Flexi Destiny - How flexible is destiny?

By Ramprasath Rensamy

“Did you know you’re dead?” a man in his late fifties asked as I waited in the bank’s lounge giving the teller time to do the paperwork.

“Excuse me!?”

He dragged me towards a corner of the building. 

“Look, I’m Vikram; I know what you did on the highway. Either get me the money, or my truck will run over you just like it ran over Laxman,” he said with a wicked smile.

I realised that I couldn’t have been alone while taking Laxman’s belongings.

“I have a loan to pay off and aging disabled parents to take care of,” I said in a pleading tone.

“So — I have heart problems. Once I overheard about Laxman’s savings from the bank manager’s conversation with him; I thought Laxman’s money could fix me. Aren’t old people mere deadweights?” he asked with a wink.

Between death and donating to a killer, I chose to donate to save my head. 

“I’d like to withdraw all funds from my account,” I said at the counter, frustrated.

The teller handed over five million currency bundles in a complimentary medium-size bag. Once I came out, I handed over the bag to Vikram.

“God bless you, brother,” he said with a smile and walked away. 

* * *

 I see you are confused; let me add some backstory here.

I was a self-taught astrologer misplaced at an IT firm as a software coder. In my spare time, I developed algorithms to find what I was searching for: destiny. 

A month ago, I came across a man in his mid-twenties lying next to his crashed bike in the middle of the road. Once I ensured there was no one around, I examined him.

I learned he was dead from the absence of eye movements and pulse in his wrist. He looked like a lifeless mannequin lying on the road, a reminder of how sudden death can be.

I saw his license, a bank passbook, and a cheque-book falling halfway out of his shirt pocket. His name was Laxman. Had I not seen the passbook I might have promptly called ‘100’ for help. I returned home with everything I took from him. Thinking about the inevitability of death soon helped me to get over the departing of the poor soul.

With five million, I thought, I could pay off the loan instantly, and make an investment that returned enough dividends with which I could stay back home and take care of my parents. I could stay with them in their old age and it would add a lot of meaning to my life. 

The very possibility reminded me of my friend, Dr Aziz. He’d needed test subjects for his scientific breakthrough, ‘Face Copy’.

* * *

“These photon-emitting micro-cells in the dermis layer of the skin are chip-controlled. All it needs is a photo on the chip. The collective outcome of all these balances to the photon emission will make you look like the one in the photo, Vethi. To avoid panic, just don’t wipe off the gel in public places,” said Dr Aziz as he described how it worked. Since Dr Aziz was a close friend, I knew I could trust him. I gladly volunteered.

Dr Aziz injected the chip into my hand and gave me a small bottle full of gel. Once applied, the chip in my skin controlled the photon emission using batteries. With Laxman’s photo in the chip implant, I became him, facially; it felt like I’d resurrected Laxman in me, bringing him back alive. I practiced reproducing Laxman’s signature several times at home.

I went to the bank with a cheque and Laxman’s driver’s license; I could easily get past the verification. That's when Vikram intercepted me, made me give him the money.

* * *

I had no idea how Laxman earned that much money before he had turned thirty. Just because Vikram killed Laxman need not mean Vikram was a villain and Laxman was innocent. I wanted to give the benefit of doubt to Vikram. On the other hand, I didn’t know if a brutal killer deserved that fortune or not.

Between taking care of aging disabled parents and the heart problems of a killer, I thought, the former fared better by moral standards. Unfortunately, it turned out that fate had Vikram’s name engraved firmly on the five million.

 It felt depressing to realise destiny didn't side with moral standards. I wondered if fate was blind and followed anyone unconditionally.

“Please help. Someone blacked out around the corner,” a small boy shouted as he passed by.

I rushed to the corner of the road; it wasn’t Vikram, but someone else with a medium-size bag around his shoulders. 

I checked his pulse; he was dead. I saw his license popped out; it declared him as Jitendar. With furrowed brows, I called Dr Aziz; owing to the close friendship we shared, Aziz revealed that Jitendar was the only other volunteer, just like me, and ‘Vikram’ was his fake identity. 

I thought Jitendar was clever to conceal his original identity until securing Laxman’s money from me. That way he could escape uncaught in case I’d called the cops.

My bag had a bank passbook declaring five million in Jitendar’s savings account.

All this changed me overall.

I withdrew all the five million, paid off my educational loan, stopped wondering about ‘destiny’ and invested the rest for enough dividends to take care of my parents at home.

I realised my destiny wouldn’t have changed if I had called ‘100’ on the highway or at the bank when Jitendar intercepted me as Vikram. When he could’ve taken Laxman’s money by killing me the same way he did Laxman, I thought I’d changed my destiny by giving up five million to him at the bank.

The quick turn of events changed my perspective on destiny. It seemed to bend to only those that were already destined to defeat it; to others, it remained inflexible.

About the Author

Apart from being a computer engineer working in IT, Ramprasath is also a bilingual science fiction writer. He lives in Atlanta, Georgia, USA, since 2014.

His work has appeared (or is scheduled to appear) in AntipodeanSF, Protocolized, Aphelion SF&F, Sci-Fi Shorts, L.Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future, Allegory SF&F, and Metastellar.

Reach him at <This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.>