by Bapsy Jain
Lucky sat cross-legged while Usko worked carefully with the razor.
When he was done he wrapped his arms around her. “You’re shivering,” he said.
“I am,” she replied. “I think I’m coming down with the flu. I might have a day before I feel…”
“Feel what?”
“Really sick.”
And then the words of the cab driver suddenly played back in her head yet again, “Leave tomorrow, Boss says. You may be sick, you need the mushroom. Boss says…get it fast.” She had been determined to brush it away and now wondered if Usko had been right in passing it off as an empty threat. She’d had no time to dwell on anything; it was all happening so quickly. Could she really be infected?
Usko interrupted her thoughts. “There is an old Buddhist saying that a day is the only thing we have.”
“I’m no old Buddhist.” She covered Usko’s hands with her own, closed her eyes, and tried to breathe in his scent so that she would remember this morning. “I haven’t been with a lot of men,” she said. “But having my head shaved by you somehow feels quite erotic.”
“Perhaps, it is the intersection of pain and pleasure or of having and not having.”
“If I held my breath, would you make love to me?”
“I don’t think you can hold your breath for that long.”
“If I’m going to go to prison, then would it matter?”
Usko kissed her neck.
“It’s not me I’m thinking of, though,” she said. She pushed him away, stood up, and faced him. “It’s you.”
“I already told you I’m a lousy monk.” He caressed Lucky.
“Is that a chance you want to take?”
“If I’m going to fall, I’d like it to be with you.”
Usko had brought two dry, red monk’s robes. Lucky laughed when she pulled on hers.
“What’s so funny?”
“The day I first saw you, in New York, I wondered what a monk wears under his robe. Now I know.”
“Careful what you wish for.”
Usko handed Lucky a roll of Indian bills bound with an elastic band. She looked at him for a long moment and thanked him. As she placed it in her pocket, she remembered the cell phone. She checked the charge — low, but still functional — and placed it in her right robe pocket. And she wore Collette’s amber necklace, for luck.
They sat at the dining table and Kamala appeared, carrying a tray with potatoes and tea and chapattis. Lucky had the feeling that Kamala knew everything but wasn’t going to say anything. They ate in silence.
When they were done, Lucky went to the balcony. The rain had subsided, and the ocean was a listless gray, the sky streaked white and blue. She stretched on her toes in Sun Salute. “It’s not far,” she said.
“To where?”
“Mohammed, the mattress dealer. We’ll have to go back and ask again.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not? He was taking me to meet Lobsang.”
“He was taking you somewhere. But probably not to meet Lobsang. Just because somebody said they knew where Lobsang was doesn’t make it true. It was probably just a ruse.”
“I don’t believe that,” Lucky said. “I think he knew.”
“Why is that?”
“Six degrees of separation. If Lobsang is here—in Dharavi—doing social service, word gets around and people like Mohammed would know.”
Usko looked away.
Lucky cocked her head. “Do you know where he is?”
“Not yet, but we’re working on it.”
“We? What we would that be?”
“Let’s visit our headquarters and you’ll see.”
“Headquarters?”
“You’ll see,” Usko said. “The nerve center of this operation.”
“Operation? We have an operation?”
Usko looked at Lucky. “I told you I was in the military. Did you think I would do this all on my own with no command center? If Coleman wants a war—I am a soldier. Even a monk is a kind of warrior. We just use different weapons.”
“I believe Dr. Vakil but not Mohammed,” Usko said as they headed out.
“I think you should call him now.”
“I will wait till noon, give him time.”
They caught a cab to Jacob Circle and doubled back south on Azad Road. Opposite Jhula Park, they turned east, passing through an unmarked entry, and finally climbing a set of antique stairs to the fifth floor of an old building. At the end of a long hall, Usko opened a door to an apartment, and they walked through the hall into a passage and entered the room at the end.
In one corner of the room was a pile of bed sheets; in the other, a desk and a computer. Usko sat down and opened a program, typed in an address. Skype? Lucky wondered. A moment later, a face appeared on the screen. Collette.
