Unluckybolte
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The Last Ticket
Ibrahim was nineteen and tired. He worked evenings at a small tea stall near the bus stop. In the daytime, he went to college classes. At night, he helped his father count coins from the shop. The family had always lived close to the edge, but this year felt harder. Fees had gone up. Books were more expensive. His younger sister needed new shoes. Every rupee seemed to have a job before it even entered the house.
One hot Thursday in July, Ibrahim sat on the curb after work. He held a folded paper in his hand: the college office had given him the final notice to pay the semester fee. The deadline was now seven days away. If he missed it, he would lose his seat. He had saved, but it wasn’t enough. He was short by a painful amount—an amount he could see and count, yet could not reach.
Around him, the city moved fast. Buses coughed smoke. Vendors shouted the day’s last prices. A man with a lottery stand waved colorful tickets. “Luck is smiling today!” he called. “Try and see!”
Ibrahim stared at the tickets and looked away. He didn’t believe in luck. He believed in hard work, in early mornings, in sugar dust on the tea counter. But that night, as he walked home, the bright colors stayed in his mind, like flags in the dark.
The next day, the same man was there again, smiling behind his small table. Ibrahim’s shift ended late, and his feet ached. He counted his tips. Not much. He felt the old stone of worry in his chest. He walked past the table, then stopped. He looked at the tickets. The man saw him and nodded.
“Just looking,” Ibrahim said.
“Looking is free,” the man replied.
Ibrahim read the small print. He knew most people lost. He knew stories of people who chased wins and ruined themselves. He also knew he had a small amount saved beyond the fee—his “buffer,” as he called it—money for bus passes and meals. He told himself he would never touch that. The question was simple and heavy: should he risk a tiny part of what he had, for a tiny chance to fill the gap?
He went home. He slept badly. He dreamed of clocks with no hands. In the morning, he made a choice. He set rules—clear and firm, like lines drawn with a ruler. He would spend only a very small amount. If he lost, he would walk away. If he won anything, he would stop immediately. This would be a one-time try. No second chances. No chasing. He wrote the rules on a scrap of paper and folded it into his pocket, as if that could make them stronger.
At the stall, he worked through the heat. When the shift ended, he walked to the lottery stand. The man greeted him with the same kind voice. “Still looking?”
“Not today,” Ibrahim said. “Today I’ll buy one.” He took out the small amount he had decided on. It was not much, but to him, it was big. He picked a ticket with a simple design: a blue river under a white moon. It felt cool in his hands.
He did not scratch it there. He did not want the noise and eyes. He walked to the small park behind the bus stop. The sun was slipping down. Children chased a football. A woman fed breadcrumbs to birds. Ibrahim sat on a bench and took out the ticket. He breathed in and out. He thought of his rules again. Then he scratched the silver film with his coin.
At first he saw nothing. Just numbers and more numbers. A small win, it said. Enough for a good meal, no more. He closed his eyes and smiled at the sky. A small win felt like a kind hand on his shoulder. He could walk away now, he told himself. That was the rule.
But a whisper rose: “You could try again. Just once more.” He pressed the folded paper in his pocket. Rules were not for soft moments. He stood up and walked back to the stall man.
“I won a little,” he said, “and I’m done.”
“Good choice,” the man said. He looked surprised, maybe even proud. Not many people stopped after any win. He handed Ibrahim the small cash. It felt warm from the man’s palm.
Ibrahim should have left. He knew that. But then the man said, “There’s a special draw tonight. Only once a month. The prize isn’t huge, but it’s decent. Enough for… something important.” He paused. “Maybe for fees.”
The word “fees” felt like a bell in Ibrahim’s chest. He could almost see the number written in red on his notice. He looked down at the cash from the small win. It was the right size to buy exactly one special ticket.
His mind wrestled. He had planned to stop. He had won a little. He had done the sensible thing. But he also knew the deadline was days away, and nights were long when worry sat at the edge of the bed. He turned the thought around and around, and then he did something that surprised even him. He took half of the small win—only half—and bought one special ticket. He kept the other half in his pocket. “This is the last,” he said. “No matter what.”
The man nodded. “Last one,” he repeated softly.
Ibrahim didn’t go to the park this time. He went home. He helped his mother cut vegetables. He told his sister a silly story to make her laugh. After dinner, when the house was quiet, he took the ticket to the window. The streetlight was enough to see. He scratched slowly, square by square, like peeling a fruit without breaking the skin.
The first symbol matched. His heart tapped the glass. The second did not. He swallowed. The third matched again. His fingers turned cold. He checked the rules printed on the back. Three matches meant a prize. He looked again to be sure he wasn’t dreaming. Three symbols, clear as small moons.
He did not shout. He sat down on the edge of his bed and closed his eyes. The prize was not a fortune, but it was real and it was big enough. Big enough for the exact gap in his fees, with a little left over for books. He felt something inside him unclench, like a fist opening.
In the morning, Ibrahim went to the lottery office to verify the win. The clerk stamped forms and counted notes. “Congratulations,” she said in a flat voice that could not touch the bright relief in his chest. He walked out into the sun, and the city seemed new: buses sounded like music, and the air smelled like beginning.
He went straight to the college office. He paid the fee. The clerk wrote “PAID” in bold letters across the notice and smiled. “On time,” she said. Ibrahim laughed, a soft, amazed sound. He bought his sister new shoes on the way home and a small pack of sweets for the family. That evening, he told them the full story. His father listened, serious. His mother touched his hair. His sister clapped.
Then Ibrahim did one more thing. He took the leftover money—the small extra after the fee—and put it in a new envelope marked “Books Only.” He wrote, in careful letters on the envelope and on the scrap of paper he still kept in his pocket: No more tickets. His voice was calm when he said it to himself. “I was lucky once,” he whispered. “That is enough.”
The city kept moving. The bus stop stayed busy. The lottery man waved to others. But Ibrahim felt a quiet space open in his life, a space big enough for lectures, for notes in the margins, for dreams that did not depend on scratching silver squares. He had touched luck and learned respect. He had paid his fees, yes—but more than that, he had learned when to stop.
And that was a prize he planned to keep.
