by Shiv Ramdas
It’s a balmy October evening 2 days before Diwali, and I’m losing at cards to a cat.
“How do you keep winning?” I say crossly. “I thought you’d never played teenpatti before.”
At this the cat, a plump, bright pink Siamese who isn’t a cat at all but our resident djinn, Wahid, stops grooming itself and regards me. “Beginner’s luck?” he suggests, in a slow thick voice.
“Nobody’s this lucky.”
“He could be,” says Sandhya, her dark hair flying around her face in the breeze of the table fan. I glare at her. An excellent assistant, absolutely irreplaceable to the firm, but one cursed with a regrettable lack of loyalty.
“You’re my cousin,” I remind her. “If you’re going to betray the family, at least make sure you’re getting something in return. He won’t even share his winnings with you.”
Wahid snorts. “What winnings? We’re playing for matchsticks.”
“They’re IOU’s. For later. When I have the money.”
“A later that doesn’t arrive is called a never,” says Wahid. “When do you have money? You even made Sandhya buy the matches.”
Now, you might be wondering whether India’s foremost (and only) paranormal investigator really has nothing better to do with his evening than spend it arguing with a fuchsia feline, and you’d be correct. I don’t. Not till this client shows up.
“Yes, well, I’m a little overdrawn at the moment. I’ve got expenses, you know.”
“Such as?”
“Such as keeping the business afloat. Who do you think pays the rent?”
“Considering that this office is a desk and 3 plastic chairs in a flat owned by your mother, I would venture to say nobody does.”
I ignore him. “I’m also covering the company vehicle. Most detective agencies our size don’t even have a company car, let alone a beautiful mint green Skoda Kylaq with luxurious chocolate brown upholstery and a Kenwood 5-star double track stereo—”
“Please stop talking about the car,” says Sandhya. “You sound like a Skoda brochure.”
I sniff. “And when we get called to a case, want to take the Metro, do you?”
“I can fly,” says Wahid.
“Typical, thinking only of yourself. I think of everyone.”
“What a philanthropist.”
I glare at him. “You don’t even know what it takes to run a detective agency.”
“I know what it takes to run this agency. Clients. Of which we have none. Doesn’t look like this guy is coming.”
I’m starting to fear he’s right when the doorbell rings. There he is. Nobody else it could be, not at this time.
I look triumphantly over at Wahid and get to my feet, surveying the room around me. It doesn’t take long, there isn’t much to look at.
“I’m going to let him in. Wahid, why don’t you change into something a bit less… striking?”
“What’s wrong with my outfit,” says the bright pink cat indignantly.
“All of it. Can you please just cooperate without an argument?”
“Fine,” says Wahid, sounding sulky.
“Thank you,” I say, and making my way to the front door, I open it to reveal a short, portly clean-shaven young man, wearing an expensive sherwani with a matching shawl, and a nervous expression. “Mr. Bhatia?”
I fix him with my winningest smile and stick out a hand. “Tiger Singh Bhatia, at your service.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he takes it. “Atul Tandon. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“Please, follow me,” I say. “This way.”
When we enter the office, the cards are still strewn across the table but the pink cat is gone. I shoot Sandhya a quizzical look, but decide against pursuing enquiries. Wherever Wahid’s got to, it can wait, I suppose.
“Ah, Sandhya,” I say. “This is Mr. Tandon. He wants to consult us.”
We settle around the desk in the garden chairs, Sandhya ready withher notepad and pen.
“All right,” I say. “Atul, what can we do for you?”
“I’m not sure,” he answers. ”Perhaps nobody can, but Naren said that you helped him when nobody else could and I should reach out to you.”
“Oh, yes that possession case,” I say. “How is Mr. Duggal doing now?”
Atul doesn’t reply. He’s looking at the cards spread across the table, frowning. “You have been gambling?”
“I would never!”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” says Atul. “What I really need is someone who understands teenpatti.”
“As I was saying, I would never lose an opportunity to practice my craft. Especially not at something I’m as passionate about as teenpatti.” I lean forward, steepling my fingers. “But you didn’t come all the way to talk about my passions, surely?”
At this moment I notice a slight movement and a rustle of cards on the desk. Then I spy a small brown snout, sticking out of the papers. A pair of mouse eyes fix me disapprovingly. I blink, then realise what’s happened. As casually as possible, I slide some papers over to obscure the mouse, making a mental note to have a word with Wahid later. Then I smile expectantly over at our visitor. “Tell me.”
