This is The Writer's Voice, new fiction from The New Yorker.

I'm Deborah Treasman, fiction editor at The New Yorker.

On this week's episode of The Writer's Voice, we'll hear Kanuk Kapoor read her story,

Prophecy from the January 13th, 2025 issue of the writer's voice will hear Kanak Kapoor read her story prophecy from the January 13th

2025 issue of the magazine. Kapoor teaches at Colgate University where she's an Olive B. O'Connor

fellow. Her short fiction has previously appeared in the Sawani Review, The Rumpus, and elsewhere.

She's working on her first novel. Now here's Kanak Kapoor.

Prophecy. The night of Dave's 22nd birthday, he was invited to sit with the elders after dinner. The summons

was conveyed by Puck The By the maid, who called Dave into the kitchen once the dinner plates

had been cleared and placed in his hands a tray of glasses filled with water. They've asked for you,

she said. Dave glanced at the tray of crystal he was holding. It was time for things to open,

he thought, windows and doors. His head swam with the onion stink of the kitchen. Then there was a

force at his back, pushing him toward the blazing chatter beyond the doorway. Be good now,

Pugti Bai said. In the living room, the graying heads of Dave's uncles turned

right to left in conversation, their words crude and fast, heavy with the consonants of money talk.

For lack, his grandfather said, and it sounded as if he were calling for an assassination.

Dave set the tray on the coffee table and took a seat, welcoming the noise.

Countless nights he had lingered in his socks behind the main wall of the living room, listening

to the men. Standing there, he'd been invisible to his uncles, but obvious to Bhakti Bai,

who would click her tongue in irritation at the room's rising volume, the inevitable trumpeting of

men without women. I've heard it before, Dave's father said now. Cow urine has healing properties.

In ancient times they used to drink it. Yes, yes, just a splash in your morning chai, and it's

...