“What’s up, squirt?” Usko said.
“Is she there?” Collette shouted.
“Is she ever!” Lucky shouted back. “You little…you are the…when I get my hands…”
“Cool hair!” Collette said. “I’d shave mine, but Mom would kill me. But I did get this gnarly tattoo. Wanna see?”
“Not right now,” Usko said. “What’s the word on Coleman?”
“If anger was uranium we could power the world.”
“No kidding?”
“Really.”
“So what does he know?”
“He still thinks Lucky is searching for Lobsang. But he’s not sure where she is!”
“Well, that’s good.”
“Not if you’re Lobsang it isn’t. They’ve got people looking for him all over Mumbai right now. I mean, even more people. Even the Mumbai police are in on it now. They’re watching everywhere. Hospitals, train stations, you name it. It’s gonna get hot.”
“Great,” Lucky said.
“But he doesn’t know about us? Does he know what we have on him?” Usko asked.
“Not yet. But they’re working the Bulgarians pretty hard right now, too. Yazma had to shut down for a couple of days. I think he skipped town.”
“Damn!” Usko said. “That guy was good.”
“Yeah, well, this is turning out to be some cool shit. But I wouldn’t want the CIA after me. I might shut down for a while, too. I’m still reading Coleman’s e-mails, but if he gets wind of me…”
“Colette, hold it, the CIA is not after you,” Usko said.
“Yeah, but even if they were, they wouldn’t harm a kid, would they?”
“I think not,” Usko said. He clicked out and looked at Lucky. “I wouldn’t go to see this Mohammed guy either. They’ll be watching Lobsang now. My guess is he’ll know it.”
“So what will he do? Lobsang, I mean. What will he do?”
“What do you think he’ll do?”
“If I were him, I’d have run last night. I’d be in Pakistan by now.”
Usko shook his head. “Courage is not the absence of fear,” he said. “Lobsang won’t run.”
Lucky nodded. “If we can’t bring the mountain to Mohammed, maybe we can get Mohammed to come to us.”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
She looked around the apartment. “Whose place is this, anyway?”
“Kamala’s. When we join the monastery, I mean take monk’s vows, we donate our assets to the order.”
“Looks like it could use a mattress. Let’s send him to see Mohammed, the mattress maker.”
Usko smiled. “But first, can we get him there without being spotted and second, I feel you’re chasing the wrong shadow?”
Lucky backed off. “Plan B?” she asked.
“Wait till I hear from a monastery I have contacted in Tibet. Maybe they will know.”
“There’s one more problem, though. If we can reach Lobsang, where should we meet him?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
Lucky called Dr. Vakil. He said he needed more time. He asked where she was now and she said she was
staying at Worli with a friend and not at the Taj.
“I’ll call when I have news, give me a number.”
Lucky gave him Usko’s cell number.
“Lets take a walk,” Usko suggested but Lucky refused.
Kamala brought them lunch and after eating, Lucky grew more restless.
“We can’t sit here waiting. Let’s check out the leads we do have. I mean, let’s check out Mohammed, the mattress maker. Karsan said his contact Gautam would be willing to find out if we paid Rs. 100,000. Bribing is common here. In any case, it is better than just waiting.”
Usko breathed heavily and said, “I know it is hard for you. Okay, I will ask Kamala to talk to him. Maybe we can bribe them.”
Usko took Kamala aside and briefed him while Lucky looked on. He instructed the monk not to mention Lucky’s name and gave him some money to use, if appropriate. With that, Kamala left.
Lucky went to her room and lay down, staring at the ceiling.
A thousand thoughts crossed her mind. Should she return to the US? Could she return to the US? Could they hang Coleman on all the information they had? Could they barter with him and buy her freedom? How long could she just wait and hope?
About an hour had passed when Usko interrupted her reverie.
“Now what?”
Out of breath, he exclaimed, “Dr. Vakil wants you to call him right now.”
Lucky gasped and stood up. She called the number, with tears in her eyes. The words surged straight out of her mouth, “What? Where? When?”