“Let me explain,” says Atul. He hesitates. “I—a few of us— have found ourselves in a rather strange situation. You see, we’re all members of a card playing club. A rather exclusive one. High stakes teenpatti. You know, the game where you each draw three cards and compare your hands? These days we meet about once a month. Of course, the real action happens around Diwali time. “
“And you play exclusively teenpatti?”
“Of course. Well, we play with a few variations too, but yes.”
“Sounds like fun.”
Atul nods vigorously. “It was. Till one of our number started winning every time.”
“Lucky man.”
“Nobody is that lucky, Mr. Bhatia. No one else has won a single hand since this started.”
“Wait, he wins every hand? Literally?”
“Yes.”
“How is that possible?”
“It isn’t,” says Atul. “I’ve run the numbers multiple times. You have a higher chance of meeting someone with the same fingerprints as you.”
“So he’s cheating,” I suggest.
“Even so, why go about it in such an obvious fashion?” says Sandhya. “Every hand? That’s just overkill. You’d be bound to raise suspicion.”
Atul frowns. “That’s the problem. He isn’t cheating. Trust me, we’d know. We’ve tried to catch him. Nothing.”
“Tried how?”
“Marked cards, hidden camera, you name it. We even hired a traditional detective.” He shakes his head again. ”Nothing. That’s where you come in.”
“You want me to prove this guy is cheating?”
“Oh no,” says Atul, holding his hands up, palms facing me. “If he was cheating, we’d have caught him. We need you to prove he’s not cheating.”
I blink. “What?”
“Why?” says Sandhya.
Atul smiles. “Because if he isn’t cheating that means he’s using magic.”
Sandhya and I look at each other for a moment.
“Of course, no problem at all,” I say. “Why don’t you start by telling me about this guy.”
“Well, he’s from one of Delhi’s oldest families. I believe his father was an erstwhile royal or something. His house is a lovely old place, so glad he was able to keep it in the family. The father had a gambling problem and sold off everything that wasn’t nailed down.”
“Like father like son, eh?”
Atul hesitates. “It’s funny, Ravi never used to gamble while his dad was around. He was always more into woodwork. Or was it wood carving? One of those crafty things. Some time ago he asked to join. We were all quite surprised, but everyone knew his father, so we said yes.”
“So, how’d this guy who wasn’t even into gambling start taking everyone to the cleaners?”
“That’s what I want you to find out. He’s hosting a card party at his house tomorrow evening. Will you come with me? I’ll tell him I have friends from out of town who want to join the table.”
Sandhya frowns. “What kind of stakes are we talking?”
Atul waves a hand. “Oh, I’ll take care of operating expenses. Along with your fee, of course. Money is no object, but I cannot keep losing like this.”
“Even though what you’re losing is money?”
Atul beams. “Exactly. It’s the principle—“ he stops, eyes slowly widening in horror, staring down at the table.
“Is that a rat?”
I glance down, and sure enough, Wahid’s worked himself free of the papers and is standing there, staring up at Atul.
“Certainly not,” I say indignantly, snatching up Wahid and tucking him into my breast pocket, ignoring the squeaking. “You think I would allow rats in my office? It’s a mouse.”
“Did you just …put it in your pocket?”
“But of course,” I say, waving a nonchalant hand. “Where else would you carry a mouse? Now, where were we?”
“The party tomorrow,” answers Sandhya.
“Ah, yes of course, I always love a good undercover operation. If you send us the address we can meet you there. We have a company vehicle, you know. “
My phone starts ringing. “Will you excuse me a moment?” I say, and in one smooth motion, pull it from my pocket and answer.
I hear the pleasant voice of a man who is enjoying his Diwali far more than I am.
“Mr. Bhatia? Jatin, Lakshmi Recovery Agency.”
I grit my teeth. “I thought I’d blocked your number.”
“You did, sir, but we have many phones. As you know, this is about the Skoda Kylaq, license plate number HR26-AH6853. According to our records you are 3 weeks late on your payment for the vehicle.”
I take a deep breath, reminding myself to sound pleasant. “I’m working on it right now, Jatin.”
“That is great news, sir. Shall I send someone over now to collect the payment? I can have someone reach your address in 30 minutes. We have people everywhere.”
“I’m still working on it.”
“It is already 3 weeks late, sir.”
“I know it’s 3 weeks - look, it’s Diwali! Don’t you have anything better to do than harass people on a national holiday?”
“Not at all, sir,” says Jatin proudly. “At Lakshmi Collection Agency we provide service 365 days a year.”
