Page 90 - FATE & DESTINY

FATE & DESTINY

“Maybe it’s safe for them.”
I held my chest. “I am terrified.”
“Don’t be, but do nothing to annoy them.”
I nodded, still shaking.
Early the next morning, I plodded back home, muttering, “Is this all the world could offer me?”
Now that I encountered the gunslinger, I felt worse. Even my beautiful home looked like a ghost-
haunted cave under the bridge. Sometimes, I had an awful solitary existence even in the school with over
seven hundred heads. But with time, I adapted to the status quo.
That winter vacation, I hung out with friends and gambled, losing money every night.
One afternoon, Gopal—the young trucker from Darranga, the Indian state of Assam—knocked on my
door. “Sir, let’s go to Barpeta.”
“Do we get tarka roti there?” I said, beaming with delight.
Tarka roti was a flat, round bread roasted in the hearth. It was mouth-watering, and the flavor of the
paneer curry was heavenly.
“Yes,” he said. “Everything.”
“Why not? I am bored as well. How far is Barpeta?”
“About twenty miles from Partshala.”
“Is it safe to go there?”
“Very safe,” he said. “Bhutanese trucks go there.”
It took forever to reach Barpeta. A few miles away from the Barpeta town, Gopal drove down the
narrow road to a small cluster of makeshifts. By then, the dusk fell. And from there, it took twenty minutes
to reach the sandy river bank.
“Here we are,” said Gopal. “We will load the sand now.”
“Just the two of us?”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I will get the loaders. Stay in the truck and don’t go anywhere.”
“Wait, where’re you going?”
“I will be back soon.”
But he wouldn’t return even after half an hour. I jumped out and glanced around the darkness-plunged
sandbank. “Where am I? Is this a safe place?” It was creepy, especially when the breeze howled across the
sand. So, I got inside the truck and rolled up the glass. A knock on the glass almost startled me.
“Gopal here,” said the voice. “Open the window.”
“Where were you?”
“Sorry, I had to pick them from their huts.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Just a pack,” he said, trying to balance on his feet. “Guys, start loading.”
The loaders took half an hour to fill to the brim of the cabin.
“Can you drive, Gopal?” I asked.
“Don’t worry,” he said, leaning on the steering wheel.
“Loaded,” said a man, peeping through the window. “Loading charge, please?”
“Here you are,” said Gopal, handing him six notes of fifty rupees. “That’s all I got.”
“It’s way less,” said the loader.
“That’s all I have got today,” said Gopal. “I’ll pay you more next time.”
We took the other road that meandered through a shantytown, but there was a checkpoint at the end.
Gopal rolled down his window and stretched out his hand to the gatekeeper.
“You should pay more,” said the gatekeeper.
“Why should I?” grumbled Gopal. “I paid full.”
The gatekeeper glared in. “You are not going through this gate.”
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