Darkness Once Begun
When Maqbool awoke, the fish was lying on his desk. Who put it there or why, he could not say; he lived alone. Studying it for a long time—that solitary, cold, almost-dying fish—he decided it was a sign, and answered its only question honestly: “Have you counted us before?”
“No.”
Stepping outside, that unmistakable stench of dead fish. Growing stronger as he walked. By the time he reached the giant office tower, he could hardly breathe.
“You’ll get used to it,” the doorman laughed, pointing to his nose.
Maqbool nodded. Crossed the quiet, well-lit lobby to the reception desk, where a small woman with scarlet fingernails held out her hand. Glancing at him, she smiled. “Don’t worry, counting is counting is counting.”
Soon, a sallow-faced guard led Maqbool down the stairs. As if troubled by his scruffy mustache, he kept smacking his lips while he talked: “…count softly so as not to disturb the others… a break at every thousand, not a moment earlier… you’d do well to keep up, you understand…”
With each step, the light from above dimmed. That smell grew thicker. Unbearable. After a while—the air black, impossibly still—Maqbool wondered if they’d ever stop, if perhaps the guard, unusually silent now, might have lost his way.
Suddenly, a great void.
No, mouth. Like a gaping underwater cave.
The only light trickling from torches held by the guards, seven or eight, patrolling along a narrow railing high above. Below, scattered in every direction like countless ghosts, the silhouettes of men, of women, some standing—hands on hips or wiping their foreheads—others bent over, working in silence: emerging, disappearing, emerging again.
“Over there,” the guard said sharply, his torch shining at an empty patch in the corner.
When Maqbool finally reached—slipping repeatedly on slimy layers of fish, his trousers damp with detritus—the guard’s flashlight deserted him, faded steadily in the distance. That suffocating darkness again. Somewhere: the sound of retching. A wail.
“One… two… three…” Fingers trembling against stiff, clammy flesh. A narrow head. Triangular, comb-like teeth. Forked tail… Mackerel? Digging inside that fetid, gelatinous surface pooled around his ankles, he lifted each one gently, counted, placed it to his right. “Seven… eight…”
“Faster, my friend.”
Maqbool straightened: to his left, the silhouette of a man—tall, slender—the sleeve of his coat flickering in the air.
“Pardon?”
“Faster. Or the guards—”
“Quiet!” hissed a woman’s voice.
“Another word, and I’ll kill you myself.” A man. Further away.
“Let’s count together,” the stranger whispered. “We can talk freely during our break.”
Spurred by the stranger’s warning, Maqbool tried his best to keep up. Yet this proved impossible: no matter how frantically his fingers moved or how many fish he swept together, how many he counted simultaneously with both hands, the stranger always stayed far ahead, the gap between them steadily widening with time.
When at last he stopped—panting, his arms streaked with pain—the stranger was already before him.
Was he smiling?
“You are Maqbool, the painter. Am I right?”
Maqbool started. How many years since anyone had recognized him?
“How could you—”
“It wasn’t easy in this darkness, to be sure. But I noticed how you handled the fish, so carefully, so… what’s the word? Deliberately? Proof of an artistic mind! And then, of course, your unmistakably arched nose and— well, you might say I’m something of an admirer. I visited your exhibition in Calcutta several years ago. A fine showing, all in all. A triumph of—”
“Another lifetime.” Maqbool shook his head. “You may as well be speaking of a different Maqbool.” Gathering himself, he asked, “How do you count so fast?”
A low, pleasant-natured laugh. “There are many ways to count,” the stranger said. “More than you can imagine.”
Maqbool fell silent, pondering the stranger’s response; weighing each word, he repeated softly, “More than I can imagine?”
“Certainly,” the stranger said. “Most begin with their fingers, then switch quickly to their toes. Some recite aloud, others count in their minds. A few murmur as though in a pleasant dream, the rest as though in anticipation of escape. After many generations, I have seen all the ways people count.”
Generations? Maqbool peered in astonishment; although his face was shrouded in darkness, the stranger gave the formidable impression of youth—his posture unbending, voice brimming with intensity.
“When I arrived,” he continued, “we counted very slowly. Looking at each fish, admiring it for a long time. I remember some even kissed them before counting. Of course, back then, the guards did not mind. They played long games of cards with us, and many were our friends.
“But gradually, things began to change. Demanding ever-greater speed, the guards started shrinking our breaks. They no longer joined in our games. Whenever we asked why, they gave no answer, saying only, ‘You’ll see, you’ll see.’ Eventually, when our complaints grew too loud, they beat us with their sticks. No one dared to kiss the fish.