“Must you?”
“Indeed, sir. We work on all holidays, Independence Day, Holi and also Diwali.”
“Well, I don’t,” I say rudely, and disconnect the call.
“Everything okay?” asks Atul.
I give him my winningest smile. “Everything’s perfect. Tomorrow evening, you said?”
###
According to some sources, Diwali is the second most popular festival in Asia after the Lunar New Year and according to others, Delhi is the second most populous city in Asia after Tokyo. This is all well and good until you realise that Lunar New Year is mostly celebrated in China while Tokyo is in Japan, but the populace of Delhi are all out celebrating Diwali around you and that’s why the traffic is so bad it makes you wish Rama had never gone back to Ayodhya and inspired this whole festival business in the first place. Even if you’ve navigated that traffic in a beautiful mint-green Skoda Kylaq with a 3-cylinder turbo-petrol engine, alloy wheels and a bespoke steering wheel grip, the experience typically peaks at miserable. When we finally pull up outside the house, I can’t wait to leave the car.
The house itself is one of those old fashioned havelis, a large, three-storied affair in fading white, with a scalloped arched gateway leading to a flower-lined entry, one of those places that instantly lets you know you’re in the presence of very old money. The inside is much the same, with frescoed walls, ornate rugs and chandeliers twinkling merrily at us from the ceilings. On the right of the entryway is a large staircase, and all the way at the end of the room are a set of double doors, closed. You’d almost expect to see liveried staff but there isn’t a soul that doesn’t appear to be a guest here. We follow the flow of the crowd upstairs, and make our way upstairs, to a broad, well-lit corridor where people are gathered, greeting each other. Here I turn my attention to our fellow partygoers.
As anyone who’s ever been to them will attest, Diwali house parties in Delhi are something of an institution, by which I mean that the attendees should be kept under observation, preferably by law enforcement. They typically have several genres of attendee. There are the flitters, passing through briefly on their way to six other events because there’s a certain kind of person who prefers to spend their evening on the way to places rather than in them. There are the ones trying to use it as a singles bar, and the ones simply there to use it as a bar. And then, if you ever make your way towards the back rooms, you’ll find the degenerate gamblers. These aren’t uncles slurring jokes in a too-loud voice while the others remind them that it’s their turn. No, these are the ones who show up an hour early, armed with lucky charms and counters, and make their way straight to the tables, fixing each other with granite gazes and spending the rest of the night negotiating bets.
What makes this party unlike any other I’ve attended before is that everyone here is from that last category. As I’m contemplating the discovery, I hear someone hail me and turn to see Atul, emerging from the crowd.
“There you are,” he says. “I was wondering if you’d make it. This way, come on.”
We follow him, through the crowd and down the corridor, into the first room on the right.
In the very centre of the room dangles a chandelier, hanging even lower than the others around the house. Along one wall are tables of food, and along the other card tables are set up. Atul takes us to the furthest one, next to a mantelpiece. Several expensively dressed people are seated there, sporting expressions ranging from anxious to annoyed. All but one, a tall, thin bored-looking man with a neat beard, sitting with his back to the mantelpiece, the large, lacquered idol of a man on a throne on it located exactly above his head, so it looks like he’s balancing it there. He looks up as we approach. “Welcome.”
“Ravi, these are the friends I was telling you about,” says Atul. “This is Sandhya. And this is—”
“Tiger Singh Bhatia, at your service,” I say, sticking a hand out at our host. He takes it. His hand is soft and clammy but the grip is firm. It’s like shaking hands with an octopus.
“Shall we begin?” says Ravi, pulling out two sealed decks of cards, sliding them across the table to a lady who opens one and begins shuffling. Ravi notices me glancing at the idol above his head and smiles. “My grandfather always used to have one of those laughing buddha idols in every room. The sort where you rub the belly for good luck, you know those?”
“Did it work?”
“If you believe in that sort of thing.“
“Don’t you?”
“I believe in tradition. This is my small contribution to it.”
After some more small talk, we’ve settled around the table with our cards. I squint at my hand, and as I do, the breath catches in my throat. I’m holding a king, a queen and a Jack. All of hearts. I blink, but no, those are the cards all right. The best draw I’ve ever had, and it shows up during a case. A slow smile spreads across my face.
“Your turn,” says Sandhya to me.
I grin around the table, and slowly, push all my chips to the centre, ignoring the gasps from the others.
Ravi raises an eyebrow, “You’re a confident gambler.”
