When I was born, my dad made it big. My mom always said I was a lucky baby, the kind that would find gold bracelets digging sand at the beach. All the superstitions from the past seemed unfashionable to believe in. Over the last decade, luck eluded like a fading shadow I couldn’t grasp, always disappearing when things should have changed for the better.

Mom gave me a locket when I was twelve. It was a spectacle chain that had Christ pinned on a cross. She said it was for good luck. I thought otherwise. Mom never said what she thought, only what others wanted to hear. I felt no sentimental attachment towards this religious symbol I possessed, though I often fingered it. On the reverse side, it read, “ I am Christian. In case of an accident, contact a priest”. That amused me. Once, I came across mom’s diary. Dad had given mom the chain as she was forgetful and always misplaced her glasses. He had good intentions but a bad way of expressing his affection. Dad was never the romantic sort or so mom claims.

As I grew up, mom told me many different stories about the chain. It could be the precious family heirloom, a present from a priest or even her wedding gift. There were endless possibilities. But her ever-changing stories always had the same ending. That this lucky charm was supposed to protect me from the god of misfortune. But all I wanted was luck, not some superstitious crap. I would have preferred a rabbit’s foot. Really.

Even in school, I was still out of luck. Miss Look, my high school teacher was a menacing figure. She picked on everything I did. Always. Once, I naively tried waving the chain in her face, hoping for a reaction like that of a vampire to garlic. All I got was an F for English and a sore bum. She was five-foot nine and pudgy around the waist, had pouted lips that made her look like a puffer fish gasping for air. She was indeed a head-turner. I used to comfort myself with the brave thought that one day I could tell her off – just as soon as I grew up. There was a weird soap-stench that hung loosely around her. Her overdone fake-bunched up hair, her tattooed eyebrows that she had done probably in an attempt to look high-class and elegant made her seem almost pathetic. She was forty, a spinster and had never married. Her time was spent tormenting children like me, taking pleasure in their discomfort. Recently, through a conversation I eavesdropped over the phone, I learnt that she had ended up in a mental institution after being fired from her job. Luck does play with people.

Looking back on those days, I smiled. I still kept the chain after all these years. Even now, I still do not own luck, the one thing I relentlessly pursue. But over the years, the blessings, the thanks and the congratulations I received have tipped the fortune-scale. Maybe I never needed luck. All I needed was faith and a new heart.