Fate

Inspired by true events.

I

The sweat stung Mohammed’s eyes. He dropped his sickle and wiped the sweat off his brow. He slowly stood up, weary from having spent the entire morning toiling in his field. The sun blazed overhead. Mohammed’s breath was short and ragged. The heat and the exhaustion brought a stay to the morning’s proceedings. He called out to his son Abdul, who was working nearby, and beckoned him to take a break for lunch.

As Mohammed trudged home, which was located on the edge of his field, he looked wistfully at the neighbouring well-manicured fields. The neighboring fields lay barely a few feet away. Those few feet represented the divide between poverty and prosperity. He then looked at his own unkept field and a sense of foreboding swept over him. The survival of his family depended on what this unkept land could produce in the next six months. Mohammed was a seasoned man now in his sixties and yet had not grown accustomed to the vagaries of agriculture. How could he? The pangs of hunger and guilt never let him. Mohammed was born into a life of toil and hardship. He had inherited a meagre couple of acres of farmland from his father and continued to do what his father did. Work the land and ensure the survival of your family. He never questioned his fate. He simply did not have the luxury to do so. You are born, you work hard, you persist, and you eventually die, this is all that he knew. This is all that his forefathers knew.

Mohammed entered his house, which was a simple unassuming structure. A wilting wooden cot, an earthen chula, and a cupboard bereft of any assets were the family’s only earthly possessions. His wife, Ruksana laid down two plates and hurried the tired men to clean up and finish their meal. Mohammed gestured to his wife that he was not hungry. Over the past few months his appetite seemed to escape him and today was no different. Mohammed simply wanted to lie down, close his eyes, and escape his drudgery for a few hours.

A few hours later, the sun no longer blazed overhead. The slight breeze that managed to sneak in the house encouraged Mohammed to head back out to the field. There was still some work to be done. He gestured to his wife that he was leaving and slowly made his way out of the house. As he was walking through the field, Mohammed felt his field of view shrinking. He felt lightheaded and the world around him started to spin. Then the darkness enveloped him.

Mohammed opened his eyes to a couple of horrified faces hovering over him. The earth below him felt soft. Mohammed wondered if this was heaven or hell. Was his day of reckoning upon him? No, he realized he was very much alive and the faces hovering over him were that of his wife and son. Despite their protests he slowly sat up. He asked them to stop fussing over him and attributed his collapse to exhaustion. This did nothing to assuage the fear of his wife and son. So, he finally had to acquiesce to a health checkup.

The next day, Mohammed with his wife and son in tow, visited the local government hospital. The hospital building lay in a state of neglect. The paint on the wall was peeling, the walls were stained, and every hinge squeaked. But what struck Mohammed was the cold and impersonal atmosphere. No sunlight could reach the waiting room. Instead, the room was flooded with the dispassionate white light emanating from the electric tubes above. Despite the ominous atmosphere the meeting with the doctor seemed routine. He asked Mohammed a few questions and asked him to undergo a few tests.

A week later Mohammed sat in the same room and in front of the same doctor. Only this time Mohammed did not register the building’s neglect nor the atmosphere, nor his wife sobbing. A faint ringing sound filled his head. The sound slowly grew louder and suddenly the world around him came crashing down. The diagnosis was fatal. Stomach cancer, which had metastasized beyond redemption. The doctor estimated that Mohammed had a few months at the most. In a daze, Mohammed abruptly stood up, thanked the doctor, and exited the room. As he walked through the hallway, Mohammed was acutely struck by the presence of pain. This pain seemed to have gripped every patient and their family members in the hospital. The pain of disease, the pain of loss, and the pain of death. The walk home was deathly silent. Two of the three individuals were wrestling with their own thoughts, which were slowly consuming them. Mohammed’s mind was engulfed by a fog. No thoughts were jousting for space in his mind, no emotions coming up for a breather.

Mohammed’s feet carried him to his field while his mind remained lost. This field was his home, his provider. As he walked to center of this hallowed ground the fog started to clear. The answer to his crisis he thought, lay here, in these familiar confines. For the first time in his life, Mohammed questioned his fate. Why had a life of austerity cursed him to such a tragic end? Had he not accepted whatever fate had thrown his way without too much complaint? Enraged, Mohammed picked up a fistful of soil and flung it as far as he could. In that moment his rage was subsumed by serenity. A sudden realization had prompted this serenity. The sun, the rain, and the land had not always been forgiving. There were times when they had conspired against Mohammed. There were times when they had rewarded him. But they had also taught him something very important, acceptance. A wry smile crept across his lips as picked up another fistful of soil. This time he gently gripped the soil and accepted fate’s last roll of the die.