“Sometimes you just have a feeling,” I reply. “Tonight, I’m feeling lucky.”
###
Two minutes later, I’m glowering round at the table. What used to be my chips are now stacked in front of Ravi. The best hand I’d ever had in my life, only for our host to produce an ace, a king and a queen, all of spades, and take me to the cleaners. I’m done for the night. He hadn’t even had the decency to look elated after he did it. The rest of the evening follows a similar script. No matter what sort of hand anyone else has, our host always has a better one. It’s not like he’s trying very hard either. On one occasion he wins a round without ever looking at his cards. As the evening grows, so do the desperate looks on the other faces. Ravi never appears anything other than apathetic. Finally, at some point Ravi rises to his feet and suggests we break for dinner. The battered and beaten table hastily agrees. As people rise up and file towards the food, the low chandelier in the middle of the room catches my attention. I eye it dubiously.
“One in six million,” says a soft voice at my elbow, and I see Ravi standing there, lips stretched in that thin-lipped smile. “The odds of being hit by a falling chandelier. It’s incredibly rare. Most falling fixture accidents are because of ceiling fans. But chandeliers are safe.”
He looks at me, brow furrowed, and then goes on. “Maybe you don’t put much stock in odds, though. You’re a bold man, Mr. Bhatia. You believe in yourself more than you fear failure, don’t you? My father was much the same way. It is a quality I admire in my friends. Going all in on your first hand? Not many would.”
“Well, there aren’t many of me.”
“I can certainly see that,” he says.
“Well, I’ve watched you play too. Not even looking at your cards? What do you call that if not bold?”
He smiles again. “A calculated risk. I’m no gambler, Mr. Bhatia. I play the numbers. But will you excuse me? I must run to the bathroom before we start up again.”
He walks away and I see Sandhya at my elbow.
“Hear all that?”
“I did,” she says. “Maybe we should see where he goes.”
“Good idea,” I say, and we head out after him. He’s nowhere to be seen. We walk down the corridor.
Wahid pokes his nose out of my pocket. “Where is he?”
“Not in the bathroom,” I answer, indicating an open door to my left. “It’s empty.”
I try a door. It’s locked. Then another. Ditto. A few minutes later, we conclude that other than the bathroom and the card rooms, every room is apparently off-bounds. We wander back towards the stairs. “I think he’s in one of those locked rooms,” I say, scratching my head.
“I doubt it,” says Wahid.
“I’m sure you do. But you also doubt that the earth is round.”
“If it were round why are all the maps flat? And I know he isn’t there.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he’s down there,” says Wahid, jerking his snout to indicate direction.
I look and there’s Ravi, bolting the double doors at the far end of the hall below us. I watch, waiting, as he heads off towards the front door.
“Shall we?” says Sandhya, and without waiting for an answer, heads down the stairs towards the double doors. I hurry to catch up.
I reach for the doors, the bolt slides back easily, it’s clearly in regular use. I reach for the door handle.
A hand closes on my shoulder. The mouse ducks back into my pocket.
I whirl around and see Ravi. “Mr. Bhatia,” he says. He’s smiling but those gimlet eyes are boring into me. “Lost?”
“Completely,” says Sandhya, beaming back at him. “Just looking for the bathroom.”
“It’s upstairs,” he says. “This is the way to my private prayer room.”
“That one’s occupied. Is there another?”
He looks at us both for a long moment, and then nods. “Next to the front door, on the right. I’ll take you.”
Carefully bolting the double doors again, he escorts us to a door and opens it to reveal a bathroom. Sandhya goes in and shuts the door, Ravi and I stand outside in awkward silence.
I glance at him, trying to find a way past his defenses. “This is a lovely house,” I say.
His expression softens. “Thank you. It’s been in the family for generations.”
“Maintaining it must be a lot of work.”
“More than you’d imagine. And money too.” He shakes his head. “But legacy comes first, doesn’t it?”
“Always,” I agree. “I’m sure your father would be proud.”
“My father was a fool,” says Ravi coldly. “And the consequences of his bad decisions have far outlived him.”
I blink, taken aback, and search for a way to smooth things out. “You’re really good at teenpatti, by the way. You must really love it.”
He shrugs. “Like all hobbies, it is a means to an end.” His voice is soft and far away. I’m not sure he’s even talking to me. “But we do what we must.”
The bathroom opens and Sandhya emerges. “Shall we?”
We head back to the room. There’s no chance to discuss anything. Everyone’s already back at the table and before we’re even fully seated Ravi’s calling for the cards to be cut.
