misery is a rope around my neck.
I sit in the vast chair, and here it begins.
“Please check my future,” I say, as if she was a doctor, and my future a disease.
“Let’s see,” she replies, unconvincingly enough.
Then she takes my palm and stares into its blankness. Rivers of fortune run across.
Seldom do people learn to balance hope. This is where I end, and fate begins.
***
Suvrat Arora is a reader and a freelance writer. Coming from a technical background, he often ricochets between technical and literary writing. You can find him on Instagram: @suvratarora.
