The Fortuneteller

“What do you seek?� spoke the old man in a rumbling voice, his black eyes piercing the young man sitting in front of him to the depths of his soul.

The young man did not reply. He sat there, looking around, taking in to his surroundings. It was a square room, no larger than fifteen by fifteen feet, lit by a kerosene lamp which hung from the low ceiling. An Indian cot (Charpai) was hidden in a little recess at the other end of the room and various books occupied the niches in the walls, some of them covered in green cloth. A bunch of joss sticks burning in one of the niches had tinctured the air with a smell that is characteristic of graveyards.

The young man, after having leisurely examined the room, looked at the old man who was still gazing at him unyieldingly. “Nothing,� spoke the young man with such abasing impassivity that the old man was forced to stop rolling his prayer beads and cease the repetitive, quivering movement of his lips.

“I have heard that you are a fortuneteller. You look at people's hands and tell their fate. Why don't you take a look at my hands?� said the young man, offering both of his hands to the fortuneteller. The young man's tone was authoritative in a subtle manner, and for the first time in his life, the fortuneteller felt that his knowledge is being tested. The fortuneteller was not being requested rather being ordered. It was unusual. A Sahir, thought the fortuneteller, moving his eyes away from the young man's high forehead and deep-set eyes to his hands. The fortuneteller studied the young man's palms for some time, pressing at some areas with his thumbs and tracing the deep lines with his experienced eyes.

“You have problems,� said the fortuneteller, still looking at the young man's palms.

“Everyone has,� replied the young man quickly, his voice firm with conviction.

A bead of sweat appeared on the fortuneteller's brow. His usual tricks, he concluded, are not going to work with this boy.

“Why don't you ask me questions?� said the fortuneteller, now looking into the young man's dark eyes, feeling besieged in his own little castle.

“Will I be rich?� asked the young man.

“Moderately,� replied the fortuneteller.

“Will I get the woman I love?� questioned the young man with a faint smile on his lips, his expression softening a bit.

“No,� answered the fortuneteller honestly.

“Thank you, old man,� said the young man, standing up and walking out of the room.

The fortuneteller just stared at the wall in front of him, feeling for the first time in his life that something was incomplete. He shrugged off the young man's presence which still lingered in the incense filled, murky room and started chanting something on his beads again.

Two years later, a knock at his door brought the fortuneteller back to earth from his orphic trance. “Come in,� said the fortuneteller, without opening his eyes and continuing to roll the prayer beads between his fingers. The wooden door creaked open on its rusted hinges and then closed with a dull thud marking the arrival of a new guest. The fortuneteller opened his eyes and looked at the figure of a man which he immediately recognized as the young man who had come to him two years ago. Once again, the quivering motion of the fortuneteller's lips ceased and so did the habitual rolling of the prayer beads between his fingers. The young man, who had now become a man, walked towards the fortuneteller and sat at the exact same place on the floor where he had sat two years ago.

“I see you're still alive, old man,� said the man with a smile spread across his face. “I myself wouldn't survive in this place for an hour,� said the man, looking around.

The fortuneteller noticed that nothing had changed in this man except his eyes – they now shone with fierce intensity, and the spark in his soul had matured to an uncontrollable fire. The man's presence was so overwhelming that the fortuneteller felt his aura of sobriety crumble like a card castle blown away by a whiff of wind. He is a Sahir then, thought the fortuneteller.

“Have you come for answers?� asked the fortuneteller, finally deciding that speech is the only outlet he has.

“Yes,� replied the man calmly, “but I have come to answer yours.�

“Two years ago, I came to you because I was afraid of life, and I needed reassurance. You provided me none. You told me that I will become moderately rich and I will not have the woman I love. The poverty never bothered me, but it was the thought of not having the woman I love that forced me to change what you called 'my fate',� spoke the man in his voice that seemed to have been distilled by the furnace of his unmarred heart.

“You, old man, know nothing about fate. You sit here in this enclave of yours and ruin lives, like you almost ruined mine. That day, I had two options: Let my life roll down the path predicted by a lunatic or make my own destiny. I chose the latter. I trespassed all the boundaries of right and wrong, made my own ways and finally achieved what my heart desired. Our path is not in the footsteps of others, but wherever we walk.�

“It was not easy,� sighed the man. “I had no one to guide me, no one to follow, because I wanted to fly, and those who fly in the skies do not leave footprints, nevertheless, I took off and left everything behind. I was no longer a prisoner of gravity; or destiny; or fate. As I rose higher above the earth, I saw the rising of a new dawn. I came to know of a world where the sun never sets; but the credit of my success goes to you. You made me aware of the path which I did not want to walk. I realized that God's plan lay hidden beneath my feet. I simply had to choose. Had I not come to see you two years ago, I'd have unknowingly walked down that path which would have inevitably led to my doom. You told me that I will not become rich and I will not have the woman I love. It is natural law, old man, that things exist in pairs. I was standing at a juncture where only one path, that led to my failure, was visible to me; but there was another pathas well. The path that was opposite to what you had suggested. I simply chose the opposite path.�

“It is not the shackles of the society nor the restraints of the culture that determine our fate - it is the limit of our sight that marks it. I am now rich beyond imagination and I have the woman I love.�

“Here is your final lesson,� said the man, presenting both of his hands to the fortuneteller. The fortuneteller looked down at the man's palms in awe. He then took the man's hands in his own trembling hands and felt the withered, scaly skin of his palms. There were no lines. The fortuneteller let go of the man's hands and backed off in fear, knocking over an earthen bowl, splashing water over the prayer rug.

The man stood up and spoke for the last time, “Your destiny is that this room shall become your tomb,� and left the room as quietly as he'd come in.

The next morning, the fortuneteller was found dead on his prayer rug. Apparently, the gods of fate and fortune failed to warn him of his own impending doom.