I wait long enough for him to win the next hand or two, and then stand up, hand pressed against my tummy.
“I think I need to step out for a bit,” I whisper to Sandhya, just loud enough for the others to hear. I’m not worried about them not believing me, my stomach-hurts-and-I-have-to-leave-now routine has been perfected over years of escaping maths classes from under the eyes of suspicious teachers. A table of distracted gamblers are far easier marks.
A few minutes later I’m down at the double doors again, sliding the bolt open. I turn the handle. It doesn’t budge.
“Well?” demands Wahid from inside my pocket.
“It’s locked.”
We stand there in silence for a moment.
“What?” demands Wahid.
“You know what,” I reply.
“Do I really have to? Can’t you learn to pick locks or something?”
“This isn’t the time.”
“Exactly, you should have learnt long ago.”
“For this conversation.”
There’s another short silence. Wahid sighs. “Fine.”
I glance around again. “All clear. Do your thing.”
A thin blue mist wafts out of my pocket, swirls around overhead, and streams through the keyhole. I hear Wahid sneeze. A moment later the door clicks and swings open ever so slightly. With one last look to make sure the coast is clear, I slip through.
The blue mist swirls, and Atul stands there.
He sneezes. “Let’s never do this again sometime,” says Atul in Wahid’s voice. “You owe me for this indignity.”
“We’re all very grateful to you for suffering through the indignity of doing the job you signed up for.”
“I signed up to be your consulting expert, not a master key,” says Wahid coldly.
I glare at the hovering mist, or where I think it is, because it’s dark as the abyss in here.
I feel around for a light switch and hit it. My jaw drops. I hear Wahid gasp.
We’re standing in a horror movie scene. In contrast to the bright, welcoming plasterwork outside, the walls here stand dulled by limewash or, in places, eroded away to show the crumbling brick underneath. Sections of floor are missing. Cobwebs dangle from the ceiling. The only furniture is a single table near the centre of the room, with what look like tools and some figurines on it. At the far end is another door.
“Well, this is different,” I mutter.
Wahid goes over to the table and picks up one of the figurines.
“Come look at this,” he says.
I go squint at it through the gloom. It’s not a figurine, it’s an idol, just like the one in the room upstairs.
“Wait, there’s more,” says Wahid and it swings open in his hand, like a lacquered wooden book to reveal what looks like a small chair on the inside. Then I notice the idol has hinges.
“It’s hollow,” I say. “But why?”
In reply there’s a low, dull thud followed by a high-pitched sound, not unlike Wahid squeaking in mouse form.
“What was that?” I say.
“I didn’t do anything,” says Wahid.
I hear it again. It’s coming from the far end of the room, behind the door.
“Shall we?” I say.
“I was afraid you were going to say that,” says Wahid.
We make our way to the door and I reach for the knob.
“Wait!” whispers Wahid. “I can sense something.”
“Magic?”
He shakes his head. “I’m not sure. Yes, but also no, it’s different. Better be careful, we don’t know what’s in there.”
There’s another dull thump, then more squeaks from behind the door.
Carefully, slowly, I push it ajar and peer in. It’s the strangest sight I’ve ever seen. And I live in Delhi.
A large dining table stands in the centre of the room. Below it stand four figures in a sort of ring, a fifth standing in between them, barking orders. This is the squeaking we’ve been hearing. Another four stand on the table, partially hidden by packets of kitchen spices. They’re all dressed in what appear to be military fatigues. None is taller than a foot high.
The shouting figure raises its voice. “Again!”
On cue, the figures on the table push the packets over, sending them hurtling towards the ones standing below, attempting to crush them. There’s a series of dull thuds, powders of various colours cloud the air, and when they clear, all five figures are still standing there, unscathed.
The squeaking figure, now waving what looks like a baton, shakes its head angrily. “This is how you protect me? Far too close! Again!”
The announcement is met with groans. One of them takes a step forward. “But Captain Bhola-“
“I said again!” yells the Captain. “One luck-field that can be penetrated compromises everyone! We drill until perfection!”
The figures on the table begin jumping down, and hauling the spice packages back atop the table.
“On the double! Move, move, move! Stragglers will be double marching!”
I glance over at Wahid. He mouths something at me, but I can’t tell what. Carefully I close the door and look at him.
“They’re Baalus!” he says in a harsh whisper.
“What?”
“Baalus.” He shakes his head. “So that’s how,” he says softly.
“What is a baalu?!”