“Tomorrow,” said Dr. Vakil. “The ‘where’ is still tricky, though. It’s got to be somewhere accessible…” Lucky held the phone away from her ear so that the voice at the other end reached Usko and then she responded.
“And crowded.”
“But some place where you can still talk.”
“And somewhere there are enough people to protect us…”
“And where we can’t be watched from up above.” Lucky pointed up.
“A busy intersection?”
“No, they could easily spot us from the air.”
“An underpass — one of those pedestrian under crossings?”
“Too easy to block off.”
“A movie theater?”
“What’s showing?”
Usko looked at Lucky in disbelief and whispered, “Does it matter?”
“He doesn’t trust theaters anyway. Too dark. And not enough people,” Dr. Vakil said. He sighed. “Too bad this all has to happen tomorrow. I have tickets to see the Indians.”
“The Indians?” Lucky asked.
“You know, the Mumbai Indians. Cricket.”
“Where do they play?” Lucky asked.
“The Cricket Club.”
Lucky looked at Usko and arched her eyebrows.
“Don’t they play at night?”
“Not tomorrow they don’t. The game is at four.” Dr. Vakil paused. “I have good seats, if you want them.”
“But what if he won’t come?”
“Then I guess you can watch the match. Collect the tickets from my clinic anytime tomorrow.” And with that, Dr. Vakil hung up.
Lucky sat down and stared at the phone in her hand. Just like that, everything had changed. Hopefully, for the better…
Usko went to the window and looked out, although it was so grimy that Lucky wondered if he could see anything. He studied the street for a minute, then looked at his watch and said, “Make sure you are not being followed. Like you said, Lobsang is likely to meet you only if you are alone. Now, you should stay indoors till tomorrow. I will get Kamala to pick up the tickets. Where is Dr. Vakil’s clinic?”
“But you must come, too,” Lucky said.
“Oh, I’m sure Lobsang will have heard about us already, I mean, through Gautam and the Tibetan connection…six degrees, right? I am sure he knows!” Usko smiled wryly.
“One more thing,” Lucky said. “Anything I should know about being a nun?”
Usko smiled again. “Keep your head down and your mouth shut. And good night!”
Chapter 18
Usko and Kamala set out on a little motorbike to pick up the tickets. When they returned, Lucky took the tickets and held them up and, turning to Usko, said, “You must come, too.”
“Now don’t be too paranoid. It’s only a man with a mushroom after all!” Usko said jokingly as he took a ticket but made no commitment. Lucky wondered what she was missing. He looked in control — completely calm.
Lucky caught a cab alone to the Cricket Club. Her mind was racing. Would it finally turn out to be the day she had been chasing across the continents? The clouds had passed, and as the sun burned through the haze, the heat seemed to rise up from nowhere, a choking, sweating, humid blanket that bled energy from everyone. And it was Friday. Lucky knew that people would quit work early, take long lunches, that on a day like this, the match would be crowded with absent businessmen and truant college students.
The robe she wore was a rich maroon robe of soft wool, but hot — hotter even than the burqa she had worn the day before. The cab driver was an old man with coke-bottle glasses, who seemed only a little older than the cab he drove. There was a hole in the floor, and when Lucky looked down, she could see the road moving slowly underneath her. The seat rocked up and down with every bump. They crawled along slowly, the driver hunched over the steering wheel. Dozens of cars and motorbikes whizzed past, horns blaring. “People are in such a hurry these days,” he said.
But Lucky wasn’t listening. She was, instead, watching the dark-skinned boy in the white kurta who seemed to be carefully following them on a motorbike, always two cars behind. She tapped the seat to get the driver’s attention. “Take me to the Trident Oberoi instead,” she said.
She got out and paid the driver. The bike passed and went around the corner. There was nothing to distinguish the rider. He was short and thin, a teenager, perhaps, but in India, there were plenty of short, thin people. His face was swathed in a black and white checkered scarf, but that was not unusual, either. Lots of riders in India wrapped their faces, to shield themselves from insects and from the pollution. She checked her watch. Almost noon. There was plenty of time, and the Cricket Club was only a few blocks away.
