At the railway station, Anil found a ten-rupee coin wedged beneath a bench on Platform Six.
His grandmother called it lucky. His father called it dirty. His sister called it hers because she had pointed at it first.
Anil kept it.
He planned to buy orange ice candy, but the vendor’s cart was on Platform Four. Before he could cross the bridge, an announcement said their train would arrive in five minutes.
Then he saw an old porter trying to push a trolley with one squeaking wheel. A suitcase had slipped into the gap between the platform and the train tracks. The porter needed a length of rope from a nearby stall. The rope cost ten rupees.
Anil looked at his coin.
“Lucky coins should not be spent,” his sister said.
“Then what are they for?” Anil asked.
No one answered.
He bought the rope. The porter pulled the suitcase free before the train arrived. Its owner, a woman in a blue sari, hugged the suitcase as if it contained a person.
“My daughter’s wedding clothes,” she explained.
On the train, Anil’s sister split her packet of biscuits with him.
“You lost your lucky coin,” she said.
Anil watched the station slide backward. “Maybe it worked.”
Years later, Anil could not remember whether the coin had landed heads or tails. He remembered the squeaking trolley, the blue sari, and the porter tying a perfect knot.