“Luck-imps. They usually live up in the Himalayas. You rarely ever see one this far south. But here’s a whole soldiery unit of them.”
“What’s a luck-imp?”
“What it sounds like. They’re imps. With one special talent.”
“Being lucky?”
“Creating luck. Baalu have some of the most vicious internal politics of any society. Everyone in line for the throne is trying to kill everyone else in line, and everyone not in line is trying to kill the ones in line anyway. That’s why they evolved luck fields, to survive all the assassination attempts. “
I feel my pulse quicken. “Luck fields, did you say?”
Wahid nods.
I head over to the table again and peer at the idols. “A baalu would fit in this, wouldn’t you say?”
“Like it was designed for the purpose.”
“And if you wanted to win at a game of chance, having one on your side might help?”
“Undoubtedly. Their luck fields can be incredibly powerful.”
I frown, looking back at Wahid. “So why are they here?”
“I don’t know,” says Wahid. “Baalu are always looking for allies in the hope it’ll give them an edge over some rival. No doubt they were promised something.”
So Ravi hasn’t been cheating or using magic after all. He’s found something even better. I have to admit, it’s quite the plan.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say.
Wahid switches to mouse form and jumps back into my pocket. We make our way back to the main hallway again. I can hear people talking on the landing above, clearly the card party’s done. All we have to do now is mingle and leave with the crowd and nobody’ll ever know we weren’t with them all along.
Several minutes later, we’re on the street outside.
“Shouldn’t we discuss things?” says Wahid.
“Not here,” I say, quickening my step, eager to get back to the car. A minute or so later we’re back under the tree where we parked. The spot is empty.
“Huh,” says Wahid, poking his nose out. “Are you sure this was the-“
“Yes!” I say sharply. It’s the same neem tree all right. But the Skoda is gone.
“It’s been stolen!” I cry out.
“Can’t be,” says Wahid. “Who would steal that ugly- I mean, how unfortunate.”
Something catches my eye under the streetlight- a small white rectangle, lying there on the road, where the car had been parked. I bend down and pick it up, squinting at it. It’s a business card. Either it had been there all along. Or—
A hideous suspicion grips me. I flip the card over.
JATIN SEHGAL- COLLECTION AGENT
LAKSHMI RECOVERY AGENCY
I curse loudly, ignoring the startled looks from a couple walking towards their own vehicle.
“Practicing your vocabulary?” says a voice and I whirl around to see Sandhya.
“Where have you been?”
“Talking to Ravi. We’ve been invited to another do here tomorrow morning.”
“More cards?”
“Don’t know. He said it was going to be a special event, with a much smaller guest list.”
“What’s that about?”
“We’ll know tomorrow, I suppose.”
Atul comes up to us. “There you are. We were wondering where you’d gone. Did you have a good time? Where are you parked?”
I scowl. “I don’t suppose you could give us a ride back home, could you?”
###
One fitful sleep later we’re back at the haveli, milling around the corridor outside the card room with the other attendees. I recognize several faces from last night, now wearing expressions ranging from wary to excited. Whatever this is about, they appear to know as little about it as we do. I feel a tug at my sleeve, it’s Sandhya.
“When?” she whispers
“Soon,” I mouth back at her.
Considering we came up with the plan on the way over here this morning, I’m quite happy with it. Once the proceedings for the day start, whatever they might be, Wahid and I will use the opportunity to slip away unnoticed. A simple, elegant plan.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Ravi emerges from the card room, dressed in a pinstripe suit that makes him look even taller than usual, holding a solitary sheet of paper in one hand. He steps away from the door, gesturing towards it in the manner of an usher. “Please. Come in.”
As guests walk past, he makes it a point to greet each one, and then at his paper. He’s checking faces against names for every attendee. As door policy for an event goes, it’s a great way to confirm who’s there.
It’s also the absolute last thing we want.
“Shit,” I say.
“That’s not ideal,” agrees Sandhya.
“What’s going on?” says a muffled voice from my pocket.
“He’s doing a head count,” I say.
“What?” The mouse’s nose pokes out of my pocket. “That’s not in the plan! He can’t do that!”
“I think you’ll find that he is doing it,” says Sandhya slowly. She pauses, staring at the large ornate cupboard in the hallway.
“Ok, change of plan.”
A few minutes later the last of the guests has filed into the room. Ravi tucks the sheet of paper into his coat, takes a long look down the corridor, and then follows them in, pulling the door behind him.