“At first, we sought to prevail using our usual methods, though we soon realized our foolishness; frightened by our constant failures, by the guards’ mounting punishments, we tried all manner of things. In time, guided by our innumerable mistakes, a few of us learned to adapt. Those who couldn’t were taken away…. But of course, I cannot share my technique. Even calling it a technique cheapens its inventiveness. As your friend, I can only hope you’ll find your own way.”
He seemed to smile. “Shall we count together again?”
“Two, six, eight!…” Maqbool clawed violently, snatching fistfuls of fish, his nails tearing into gills, into eyes, their scaly, brittle flesh. Yet, despite forsaking his scruples, despite counting four, five, ten at a time—his face soaked with sweat, with remnants of rotting flesh—the stranger kept humming evenly, racing further and further ahead.
“I can’t go any faster!” Maqbool said to himself. “How in God’s name does he do it?” Then suddenly, it occurred to him: What if I didn’t use my hands at all?
Crouching low, his face inches from the surface, he began counting their eyes.
Initially, he thought he might be catching up with the stranger. But every once in a while, squinting into that sea of pale, shimmering discs, he began to feel he had double-counted—so easy in this darkness—and had to start again.
“You were slower this time,” the stranger said.
“I tried using their eyes.”
“A common mistake—it will get you nowhere. All of us have attempted it, too.”
“I can think of no other way,” Maqbool murmured. “Perhaps I lack some essential faculty? Something the others here possess?”
“Nonsense. We are all much the same.” A trace of amusement in his voice. “Shall we count together again?”
Years passed.
For a time, Maqbool persisted in counting their eyes, hoping he could perfect the technique. But to his dismay, even when he did—when he completed an attempt smoothly, without double-counting—he discovered he was still miles away from the stranger.
Then, suspecting the secret lay in some internal disposition, he began a wealth of experiments: he imagined himself a child, playing with the fish and singing happily as he counted; he counted as a criminal, his mind consumed with thoughts of murder, of violent revenge; acting as a saint, he counted, wishing peace and eternal happiness upon everyone around him. He counted in English, in Sanskrit, his once-familiar, faltering Bengali; he counted in a language he invented for the sole purpose of counting.
He counted backward; he counted randomly from the middle, then filled in the rest. He even counted like a fish, sucking in his cheeks, sobbing all the while for his fallen comrades. He counted once as though he had no past; several times, without desire for a future. He counted beatifically, picturing the snow-covered peaks of the Himalayas; he counted despairingly, contemplating the thinning ice.
He counted more ways than he imagined possible.
For many of these efforts, Maqbool was punished by the guards, their brutality tethered to his pace: when he was relatively faster, he suffered only a few lashes on his chest; more frequently, he was forced to swallow mouthfuls of putrid fish until he choked. And yet, even in his most successful moments, in those rare instances when he came somewhat close, he could never keep up with the stranger, who had, by now, all but forgotten him, whose unattainable murmurings, through all these years, haunted him in the darkness.
Had haunted him.
Now, at last, bloodied and exhausted, his tongue severed, lost among the fish—he had tried counting like an amnesiac—unable to bear it any longer, Maqbool decides to spy on the stranger. Discover his secret.
Watching the guards disappearing along the railing above, he takes a small, quivering step; his legs buckle: he has forgotten how to walk. With effort, he rises, learns again to use his feet. That wet squelch of fish underneath.
He moves gingerly.
As he draws closer, the stranger’s faint profile—that same youthful posture—bent gently toward the fish; hands hanging loosely by his sides. Maqbool stops. The man’s eyes are closed; a tranquil smile on his face as swiftly, steadily, he whispers, “…twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one…”
Trembling, Maqbool wants to warn him, “Wake up, or the guards will kill you!” but just as he is about to touch the man’s shoulder, those words—who had said them?—come rushing back to him: counting is counting. His hand snaps back; he looks around. And for the first time, the darkness melting away, he sees the others.
In those fleeting moments of light, as it departs, as that inevitable darkness returns, Maqbool remains motionless, staring at them—at their softly parted lips, that blind, rapturous chanting.
Then slowly turns, makes his way back.
“One. Two. Three…”
The last thing he sees: the fish.
Those eyes.
Unshimmering.
Kartikeya Shekhar is a writer based in Mumbai. He previously worked in venture capital and technology across the U.S., Africa, Singapore, and India, and holds an MBA from INSEAD. His fiction appears in Narrative and elsewhere. He is at work on his debut collection of short stories.
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