Blind Pilgrim

Bapsy Jain

Description

An inspiring novel about a women named Lucky who is anything but . . . Forced to flee Bombay when her wealthy and charming husband divorces her and squashes her career, Lucky Boyce feels defeated and desperate for respite. Fortunately, old friends welcome her to New York where life begins with promise. Determined and trying to make a difference, she volunteers to teach yoga to prison inmates. But with her confidence in question and love starting to surface, a series of bizarre events leave Lucky searching once again for answers. Is her journey through life destined to be marred by duplicity and betrayal? Or does she simply need to overcome her fears and look within for the strength to break free? A stunning novel about one woman's struggle toward enlightenment, Lucky Everyday blends the principles of yoga with a thoroughly modern take on the quest for a fulfilled life.

Informations

• Publié par: Penguin Books Ltd
• Date de parution: 14 février 2008
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9789351184584
• Langue: English

Extrait

Bapsy Jain

THE BLIND PILGRIM
Contents
About the Author
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Elevn
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Acknowledgements
Follow Penguin
Copyright
About the Author
A chartered accountant, Bapsy Jain is an entrepreneur and educator and divides her time between Singapore, Dubai and Bombay.
Bapsy has stood on her head many times in the course of the ten years it has taken to complete this novel. She is married with two sons.
To my sons Sammy and Gaurav
May the Blind Pilgrim guide your journey
ONE
THE CADILLAC ROLLED TO A STOP IN FRONT OF A formidable wrought iron gate. A white sign inscribed with large black letters and posted eye-level to the driver read:
NEW YORK STATE DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS ONLY TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED
What kind of fool would trespass onto prison grounds, Lucky wondered. Aren t people usually trying to break out? She counted five guards at the gate: three reading newspapers and drinking coffee inside a small glass-and-concrete cubicle, one standing on the road with a clipboard, and another a little off to the left cradling a shotgun in his arms. It was October and though it was mid-morning there was a chill in the air; the guards outside wore green overcoats. The guard with the shotgun had a woollen cap with flaps pulled over his ears; his breath hung in the fog hovering around him. It was that kind of morning-hazy, grey; a few tentacles of lingering fog stretched along the ground, refusing to burn off.
Alec rolled down the window and a guard peered in from the driver s side to inspect the car. He jotted down the licence plate number and the names of the two occupants. Lucky smiled at the guard, then at the oversized surveillance camera perched on the pole beside the road. After inspecting Alec s driver s licence, his Department of Corrections security card and Lucky s passport, the guard waved the Cadillac through the gate. Lucky winced at the high-pitched grating of iron on iron as the gate swung open.
Between the gate and the prison walls was a bare gravel field nearly a quarter of a mile wide and perfectly level. Nothing grew there, not even a weed. No cover, Lucky reasoned. She looked up at the towers spaced evenly along the prison wall and spotted the silhouette of a guard with a rifle. There was a sign on the road directing employees to proceed straight on; visitors, deliveries and others to the right. Lucky wondered who others would be. Us, I suppose. Alec followed the road as it turned and circled the prison all the way around. He parked in front of a small, detached, portable office building between the parking lot and the walls.
Lucky looked into the rear-view mirror one last time and brushed the bangs out of her eyes. People said she radiated confidence , though she was no longer sure what that meant. In her late twenties now, she was tall, her body still supple and youthful. Her jeans fit tight and her light blue blouse accented her olive complexion. Her black hair was pulled back and held at the nape by an enamelled barrette. On her wrist was a slim gold watch, the only ornament she allowed herself to wear. Odd for a woman who was once in the jewellery business, she thought wryly.
As Alec stepped out of the car, he took out a pair of narrow, rectangular wire-rimmed glasses from his coat pocket and fumbled with them before finally putting them on. He was tall and thin and, at sixty, still possessed a sprinter s physique.
Are those new? Lucky asked.
Picked them up yesterday, Alec replied, banging the door shut. Bifocals. Time flies, you know.
You look like you re going to meet the Queen.
I ve got a meeting this afternoon. Peer reviews. Got to look professional, whatever that means.
Inside, they were greeted by two guards-an African-American woman and a Caucasian man. The man rose deferentially and regarded Lucky with a hopeful look. Lucky eyed him with a cool stare. The woman, lounging in a chair with her feet on the desk, was reading O, The Oprah Magazine. She barely looked up.