A minute passes. Then another. Finally, I push the doors of the cupboard open and emerge into the corridor, wincing. For a thing that was that big and that empty, it sure had been uncomfortable in there. Quietly, I make my way over to the room everyone’s in. Carefully, so as not to make any sound, I turn it, pushing the door ever so slightly ajar and peek in. The room’s been given a whole new look. The walls are lined with chairs, all facing towards the center of the room where Ravi is waving his hands about as he addresses them, the chandelier bathing him in a deep yellow glow.
“-why I’ve asked you all here. But first, the answer several of you have no doubt been waiting for. No, I have not been winning every hand at teenpatti fairly, and yes, you have been parted from your money under false pretenses.”
There’s an uproar of voices from the gathered crowd. Ravi holds up his hands. “Just one moment, please. Hear me out. I’m a businessman, not a swindler. I have kept detailed account of every paisa I have taken from every one of you. As of this morning, you will all find that it has been returned to you.”
A few people begin to reach for their phones, the rumblings quietening down to murmurs.
Ravi smiles. “As you have begun to find out. Now, you must be wondering, why any of this? Why take your money, only to return it? Because I am a businessman, and what I have demonstrated to you all this while has been proof of concept. Ask yourself- what is the rarest, most precious commodity on earth? The answer is of course, not gold, or crypto or even land- it is luck. A man with no wealth and great luck eventually has both, and the man of great wealth and no luck eventually has neither. Now ask yourself: what if you could control your luck? What if you could enter every endeavor, every transaction knowing that Fortune favours you personally? That is what I offer you here today. By the end of this meeting, one of you will walk away with a guarantee of success. “
He smiles again. “Let’s set the floor for the bidding.” He calls out a number.
Outside the room, my eyes widen. That sum could probably buy a small country.
There’s a silence in the room. Then, a voice calls out a bid. Immediately another joins in.
The sheer audacity of the man. He’s standing in a room full of people who should be united in hating him and he’s got them competing against each other to enrich him. And he’s going to get away with it too. Unless… Carefully, I close the door and tiptoe away, towards the stairs.
Several minutes later, phone in one hand, I squat down by the double doors, scowling. The actual plan had been for Wahid and I to both be here so he could open the door, but he’s otherwise occupied, and so I have to rely on this Youtuber who claims that in 2 minutes I can learn to pick any lock with a hairpin. It’s not going well. In frustration, I yank at the handle.
The door opens. It isn’t locked. I take a moment, trying to decide whether to be relieved or annoyed, then remember there’s no time for either and hurry though, till I’m standing at the door to the baalu squadron. Taking a deep breath, I open it and step through.
There’s just about enough time to see several figures marching past in formation before I slip on something unseen and find myself on my back. I hear shouts, several excited high pitched little voices, and sense, rather than hear them running up and surrounding me.
“I come in peace!”
“Silence!” squeaks one, prodding me with something sharp, so I cry out. “You will only speak when the Fourth Prince tells you speak.”
“That would be me,” says a voice from somewhere near my navel, and I feel little feet walking up my chest. I crane my neck, and see Captain Bhola standing on my breastbone.
“Captain will suffice for now,” says Bhola. “I have two things to ask you. You may choose to answer either, but answer one you will. Who are you and who do you work for? “
I gulp.
“No?” says Bhola. “Well, that brings us to my other question.”
The Captain raises an arm, pointing his scepter at my face. “Do you feel lucky, punk?”
###
It’s still quiet as I stand outside the door to the auction, the hum of voices clearly audible. I wince as Captain Bhola’s scepter digs uncomfortably into my neck, as he stands on my left shoulder.
“Look here, do you really need to?” I say, indicating the three rows of baalu behind us, weapons pointed at me.
“Vigilance is never optional,” says the Captain. “Do you think I made it to Fourth Prince by being casual about opsec? You better not have been lying to us.”
“Every word I said was true. I’m here as an ally, to save you from betrayal.”
“Words. You have still proven none of them.”
In response, I push open the door slightly. Ravi is still standing in the spotlight of the chandelier, talking, now holding the Ganesh idol in one hand.
“—congratulate Ms. Bakshi on winning the auction. This paragon of good fortune now belongs to her.”
“When do I get it?” calls out a woman.
“Soon,” says Ravi. “I need a day to prepare the, uh, formula. You can come collect it tomorrow.”
“What about us?” yells a man.
“Yes, are we just leaving empty handed?”
Ravi smiles his thin-lipped smile. “For now. But fear not, friends, next week there will be another auction for yet another idol. One can never have too much luck, can one?”
