I Want to Buy a Miracle

A fine coating of sweat on his brow, his furtive glances, and the way he was incessantly scratching at his palms gave the man, third in line to order his meal, away as paranoid, nervous, or both. The lunch crowd at Marigold Masala Fine Indian Cuisine & Takeout had been a steady one, giving Kamya Kumar, who was working the cash register, little time to pay attention to anything but what each customer was ordering. Still, she’d noticed the man the moment he’d stepped into the restaurant, and had hardly taken her eyes off him as he made his way through the queue, his obvious anxiety heightening her own. 

Kamya completed checking out the penultimate customer to the nervous man and when the next patron, an oval faced woman in her forties, approached the counter, she said, “If you would excuse me one moment, please, I will be right with you. I just need to check on something real fast.”

The customer looked slightly put out but shrugged her shoulders as Kamya turned to the window that separated the kitchen from the rest of the restaurant. “Amma,” she called through the window to her mother, who was pulling freshly baked naan from the tandoor, “can I go on break?”

Kamya’s mother shook her head but didn’t raise her eyes to look at her daughter. “During lunch rush, Kamya? And, what, I should take orders, run the register, pour drinks, and make the food? I am not Durga. I have but only two arms!” Her mother often invoked one Hindu God or another when she felt put upon, and Durga was one of her favorites. Kamya rolled her eyes, and was glad amma hadn’t seen it. 

Although she considered pointing out that amma would hardly have to fend for herself, what with her father and cousins Rundrash and Rishi also working in the kitchen with her, and Imara coming off her break in just a few minutes, she realized how futile the effort would be. She tried one other tact, “Can Rundrash trade with me for a bit, then?”

Amma let out a deep, disappointed sigh. It was a sound Kamya knew well. “No. Rundrash is needed in the kitchen. You are needed on the register. Now get back to work before the line winds out the door.”

Though she tried to suppress it, Kamya let out an audible grunt. It was this sound that finally got her mother to make eye contact with her insufferable daughter. The look in her eyes pierced Kamya more savagely than daggers ever could. Kamya hung her head and slunk away from the window with shame. Who says seventeen-year-olds can’t feel shame, she thought, retreating to the restaurant counter. 

She took the oval faced woman’s order—samosas, butter chicken, mild heat, which basically meant no heat at all, and a 7Up. Kamya pointed out that they only had Sprite, and the woman muttered, “Whatever.” 

Finally, it was the nervous man’s turn. The tall and gangly looking man approached the counter like he was unsure on his own two feet. His gait was more stumble than step. The man’s hair was unfashionably old fashioned, with a severe part. The glasses he wore were too big for his face. He was Caucasian, but his skin was red and blotchy more than it was white. He was staring at Kamya’s chest and it took her a moment to realize that he was more interested in her name badge than her breasts. 

“Kamya,” he mouthed, trying to sound out her name, and failing spectacularly. He glanced down at his palm and she saw blue ink smudged across it. She thought she could make out the letters K and A, and she felt her anxiety soar. 

Still, Kamya tried to push through her feelings. She couldn’t just walk away from the customer, no matter how uncomfortable he made her feel. Her amma might actually murder her. She forced a smile and said, “Welcome to Marigold Masala. How may I take…”

Before she could complete her routine greeting, the man cut her off. His voice trembled, and he looked like he might pass out in front of her. “I want to buy a miracle,” he said.

*

“Oh my God!” Jasper laughed incredulously earlier that day. “You did it! You did it, Kami! It’s a miracle!”

“Quiet, Jas. Not so loud. Everyone will hear you!” Kamya pleaded with her best friend. “It’s not a miracle. And I didn’t do anything. It’s… just… coincidence. Nothing more.” 

Still unable to stop his giddiness, Jasper shook his head. “No way. There are no coincidences, Kami. It’s a miracle, and you did it! This is awesome. It’s amazing! C’mon, do another one.” 

Kamya felt her skin grow hot with embarrassment and she demurred. “I don’t even know how I did this. You can’t tell anyone about it, Jas. Promise me. No one can know. People will think I’m a total freak.” 

“A freak? No way! People will flock to meet Kamya Kumar, the Miracle Maker of Marigold Bay! Imagine how much money we can make, Kami! Need a miracle? Step right up! It only costs a thousand bucks!” 

“We? A thousand bucks? Get serious, Jas.” 

“Two thousand, then! Ten! Do you know how much some people would pay for an honest-to-God miracle? But, y’know, your old pal Jas gets a friend and family discount, of course.” 

Just for a moment, Kamya allowed herself to imagine all the things she could buy if she sold these so-called miracles that she couldn't afford now. Then she thought of all the people she could help, if she actually was capable of making miracles happen. But she only allowed herself a moment before shaking her head, calling Jasper crazy, and trying to change the subject. 

*

The awkward man at the counter looked pleadingly at Kamya, waiting for her to reply. Kamya felt her hands shaking atop the tablet where she entered customer orders. Her throat and mouth had gone desert dry and her lips felt as if they had been sealed shut with the superest of super glues. The silence between Kamya and the customer was growing uncomfortable, but she was unable to break it. 

“You are Kamya Kumar, aren’t you?” the man blurted out. “The Miracle Maker of Marigold Bay?”

