A Star Called Lucky

by Bapsy Jain

  She was alone and living as Ms. Singh. But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t find her accidentally. And this was what worried her. They’re looking for Lobsang. I’m looking for Lobsang. I have to find him before they do and hand him over and put this behind me. I need to buy my peace. We’re going to cover some of the same ground, talk to some of the same people. She would need help, but she couldn’t risk seeing anyone who had been in her contact list. At least, not anyone important. Not anyone among her immediate family and friends. And not even Dr. Eruch Vakil. Coleman might not be looking for her, but he still might be watching them.

  Lucky spent her first evening shopping—not for luxury, but dressing to fit in. The less she stood out, the less likely she was to be picked out and recognized. She thought about a burqa and veil, but decided that might create more problems than it solved—Muslim women didn’t go to the places she’d be going, and she’d never be able to pass as one if anyone tried to talk to her. No, a green silk sari with a matching necklace of fake emeralds was enough for today. And a small black bag. And now it was morning, and the car she’d hired was slowing for city traffic. She would start her search in one of the most unlikely places, turning back to old contacts from her jewelry business in Bombay. A good starting point, she told herself—after all, the six degrees of separation had to work.

  Zaveri Bazaar was tucked in behind the cloth district at Mangaldas Market. The streets of the district were jammed: businessmen hurrying about their errands, laborers pushing two-wheeled wooden carts piled high with bolts of cloth, kids in uniforms plodding along reluctantly to school, beggars and policemen and vendors and idlers and God-only-knows who all else, the mind-numbing jostling crowds that swelled to overflowing on the streets of Mumbai every day. It was hot, but thanks to the monsoons, it wasn’t the heat of May-June. Still, the first waves of heavy rain had already moved north to the Himalayas. Ever-damp Mumbai was drying out a bit, anyway. The feeling of home returned — Lucky loved Mumbai. They drove into the alley as far as they could and then she got out and elbowed her way through the crowd as if she had never been away.

  Zaveri Bazaar itself was slightly less crowded and she took in her bearings over a cup of chai, then headed west and north, eyeing the little side alleys until she found the one she was after. Halfway down the lane, she turned into an unmarked doorway and climbed a set of gray wooden stairs that might have dated to the days of the maharajas. On the second floor, she turned down a dark hallway and opened an unmarked door.

  The office was shabby and unadorned, with a narrow hall that led to two rooms adjacent to each other. Four men were seated in one of the rooms; the other was empty. One was behind a desk, one standing beside him, and two were seated in front of the desk. The man behind the desk was old, nearing seventy now, with closely trimmed white hair and a short, white beard, and standing beside him was much younger man, maybe twenty-five. The men at the desk were foreigners, Germans, perhaps, their suits Western, their hair white-blond. Their backs were to Lucky. Among them all, on the desk, was a balance beam scale, a small, open, paper envelope, and a pile of perhaps a hundred stones sorted into four piles: diamonds, rubies, blue sapphires, and emeralds. The older man looked up at her for a moment then practically leaped from his seat. “Miss Lucky!” he shouted.

  “Karsan Kaka,” she said. “How are you?”

  Before he could answer, a shadow crossed Lucky’s heart. At the sound of her name, one of the men at the desk tensed, straightened in his chair, and turned slowly to face her. It was her former partner’s crooked accountant, John Steel. “Hello, Lucky,” he said without smiling. Lucky had never been able to work out John’s role at Lockwood Enterprises and if he was in any way involved in framing Lucky for the heroin smuggling. She had no doubt he knew, but there was no concrete evidence against him.

  Karsan Kaka, understanding something was amiss, was already pushing Lucky toward the door. “Miss Singh,” he said, “I mean Miss Boyce, I would do anything for you. May I have just a moment to complete this transaction? Please, wait for me in the hall, there is a chair. I will send for tea for you. Please do excuse me. I will be there in ten minutes.”

  Lucky looked at John, sideways in his chair, facing her. His hands were folded at his chest as if praying and then he stroked his chin absentmindedly with one finger. “Strange to see you, Lucky. I work for myself, now. They buy and sell diamonds in Brazil, too,” he said. “Lots of them, actually.”

