You are at a white desk and you are standing, though your feet do not bear the weight of your body or your soul. On the table is a telephone with a circular dial and a ledger book. You are wearing a white smock and an Om around your neck, and before you are a throng of people and they are all shouting and you cannot hear them.
You cover your ears and blink your eyes and the sound whooshes at you like an unexpected wind. They are all spitting questions at you, ones that you have no answers for.
‘I can’t be here. How do I get out?’
‘I need to see my babas. Where are they?’
‘Not saying it’s your fault, but mistakes happen, no? Can you send me back?’
You blink again and the sound goes off. You look around and you know this place. It is filled to infinity with screaming souls and fools in white who cannot help them. And now it appears that one of those fools is you.
The phone rings. The voice is a familiar one, though you cannot put a name to it. ‘Open the book. If you need answers, open the book.’ Click.
Before you is a ledger book with the design of a bo leaf on the cover. You open it. There are just four small words, handwritten on ruled paper in a hand that you recognise as your own. The words distil the wisdom of millennia, insight from when the universe was first audited.
The words read: One at a time.
You look at the faces of the throng, you spy old people and teenagers, people in saris and hospital smocks, people with shadows under their eyes and wails on their lips. And then a face you know. You blink at him and you hear only his voice while the rest of the crowd scream on mute.
‘I come here every Poya,’ says the Dead Atheist. ‘Just to see if you guys have anything new to offer.’
‘Name?’
He places his decapitated head on the counter, tilts it upwards, fixes you with his marble eyes, and sneers at you with his hook nose.
‘Spare me the routine.’
‘How may I help?’
‘My children are teenagers now. They have grown obnoxious. I no longer enjoy watching them.’
‘So you want to enter The Light now?’
‘What’s on the other side? I ask every Poya and none of you pricks can tell me.’
He was the first ghost to talk to you seven moons ago. And it seems the moons have not been kind.
‘They say it’s different for everyone.’
‘I’ve heard this one.’
‘But, basically, it is a casino,’ you say. ‘You get to pick a drink or a card or…’
‘Or a virgin? Have I told you my theory of virgins?’
‘You basically get to choose where you go next.’
‘And you chose this.’
‘It chose me.’
‘Smells like bullshit.’
‘Sorry you feel that way.’
‘Is that what your book tells you to say?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, do I get compensated for being shot by the JVP?’
You look at the man and the ledger book in front of you and decide not to open another page. ‘You get to spin the wheel. Because that is what the game is. Lankan roulette. The JVP who killed you are dead. You can spend the next thousand moons cursing them. Or you can take a spin. What will you choose?’
He frowns and scratches his head, like a sceptic trying to explain away a miracle. ‘Screw you,’ he says and walks away.
In that first moon, after a shaky start, you send eight souls into The Light and thirteen away for Ear Checks. Moses and He-Man are your line managers and they nod in unison, though offer little in the way of instruction or praise. Everyone who comes to you is dead and damaged and reminds you of the women and children from the border villages who squatted and screamed while their homes burned. For the most part, you follow the ledger book, though at times you depart from the script.
Like when the lady in an engineer’s helmet asks why she had to die in an LTTE bomb blast, when she protected hundreds of Tamil labourers from the ’83 pogroms. Why, despite a lifetime of wearing hard hats she had to die of a head injury. You open the book and it says:
Karma evens out over lifetimes. If the wronged reach
The Light, they are sent Somewhere Better.
Somewhere Better is a euphemism that the book coughs up a lot. Moses tells you it is to avoid theological arguments with those religiously inclined, which, after death, are surprisingly few. You told the engineer and her headgear that she can complain about it if she wishes or she can go into The Light. But the result will remain the same. ‘It’s how it works. You receive outrageous fortune long after you have forgotten your tragedy. And vice versa. The only thing you need to be is patient.’
She shakes your hand and smiles. ‘Should I keep my helmet on?’
‘I carried a camera around my neck for seven moons. It only weighed me down.’
‘And what if something falls on my head?’ she says.
‘Something will always fall on your head,’ you say.
‘I’ve worked on construction sites in Kandy,’ she says. ‘You don’t need to tell me that.’
‘And did you blame gravity or the hills when that happened?’
‘If it’s all the same to you,’ she says, ‘I think I’ll keep my hat.’
Dr Ranee congratulates you on your numbers. She invites He-Man and Moses to celebrate at the edge of Galle Face Green, just across the road from where you used to live. You celebrate with a sunrise and a cool breeze. Up Here as it is Down There. And you shrug off any praise.
‘Was just dumb luck. I’m not recruiting anyone. I haven’t drunk the kola kenda.’
‘Not true,’ says the good doc.
‘Is this a joke that I ended up here?’
‘Is it a joke that you end up anywhere?’ says Moses.
‘No such thing as ending up,’ says He-Man. ‘You are now. And you won’t be soon.’
‘I thought we were off duty,’ you say. ‘Enough with the sermons.’
‘We are pleased at your progress,’ says Dr Ranee.
‘Can I go back and choose a different drink?’ you ask.
‘If you want,’ says Doc. ‘Like going to a casino and asking for the same hand.’
Drivermalli comes to your counter looking like a prosthetic man. His head is disconnected from his body, as are his limbs from his torso. He doesn’t know who you are. Why would he? He submits his ola leaf and you send him to Level Forty-Two. He comes back more traumatised than before and you send him through the yellow door just like the ledger book tells you.
He shakes his head and walks to the edge of the corridor, where a familiar figure dressed in black garbage nods and grins. Sena is flanked by ghouls in cloaks and, when Drivermalli reaches them, they welcome him like a lost brother, which Drivermalli most certainly is. You alert security, but by the time He-Man gets there Sena and the ghouls have left, taking Drivermalli as their newest recruit. This could be your problem if you make it. So you don’t.
The Dead Lovers from Galle Face Court come holding hands and they look at you and smile. The boy recognises you.
‘You lived at our place, no?’
‘A long time ago.’
He turns to her and nods at you. ‘Remember, Dolly. This one used to screw that dark boy.’
She wears pink chiffon today and looks like she’s been crying.
‘We had a big fight,’ she says. ‘We think it’s time to separate. I guess after fifty years, the honeymoon is over.’
‘That’s sad,’ you say.
‘We are tired of watching couples under umbrellas. All they do is lie to each other while they grope,’ she says.
‘So, will we be punished for being suicides?’ asks he.
You open the ledger book and read what it says:
The universe does not care what you do with your meat suit
You repeat this to them.
‘Really?’
‘There’s no shortage of meat,’ you say.
‘So, even we can go into The Light?’ they ask.
‘If that’s your choice.’