II

The sweat stung Abdul’s eyes. He wiped his brow and looked toward where his father lay. He did so quite often and today was no exception. A couple of years had elapsed since the demise the of his father. A small corner of the field had been earmarked and his father had been laid to rest there. No one would have guessed the presence of a grave but for the modest headstone that stood out among the burgeoning crops. Abdul hoisted the small pesticide sprayer on his back and tied a handkerchief across his face covering his mouth. He walked through the neatly lined rows of soybean spraying the pesticide. Soybean had attracted decent returns during the previous cropping season. Abdul was determined to not meet the same fate as his father. He was no longer content with eking out a living. He dared to challenge fate. Hence, he chose soybean. The green leaves around him instilled optimism. Unlike his father, Abdul often questioned his fate. What design of the universe had led him to this moment? Could men like him ever change their destiny? Or do they die clutching a fantastical notion of being the masters of their own fate? These thoughts clawed at his soul and screeched at him to recognize the futility of his efforts. Men like him are doomed to a life of tribulation. He could feel the fatigue grip his limbs. Abdul was not sure if the fatigue was prompted by the physical hardship or the magnitude of his unrealized expectations. But its grip was relentless. Abdul abandoned his efforts for the day and returned home. The nervous excitement persisted despite the fatigue. His appetite was dead, but his hunger was alive and well. The hunger to change his fortune.

Days passed but Abdul’s appetite could not be resuscitated. His fatigue persisted. So, Abdul found himself in the same hospital, in the same doctor’s room a couple of years since his last visit with his father. As fate would have it, history repeated itself verbatim. The same diagnosis, the same devastation, the same feeling of impending doom. Abdul did not know how his father had processed the news. He never asked him. Conversations about emotional anguish were rare. Any attempt to broach such topics were met with dismissive gestures or mono syllabic answers. Abdul now realized that his father’s strength was a feeble attempt at hiding his own unadulterated fear. It had worked because Abdul had not sensed that fear, rather he had admired his father’s grit. Fate had ordained him to follow in his father’s footsteps again. Abdul remaining journey was just as painful as his father’s. With each passing day the despondency multiplied. The decent renumeration that Abdul’s soybean harvest brought in did little to lift his family’s spirits. His mother’s and wife’s fervent prayers went unheeded. Traditional medicine, which promised a cure did little to alleviate his symptoms. Amid prayers and lamentations Abdul breathed his last. He left behind a desolate mother, a devastated wife, and a son engulfed in anguish. Abdul was laid to rest next to his father.

III

The tears stung Ruksana’s eyes. She stared at the two graves that held the mortal remains of her husband and son. Abdul had been laid to rest next to his father. Both had died due to stomach cancer, precipitated by the accumulation of pesticides in their bodies. In a last cruel twist of fate, the father and son had been subsumed by the very land they had dedicated their lives tending to. What was she, an old uneducated woman, supposed to do now? So far, she had been guided by the beliefs of her husband and subsequently her son. Now fate had thrust her into a position of authority and responsibility. The fact of the matter was she felt alone. The vacant expressions of her daughter in law and grandson haunted her. To change her situation, perhaps she needed to continue her husband’s legacy of unrelenting, unforgiving, and unrewarding hard work. Or perhaps what she needed was divine intervention or the benevolence of a mortal. So far, she had only received sympathy from mortals and silence from the divine. The silent pleas for help, the remonstrations with fate went unheeded. Her pain and suffering had not been assuaged by any sign from the divine. A sign to hold fast, a sign that heralded a better future. She had only received sympathetic glances and hollow commiserations from those around her. Tears streaked Ruksana’s face. She now stood weeping in earnest coaxed by the memories of her loved ones. Her grieving was interrupted by the sound of her grandson calling out to her. She hastily wiped her tears as she him walk towards her. The boy had his father’s gait. She winced as this realization stabbed her heart. He came over and gently wiped her tears.

Amidst all the chaos that had engulfed their lives, the boy had been a beacon of strength. He was barely fourteen years old. But fate had created circumstances that had matured him beyond his years. Ruksana leaned on him as they walked back to their humble abode. The boy stirred an emotion in Ruksana that had been dormant for a long time, and which would also serve to prolong her misery till her situation improved, if it ever improved. Hope. Ruksana did not know if her fate would ever change, however she earnestly hoped fate would be kinder to her grandson.