Lady Luck… Mrs.Barua……..!!!

 Lady Luck… Mrs.Barua……..!!!

Every morning at 8:00 AM, Mrs. Madhu Barua meticulously arranged the lottery tickets on her counter.

For fifteen years, Mrs. Barua sat behind the yellow and blue "Dear Government Lotteries" stall, a splash of neon against the dusty grey of the roadside.

She wore her marigold saree, her favourite colour!! It matched the bright promise of the signs: 1 CRORE.

Mrs. Barua, was simply a woman selling dreams by the slip for six rupees a piece.

She had classified her customers in her mind as Dreamers, who bought ten tickets at a time, stoic men, who bought one ticket every Wednesday, hoping against hope and sceptics, who kept glancing at the photos of past winners on her stall, wondering the reality. She always liked the dreamers…!!

Once, a man had actually won. A small win, enough to buy his daughter a bicycle. He had come back to her stall, not to buy more, but to leave a small box of mithai on her counter.

"You have lucky hands, Didi," he had said.

She just smiled.

Mrs. Barua rarely bought a ticket herself. She had seen the cycle too many times.

She didn't believe her hands were magic, but she liked the idea that for six rupees, she could give someone twenty-four hours of hope. So true..!!

As the sun began to dip, "Here is your ticket, beta. The evening draw. Keep it safe." Mrs. Barua handed a thin lottery ticket across the counter to a young man whose forehead had stress lines. “No worries will change in a day,” she said.

"You're not buying one for yourself, Didi?" he asked, pocketing the ticket, his fingers pointing to the massive, yellow "1 CRORE" banner behind her. " Just Imagine, Didi. You'd never have to sit in this dust again daily."

Mrs. Barua chuckled and with a dry sound said "And do what, exactly?"

"Anything!" He gestured wildly with excitement. "Buy a car. A big house. Travel. You wouldn't have to sell these little papers for six rupees."

"I don't just sell papers," she said softly.

"I sell the right to dream for twenty-four hours. It’s cheap. For daily labourers, rickshaw pullers, small tea sellers, six rupees is a cup of chai. Here, it is hope."

She continued her philosophy, "My concept of money, beta, is different from yours. You see a winning ticket as an escape. I see money as rain, too little, is tough but you can pull on, too much, and everything floods and you lose your footing."

Mrs. Barua concluded her rationale, “Money is like salt. A little makes the meal perfect. Too much, and you can't swallow a single bite. So true…”

The young man retorted, "But with a crore, you could have everything."

"Everything is a heavy word," she said, tapping her counter stand. "I have this stall. It pays for my roof, my tea, and the books for my grandson. I know everyone who walks by. And a peaceful sleep at night after work. What more do you need?"

The young man’s words lingered like the evening heat long after he had vanished into the crowd. That night, her fingers brushed against a stray ticket that had fallen behind the stool. It was for the "Bumper Draw".

"Just once," she whispered to herself. "Let me try my luck!”

The next evening, the radio crackled with the winning numbers of the Bumper Draw. Mrs. Barua held the slip of paper, her breath hitching. One by one, the digits aligned with her ticket. After all, Mrs.Barua was a human. Her anxiety showed up on her face, for once.

Wow!!! She had won ONE CRORE!!

For an hour, she just sat in the dark, the event slowly sinking in. She imagined the big house, imagined owning a big car and the way people would look at her and not their simple "Didi."

She felt the weight of the money pressing down on her chest, a flood that threatened to wash away her peace.

The following morning, she walked into the lottery office, signed the papers, collected the Cheque without any ostentatious display. No ceremony. No cameras. No marble plaque requested for the wall of the office. By noon, the funds were in her bank account.

Mrs. Barua had firmly made up her mind. 

She went to her Bank Manager, explained about her win, her intent and required secrecy, signed bank challans and walked out happily and visibly light in her heart.

She didn't leave her name; she simply transferred the winning amount to the building fund of Shanti Niwas orphanage, on the outskirts of the town, enough to feed, clothe, and educate a hundred children for a decade.

While the town was buzzing with rumours of a "ghost winner" from the town, the atmosphere at Shanti Niwas was one of stunned silence. The administrator, Mr. Gupta, sat in his cramped office, staring at the bank slip that felt like a dream.

A miracle had happened. Suddenly, the bank statement showed a balance that meant new beds, a library, and a future where no child would be turned away at the gate.

Mr. Gupta flipped at all the papers to only see that the donor’s name was simply "A Well-Wisher."

Mr. Gupta looked out the window, wondering who in today’s bad world would give away a fortune and walk away with fortitude.

Next day morning, Mrs. Barua, sitting at her stall, recounted the events of the previous day. Her thoughts and logic were crystal clear. No "what ifs" in her mind; it was sharpened by a lifetime of observation.

She felt a profound lightness in her chest. By donating the money "wholeheartedly," she had performed the ultimate magic trick of touching a crore of rupees and come away with clean hands.

Mr. Gupta, the administrator of Shanti Niwas had been to the bank again, still unable to find the ‘Donor God’. The only clue the banker uttered was that the funds came from lottery winnings which was transferred to the orphanage.

On the way back, Mr. Gupta stopped at the Lottery counter and explained to Mrs. Barua about the donation from a unknown ‘A Well Wisher’. She froze, not wanting to even give any hint about the donor. “The kids deserve such timely help, Gupta ji. Good souls are always around but invisible!!”

Gupta wanted to ask if she had seen the winner of the lottery who had donated it, but refrained. Instead, he asked "Didi, any day you come across the noble soul, let me know", his voice thick but controlled.

Mrs. Barua looked up. Her eyes met his, and for a fraction of a second, there was a spark of mutual understanding and a silent bridge built between the giver and the receiver. She didn't flinch. She simply tilted her head.

"Definitely Gupta ji."

"Ok Didi, let me leave" Gupta replied, wiping his brow. "The breeze is starting to pick up. A good omen, I think."

"The weather always turns eventually," she said.

Gupta reached into his pocket and pulled out a ten-rupee note. "Give me one, Didi. For the evening draw."

"Pick one with your own hand, Didi. Luck follows the person, not the paper." Smilingly, she picked one and gave it.

"How is your life, Didi? Are you content here in the dust?" he asked softly.

"The dust is only dirt until the rain makes it a garden, being contented is a quality not taught, but in-built." she smiled, tucking his note into her small wooden cash box.

Gupta nodded, a deep, respectful bow of the head. "I believe you are lucky."

The secret was safe. Life on the street continued as usual. And under the shade of the neem tree, Mrs. Barua, the lottery lady sat in the only kingdom she ever wanted to rule…...

-        Venkatesh

Photo Credit: K. Abhinay