  “So you moved to Brazil,” Lucky said.

  Karsan was clearly agitated. “Please,” he said, petitioning her toward the door.

  Lucky turned and left. Behind her, John called again, “Nice seeing you.”

  As she waited, a young boy appeared from down the hall with parathas, a batada vada, and tea. Eventually, Karsan Kaka and the young man appeared. If John left, it had been through another door within the room.

  She wondered how Karsan would be able to help but as Shanti said, all good deeds always return in equal measure.

  Karsan approached Lucky slowly, head down. “He buys many stones, but I do not think he is connected to Lockwood,” he said.

  “I hope not. After Lockwood framed me, they might have parted company. Besides, Lockwood is still cooling his heels, thank God! But I hope this guy pays in cash.”

  “Always in cash.” Karsan said and smiled. His limp had become more pronounced, but he no longer wore the rustic, worn-out clothes of the village trader she had first met five years ago. His white dhoti was of fine linen, immaculate, and pressed. His kurta was white, but richly embroidered about the neck in fine silver thread. His vest was of gray cotton and embroidered in a blood-colored brocade.

  “My grandson,” he said, gesturing to the tall youth beside him. “Ishan.”

  Ishan was tall and dark, with straight dark hair and eyebrows that cut across his forehead in a long, unbroken line. His face was scarred white in large patches and streaks on his right side, and on the right side of his mouth, he showed four gold teeth. He was dressed in a Western suit but without a tie. He extended a hand to Lucky. His grip was strong and warm. As he withdrew his hand, Lucky saw that the young man had only three fingers.

  “Please,” Karsan said, “won’t you come with me?”

  They returned to the little office. A servant brought more tea and they sat at the desk, now clear of the gemstones. “And how are things in New York?” Karsan asked.

  “Good,” Lucky replied. “And it looks like you are doing well, also.”

  Karsan nodded — a gesture, almost a bow. “With much thanks to you, Miss Lucky. We can never forget your goodness.”

  “And how is your family?”

  “They are well.”

  “And little Reema?”

  Karsan beamed. “She is in college now, as well, her first year. She studies economics.”

  Lucky smiled and nodded.

  “Ahh, but the time passes like a river in the night, Miss Lucky. One day, you look around and you are old and your children grown. Now, my grandson will study to take over my business, and soon, I will be but a memory.”

  Lucky sighed. The formalities of India. “You are a healthy man, Karsan. I can’t picture you retiring.”

  “Nor I you, Miss Lucky. Have you gone back into the business?”

  “No,” Lucky replied. “I’ve just come to visit for a little while.”

  “And always good to see you.”

  “Karsan, I need your help.”

  Karsan set down his tea and leaned forward. “I am forever in your debt, Miss Lucky. What can I do for you? You have only to ask and I shall do.”

  “I am here to meet a man. But he is very secretive.”

  Karsan sat back in his chair and touched his beard. Ishan stirred uneasily beside him. “And who is this man?” Karsan asked.

  “His name is Lobsang Telok.”

  Karsan set down the cup. “And who is he that I should know him?”

  “He is a doctor. A Tibetan. If you had met him I’m sure you wo
uld remember him. He speaks English well. He was trained in the UK. But he is…different. He may have changed his name and has renounced the world, so to speak.”

  “So he is a monk?”

  “I don’t think so. Just a doctor. But he has some different ways.”

  “But you, Miss Lucky, you are a Parsi. What would you want with a Tibetan doctor? You are not ill, are you?”

  “He may be in danger. I don’t know. I want to meet him. He does charity work for the poor and is known to cure many illnesses. He may have makeshift clinics somewhere in Dharavi, but I hear he meets only those whom he wishes. I don’t know more…it doesn’t matter. I’d like to meet him. And I have come alone.”

  Karsan and Ishan exchanged glances, then quietly spoke between themselves. Karsan slowly raised his right hand to his head and tapped his temple with his index finger. Ishan left the room and Lucky could hear him talk faintly on his cell phone.