The guards wore identical uniforms: smoky blue shirts and trousers, with a navy blue stripe down the sides of the pants and matching epaulettes on their shoulders. The woman put down her magazine and stood up slowly, as if disturbed from some important work. She was taller than her male companion, nearly six feet, and muscular. She pointed to a set of footprints painted in red on the floor, indicating that Alec and Lucky should stand on them. When they did, the guards frisked them carefully. They took Lucky s barrette, watch and hand bag, and Alec s keys and wallet. Pick em up on your way out, said the female guard.
Lucky shook her hair loose. You look better that way anyhow, honey, the male guard murmured. He took a Polaroid photo of Lucky and a set of fingerprints, and strode off saying he would be back in a minute. He returned ten minutes later with the photo and prints laminated on a heavy plastic card clipped to a string. Lucky hung it around her neck. Then he handed her a small orange plastic cylinder with a large black button set at one end.
What s this? Lucky asked, fingering the button.
Ah-ha, the woman said, swatting Lucky s hand. This here s your panic button. If something goes wrong inside, you press that. But not unless you need it, baby. That thing shrieks like crazy. And if you sound it, all hell breaks loose. Total lockdown. Clip it on your belt and take it with you, but remember it s only for emergency.
Lucky followed Alec out through a side door. They crossed a gravel drive to the prison, shouted their names into an intercom and waited while a guard-whom they couldn t see-called for the gate to be opened. They repeated the procedure a second time at the inner gate, before entering the prison proper. Inside was a vast field of asphalt surrounded by featureless concrete buildings constructed in rows, like tombstones-identical, three storeys tall, with narrow slits for windows and roofs overhung with concertina wire. Elevated walkways enclosed in chain link connected the buildings. Lucky noticed more guards with rifles, prowling the catwalks and silently watching. Her eyes fell on a small work detail consisting of three prisoners overseen by two guards. They had a bucket of paint among them and a brush each and were lackadaisically covering graffiti scrawled on the walls. They were about to paint over an admonition: Abandon dope all ye who enter here . Further down the wall Lucky read another inscription: Life is a prison . She shivered.
They followed a lane that skirted a blacktopped recreation yard raucous with inmates playing basketball, walking or standing around in small groups, smoking, talking, taunting each other. The prisoners wore identical uniforms : blue jeans and faded blue denim shirts. Their names were stencilled in large black letters on their backs and in small letters on white patches sewn over their shirt pockets. The yard was divided into four fenced areas. Like pens, Lucky noted. She also noticed that one area was predominantly for Caucasian prisoners, one for the African-Americans, one for the Hispanic and one mixed.
It s about control, Alec said, nodding in the direction of the prisoners. He had been watching her take in the surroundings. There are 5000 prisoners here, never more than 200 guards on a shift. They have to be able to lockdown if there s trouble. Divide and conquer. It s the only way to keep order.
To Lucky it seemed that the architect who designed the prison had dreamed it up in a state of acute depression. Every inch of the interior, with its metal bars and concrete barriers, demanded compliance, forcing the inmates to move along right angles and in straight lines. The long corridors had rows of hive-like cells on both sides and locked doors at the two ends. At best it was spartanly functional, at worst it was torture through sensory deprivation. She looked at Alec. It s sad, she said. Like sheep to the slaughter.
It s devoid of any trace of humanity, Alec agreed. The system says they don t deserve it.
And you think you can change that? Lucky asked.
Alec shrugged. It ll take time. I ve been here for a year and a half. But I figure one life redeemed makes the effort worthwhile. I ll get permission for you to come in and teach, if you think you re up to it.
Teach what? Accounting? The last time I checked, felony convictions weren t considered assets on resum s.
Alec laughed. I was thinking about yoga.
Yoga?
Sure, why not?
I m hardly an expert.
Of course you re an expert; you ve been at it since you were a toddler. Your dad said it came to you like second nature. Besides, you re Indian. They ll assume you were brought up in an ashram.
Who here would want to learn yoga?
People outside do yoga, why not people in here? Might be the best way to rehabilitate them, let them know they can fit in. Besides, he added, a mischievous glint lighting up his eyes, this is an all-male institution. You won t have any trouble getting men to show up for a class.
Lucky rolled her eyes. Alec stopped and put his hands on her shoulders, turning her around to face him. His face was serious now. It doesn t matter what the subject is. Inmates need to learn how to live. We try to build a bridge and then hope they cross it. The only way is to earn their respect and trust. Once they accept you, you can make a difference. I believe we have the power to change lives. And I ll tell you something else: the best way to escape our own misery is to help someone else with theirs. Think it over.
Right, Lucky said.
One of the things Lucky most admired about Alec was his unshakeable optimism. She had heard the same sincerity in his voice the morning he had received her at the JFK Airport. It was one in the morning and Alec had waited for two hours in the lounge because the flight from Bombay had