“Traitor!” hisses a voice in my ear. The Captain sounds furious.
I let the door close again.
“So do you believe me now?”
“The perfidy! I believed him an ally. There will be repercussions. Treason is a serious offense.”
The Captain looks down at his troops.
“What are your orders, Captain?” asks a baalu. “We’re behind schedule..”
“The schedule stands canceled,” squeaks Captain Bhola. “ This is now a muster! “
Murmurs run through the baalus. I hear the word muster being echoed a few times.
“I repeat, this is a muster,” says the Captain. “Pack up camp. We move out in T minus 30! On the double!”
Like a well-oiled machine, the baalus turn and begin marching down the stairs.
“You have our gratitude, stranger,” says the Captain. “And the friendship of Fourth Prince Bhola. I will not forget this. You have already proved worthier than that traitor.”
“And I won’t even ask any of you to win me card games.”
The captain snorts. ”Nonsense. Sitting idle projecting a field onto one object? It’s a luxury posting. Easier than sentry duty.”
“Don’t you mean sitting idol?”
“What?”
“Never mind. But out of curiosity, what was his end of the deal?”
“To help me kill my brother, Third Prince Tora.”
“Your brother?” I say shocked.
“Of course,” says Captain Bhola. He sticks his chin out proudly. “When I started out I was Fourteenth Prince. Now I am Fourth. Soon to be Third. But before I go...”
He raises his scepter, there’s a crashing sound from inside the room, then screams.
I whirl, pushing open the door.
It’s pandemonium in there. There’s glass everywhere. The twisted, broken remains of the chandelier lie on the floor. Underneath them, a pair of legs kick weakly.
My mouth drops open. “One in six million.” I murmur eventually.
“What?” says the Captain.
“The odds of being hit by a falling chandelier. One in six million. Or so I was told.”
“How unlucky,” says Captain Bhola.
###
“Do have another,” says Atul, pushing the box at me.
“So kind of you,” says Sandhya.
“Nonsense,” says Atul. “I won handsomely last night. Bringing over sweets is the least I can do.”
“You didn’t need to do this.”
“Speak for yourself,” I say through a mouthful of laddoo.
Sandhya looks at Atul. “So Ravi really was doing it to restore the house?”
“And more. The whole family fortune, in one deal.
“How is he?”
“The doctors say he’ll make a full recovery. Eventually.”
“But?”
“He made some of the wealthiest, most vindictive people in Delhi feel like fools.” Atul shakes his head. “A long recovery period is probably in his best interest.”
He reaches into the folds of his kurta and extracts a large brown envelope. “Your payment. I only wish I could make it more.”
“You could,” I suggest.
Atul’s phone lights up, he looks at it and frowns, then checks the time on his watch.
“There is one question I do have, however.”
“Go on,” I say, still busy making friends with the contents of the envelope.
“I was sitting behind you in the auction the entire time. When I left you were still sitting with Sandhya. Yet when I got into the corridor I saw you there. How did you do it?”
Mentally, I thank Sandhya again. This is why she’s indispensable. Getting Wahid to sit in there disguised as me so Ravi wouldn’t suspect anything, leaving me free to set the rest of the plan in motion had been a masterful idea. Even if we’d had to put up with Wahid going on about great sacrifices ever since.
“I have my methods,” I say.
Atul gets to his feet. “Well, if there’s anything I can ever do for you, just say the word. But I have to get going now. Work and all. It’s our busy season, you see.”
“What is it you do?” says Sandhya. “We never did ask.”
“We are in the collection business,” says Atul. “Perhaps you’ve heard of us? Lakshmi Recovery Agency. We have contracts with all the big banks.”
I blink. “Lakshmi, you said?”
Atul nods.
I beam at him, ignoring the glare Sandhya’s giving me.
“Well, in that case, there is one thing...”
© Copyright 2025 Shiv Ramdas
About the Author
Shiv Ramdas is a multi-award nominated author of speculative fiction short stories and novels. He lives and writes in Seattle, Washington with his wife and three cats. In 2020 he became one of only two Indian writers to ever be nominated for a Hugo, a Nebula and an Ignyte Award in the same year. He also gained Twitter fame in 2020 for live-tweeting the saga of his brother-in-law’s rice mishap. His first novel, Domechild, was India’s first mainstream cyberpunk novel. His short fiction has appeared in Slate, Strange Horizons, Fireside Fiction, Podcastle and other publications. You can find more of his work here: https://shivramdas.net/