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  • Writer's pictureAmit Shankar

Lucky Bastard

“Let’s see.” The doctor replied as he hurriedly entered the OT.

The red light of the OT came on.

Tears blurred the red light as he raised his arms, wiping his eyes, using the sleeve of his blue shirt.

This could certainly not happen to him. He was God’s favorite child, the muse of Lady Luck. After all, he was known as the ‘Lucky Bastard.’ He had never lost any bet, game of cards and had won numerous prizes and lucky draws.  Wherever he participated, he won something. From winning a simple game of Tambola at the club to a trip to South Africa to watch the world cup match, his list had the entire repertoire.

“God, take away everything that I have but please don’t let anything happen to Tici.” He pleaded.

A cascade of tears escaped. He used his shirtsleeves again. Somehow he was confident that nothing could happen to Tici—her daughter. For days, he had consulted every surgeon; read every article, every research paper that was available on the net. Brain tumor in a child aged five was a rare occurrence and a successful operation hinged largely on the surgeon’s expertise and of course luck.

“Papa, you are my teddy bear.” Tici’s face played in front of his eyes. Ever since she was diagnosed with brain tumor, he could not comprehend God’s sense of humor, rather sadistic trip. On one hand he gave him all that he never needed—the right mentors, the right breaks, out of turn promotions, loads of luck for every single endeavor and here he was, battling something without any luck when he needed it the most. Was he really a Lucky Bastard?

“God, please, send me all the luck that I have.” He said a little prayer. Every single visit to the surgeons reinforced the same—Tici needed loads of luck to see the light of a new day. Temple, mosque, shrines, lucky pendants and rings, he did all that was obligatory to have luck on his side. Was he the same guy who scoffed at people’s effort of seeking divine intervention and displaying the same through the assortment rings, fasts and rituals? After all he was a Lucky Bastard. He needed nothing, not even God as he was destined to win every game.

The OT door opened. In anticipation of the unexpected, his face tuned pale.

“Sister, what happened?” His throat was choked and he could barely whisper.

“Need more units of blood. Patient critical.”

“Sister…” He wanted to enquire in detail but she had already turned right, towards the blood bank.

He rushed towards the OT. Maybe the doctor would update him. Before he could reach the door, it opened again. Another sister rushed out.

“Don’t stand here. Have patience.” She gave him a stern look as she hurriedly walked down the corridor.

The sister who had walked out earlier for getting more units of blood was walking towards the OT door, carrying three bags of blood.

“Sister…” He pleaded.

“Pray.” She patted his shoulder and gave a forced, feeble smile.

He stood there, feeling the trickle of sweat travel down his spine.

Beep beep, beep beep. He cursed himself for not putting his phone on a silent mode.

It was a Watsapp message. He opened it hoping to divert his mind.

“Luck is like a bank account, if you don’t replenish it with good deeds, you run out of it.”

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