She went inside, ignoring the uniformed concierge’s icy stare. Surely, she wasn’t the first robed Buddhist nun to walk inside the Oberoi. But then again, judging by the awkward glares as she crossed the lobby and walked down to the coffee shop, she was sure they had never seen a nun there before. This is a minor issue, she told herself, bowing her head to order a latte and a fat slice of Death by Chocolate pie.
She had just lifted a slice of the white, milk, and dark chocolate layers to her mouth when an incredulous voice called out, “Lucky?”
She looked up. Viki! It was her ex-husband. Please, God, not now.
He was standing in front of her, flanked by a very tall, beautiful woman wearing an exquisitely embroidered royal blue sari. Behind them, in an equally elegant pink sari, was Aunt Geeta, arms folded, looking like she’d just bitten into a sour mango. Except for a touch of gray on Viki’s temples, and the tiniest hint of a paunch pressing against the vest of his Brooks Brothers suit, he hadn’t changed a bit.
“Lucky…what on earth…” Viki gasped. Lucky stifled a groan.
“I’m on my way to a costume party.”
“But your hair?”
Lucky touched her head self-consciously. “Well, I…”
“You don’t have cancer, do you?” Geeta asked.
Lucky’s throat hardened as she recalled the visits to Dr. Dasgupta and the myriad of excuses Geeta sought for Lucky’s “infertility.” She turned to Viki instead. “This must be your new wife.” She smiled at the tall young woman in the blue sari. “You’re even more beautiful than I had heard.” She extended her hand, but Geeta shot between them and caught it, then shook it half-heartedly. She stood her ground between Lucky and the young woman.
“No cancer,” Lucky said. “I’ve bee
n attending a yoga retreat. No cancer, really. The hair—it was a matter of convenience. And dedication.”
Geeta wiped her hand on her sari, and not subtly. “A ritual?”
“Exactly. A ritual.”
“I’m Mina,” the woman said, reaching around Geeta to offer Lucky her hand. She had a sweet smile. “I’ve heard about you, too. All good things,” she added, hastily. Her eyes darted from Geeta to Viki.
“But Lucky,” Viki said, “When did you come to Mumbai? How long are you staying? You staying here at the hotel? You should have called us. We would have booked you a room at our guest house.”
Lucky shrugged. “Won’t you sit down?”
“We were just leaving,” Geeta said.
Lucky raised her eyebrows. “I won’t bite. We’ve had our differences, but that was a long time ago. What’s done is done and we can be civil about it. We are in the new age. Come, let me buy you coffees.”
Geeta excused herself to go to the toilet instead, while Viki and Mina sat.
Viki shrugged and smiled weakly. “She’s old-fashioned.”
“I know,” Lucky said sardonically.
“You’re looking well in spite of your costume, Lucky,” Viki said. “How are you?”
“I’m coming down with a cold,” Lucky said. But she told Viki about her job in New York, about Sean. “I’m only here for a few days. I’ve been in Pune. Just a quick refresher course. I only had ten days’ vacation time. I leave tomorrow. I would have called if I had had longer—and if I had known that I would be welcome.”
“Of course you’re welcome,” Mina said. “Why wouldn’t you be?” Her left hand rested on Viki’s right. She wore a diamond of at least ten carats on her ring finger, set in a circle of ice blue topaz.
Synthetic, Lucky thought. I wonder if she knows?
Viki talked about Singh Enterprises. They were, as always, losing money. To hear the Singhs talk, Lucky thought, no business had ever lost more money for so long and managed to stay afloat. They had been bleeding money since the days of the maharajas, and every change in government only made things worse. Taxes were high, expenses kept rising, and competition was merciless. In the meantime, the Singhs soldiered bravely on. Shivram had died of a heart attack at his desk. A half-dozen equally-toady parasites had sprung from the ranks to take his place. Lucky had been right about him. Viki sighed.