  “I am just a poor jeweler from the hills,” Karsan said. “I say my prayers, I love my family, and I try to live a good, clean, honest life. I have little time for foreigners and their troubles. Tibetans or otherwise.”

  “But you might know someone who might know him, yes? You have many connections in the Dharavi slums. You had mentioned to me that you and your relatives once lived there, too.”

  Karsan shook his head. “I did live there many years back. But only for a short time. You have an excellent memory, Miss Lucky. But now, I have only business connections and friends here. My relatives have gone back to the hills, to my native village.” Karsan put his cup on the tray and took Lucky’s cup as well.

  Ishan entered and whispered in his grandfather’s ear.

  “Okay,” Lucky said. “Well, thank you for your time.” She stood up to go.

  Karsan smiled. “Don’t be in such a hurry after such a long time. Wouldn’t you like to stay for a little while? Perhaps have a bite of lunch? Surely, you have missed our cooking, or do they have Indian food in America? Besides, if you have just a moment, I would like to make a small present to you. You are dressed so well, but that fake emerald doesn’t suit you.” He reached into the desk drawers and, after some fumbling, produced a small sheet of folded paper. He held it out to Lucky. Inside was a pendant with an emerald on a fine gold chain.

  Lucky unfolded the envelope and studied the stone, held it to the light where it glittered, flawless and deep green.

  “I do not have time to wrap it properly, but I could never have you leave my shop in your present condition. May I?” He took the chain from Lucky and, standing behind her, removed the fake necklace and fastened the pendant around her neck.

  Lucky looked at the paper in her hand.

  Then Karsan picked up a box, which had a cell phone and a charger and handed it to Lucky. “I keep these for my foreign clients. They always need this when they come to India. You can use it and return it to me and do not worry, make all the calls you need.” The cell number was handwritten and stuck on the back.

  “Thank you, Karsan Kaka,” Lucky said in gratitude. She accepted the cell phone with both hands but she knew she had to be careful about whom she called as the phones of Colette and Amay could be tapped.

  “And thank you for this beautiful necklace. What was it you once said to me—may you have so many grandsons you cannot count them all on your fingers and toes?”

  “Ah, yes,” he smiled, “but God has even granted me three lovely granddaughters, and for that, I am forever grateful.”

  Karsan stood up and led Lucky back into the hall.

  “Ishan will take you to a friend who can help, but first, please, visit the clothing store downstairs and choose some suitable clothes, A sari won’t do, as Ishan will take you by motorbike. Is that all right?”

  “But where will he take me?” Lucky asked.

  “I cannot say now. But we owe our livelihood to you, so how can we not oblige you, Miss Lucky? Please let us help.”

  Karsan took her down another flight of stairs through a narrow passage that led to a different alley. Across the lane was a small lady’s tailor shop.

  In the shop’s tiny fitting room, Lucky removed her sari and changed into a salwar kameez and simple shoes that the tailor provided. They were a little tight, but not too bad.

  Ishan was waiting outside on a small motorbike. He wore a small blue helmet covered with stickers emblazoned with Sanskrit script. Lucky couldn’t read them, but they seemed to be religious.

  Karsan waved a silent goodbye to Lucky.

  Lucky sat behind Ishan and they buzzed off, jetting through the alley and then turning east and south until they hit the main road.

  “Do you know where to go?” Lucky shouted.

  Ishan nodded, but did not reply.

  “But where are we going?”

  “You are looking for a doctor,” he replied. “I can take you, but you must know you are being followed. Our chowkidar told us there are two men following you. In this business, we always know when someone is tailing us. This business has many risks. At first, Karsan Kaka thought it was something to do with John. But it was something else, as we were told that the two men were asking downstairs if they had seen a lady in a green sari. Maybe you had better buy a burqa, Miss Lucky.”

  He stopped at a corner shop, and Lucky bought a black burqa and veil.

  Chapter 14

  Lucky wondered if Coleman’s men had traced her, but as long as they left her alone, she wasn’t worried about being followed. What did worry her was the ride on the motorbike. She had ridden side-saddle on motorcycles before, as a young girl in high school, but she never had liked it even then. Now, dressed in all the layers, she liked it even less. She worried that the long robes would catch in the spokes. She worried that the wind would tear away her veil. She worried that she would fall off on a turn, although Ishan drove carefully, if quickly, darting in and out of traffic as he snaked north. They were just past the Chor Bazaar and it was mid-afternoon; things were shutting down so people could get out of the heat. They stopped outside a mosque, and Lucky tripped and almost fell while climbing off the motorbike. Ishan frowned, then pointed a finger to a row of women squatting in the sun on the opposite side of the road. “Wait there,” he said.

  “How would a Tibetan doctor be connected with a mosque?” Lucky wondered but she would just have to see where this would lead.

  Lucky sweated profusely, the heat made worse by the heavy black cloth. Her thoughts went back to Coleman and her eyes now darted to and fro. Would Coleman’s men find her? And then? Would they join her or deport her for stealing government secrets? Would Ishan think she was part of a conspiracy? Would she then be able to reach Lobsang? She knew Lobsang would never agree to be part of a deal with governments or politics. Why couldn’t Coleman understand this? Was it not obvious that Lobsang would never yield to money or political pressure?

  If he would have, it would have happened already, and the magic mushroom would be available in every store. And Lobsang would be a very rich man.

  Am I too paranoid, or am I not paranoid enough? Lucky asked herself.

  Involuntarily, she raised a hand to her face and patted the veil against it, wiping away the stinging perspiration that kept dripping into her eyes. One of the women looked at her curiously. “It is hot, yes?” she said in Urdu.

  Lucky stammered, trying to remember the words, the accent, then replied, “Yes, it is,” in Hindi.

  “You are not from here.” The lady spoke back in Hindi.

  Lucky didn’t want to be rude, and she didn’t want to enter into a long conversation, either — one she was sure would blow her cover. What if they asked her to go inside and pray? She looked down at the street and mumbled incoherently — something that made no sense, even if the woman had heard her. Her mind crept back to being watched. Why can’t Coleman leave me alone? I’m on the job!

  She wondered how he was tracking her. How did the men reach Karsan Kaka’s office and search for a woman in a green sari? Silly, she chided herself
. They would have had her photo, and it would take Coleman only seconds to have a team scouring Mumbai for her. Cover: blown.

  The woman next to her would not stop talking. “I see. It is your first time, yes? Do not worry. Allah will provide. If the need is great, there is no dishonor in begging. In fact, it is said that we honor those whom Allah has honored with much by giving them the chance to practice Zakah.”

  Here it comes, Lucky thought. She’s going to ask me about Zakah.

  “You know about Zakah, don’t you?” The woman took a little stick and began scratching in the dirt.

  Lucky shook her head. What is Ishan doing? Why is he taking so long?

  The woman patted Lucky on the arm. “It is okay,” she said. “Zakah means purification. Giving up a portion of one’s wealth is necessary. Allah gives to some in abundance, but to keep it they must give a portion away in alms. Thus, we beggars also serve Allah’s will and purpose. It is an honor to give and to receive with gratitude is to honor the giver. When in need, it is even an honor to beg, for this gives the blessed the opportunity to repay the blessing.”

  So that’s it, Lucky realized. She thinks I’m a beggar.

  The old woman had drawn a circle in the dirt. Now she drew a triangle inside of it. “All things are connected,” she said. “Why are you here?”

  “I am here for my son,” Lucky said.

  “So are we all, my child, here for our families. Your son—he is ill?”

  Lucky shook her head and got up and took a few steps. The woman got up behind her.

  Suddenly, a three-wheeled delivery van veered toward them in the alley and the old woman flung her hand up and shoved Lucky out of the way. They lay dazed for a minute, sprawled in the dirt together. Then Lucky quickly righted herself and dusted off, adjusting the veil over her face. She looked down at the new platform shoes. Had the old woman seen them?