Her eyes grew wide in disbelief. How could he know about that? The man had made her nervous from the moment that he’d walked into the restaurant, but she hadn’t known what it was about him that set her anxiety on edge. She’d just been sure, deep in her stomach, that there was something off about him. And then he called her a name that only she and Jasper knew. 

"I'm… I'm sorry… you have me mistaken for somebody else. Now, there's a line behind you and I'm going to have to ask you… " Kamya managed to say, her voice quavering. How had he known about the miracle?

The man withdrew his cell phone and pulled up YouTube. He found the video he was looking for and pressed play. Kamya was aghast to see a recording of Jasper and her from earlier that morning. Someone had filmed them? Who?  When Jas called her the Miracle Maker of Marigold Bay, the man stopped the video. Her heart sank when she saw the video had already amassed 20,000 views!  

"Just how many Kamya Kumars do you imagine there are in Marigold Bay? Even in all of Maine?” 

Kamya didn't know what to say. She couldn't get past the fact that someone had videoed her. And they hadn't just gotten the conversation between Jasper and her. They'd filmed everything. Everything.

“I want to buy a miracle.” the man said.  

Just then the bell above the door to Marigold Masala clinged. Kamya looked up and was shocked to see a familiar face, one that everyone in Marigold Bay knew. Heather O'Riordan, the insanely popular news personality from Eyewitness News WAES-7, walked confidently into the restaurant. Following closely on her stiletto heels was a burly man with a patchy beard and ball cap hoisting a camera, which was pointed directly at Kamya. 

The news reporter made her way to the front of the line and stood with her back to Kamya. "Heather O'Riordan coming to you live at Marigold Masala, the adorable Indian bistro right in downtown Marigold Bay. I'm standing by the cash register operated by one Kamya Kumar, who locals are calling the Miracle Maker of Marigold Bay, after video footage purporting to show Miss Kumar perform an honest-to-goodness miracle was posted on YouTube this morning. The video has gone viral and has now been seen tens of thousands of times."

If Kamya could really perform a miracle, she would’ve vanished. She wasn’t sure whether that would count as a miracle or magic trick, but if she could do it, she wouldn’t get hung up on semantics. Instead of a miracle, though, Kamya had the next best thing. Her mother. 

“Just what is going on out here,” came the voice of Kamya’s agitated amma, storming out of the kitchen. In her hand she clutched a flour coated rolling pin and Kamya was momentarily worried she might wield it as a club. “We are trying to run a business here, and you come traipsing in with your microphone and your camera and your big hair? And during our lunch hour rush?”

“Mrs. Kumar, I’m Heather…” 

“I know who you are! Do you think I don’t watch the news? Now, what do you want with my restaurant,” Amma turned and faced the camera before continuing, “Marigold Masala Fine Indian Cuisine & Takeout, the jewel of Marigold Bay, located in the heart of the business district at 1242 Blueberry Boulevard?” 

Kamya imagined there might be the smallest twinkle in amma’s eye as she made her unabashed marketing pitch live on air. Unflappable Heather O’Riordan didn’t miss a beat and Kamya thought that was a miracle in and of itself, “Mrs. Kumar, we’re here to talk to your daughter, Kamya, about the video that surfaced of her from earlier today.” 

Amma broke her gaze from the camera and whipped her head around to glare at Kamya. “Video?” she asked, venom on the tip of her tongue. 

Before Kamya or Heather O’Riordan could say anything in reply, there was a cry of alarm from the dining room. “He can’t breathe! He’s choking. I think he’s choking! Somebody help.” 

The WAES-7 cameraman swung his aim to focus on the sandy haired man who was shouting about a young boy on the floor of the restaurant. His eyes had rolled up above his eyelids and his face was turning an icy shade of blue. Kamya looked frantically about the restaurant. Surely someone would rush to help the choking child. Only no one moved. It was as if everyone was frozen in place. After another precious second or two elapsed, Kamya could wait no longer and sprung into action. She slid across the counter and rushed to the boy. 

By the time she’d reached him, the choking boy was no longer squirming or clutching at his throat. Instead, he lay motionless on the Marigold Masala floor. He’s lost consciousness, Kamya thought with alarm. I have to hurry. Kamya knelt beside the boy and moved his arms to his side so he was lying straight. She inserted her index finger and thumb into his mouth and created an opening. She couldn’t see anything lodged in his throat and knew from her first aid training that to try to sweep away a blockage sight unseen could cause more harm than good. 

As Kamya prepared to begin performing CPR, the boy suddenly started breathing again. He blinked once, twice, and his eyes focused on Kamya hovering over him. His color returned to normal and he gave Kamya a smile. “Hi,” he said meekly. 

Kamya smiled at the boy and helped him sit up. She placed her hand on his shoulder, “Hi,” she said back. “How are you feeling?” 

“A little tired,” he replied. “And hungry!” 

“Are you getting this?” Heather O’Riordan whispered into the ear of her cameraman. 

“Yep,” he said. “She barely touched the kid and he just started breathing again. Basically just laid her hands on him.” 

“Unbelievable,” the reporter said.

“It’s a miracle!” shouted a customer. The sentiment echoed again and again throughout the restaurant. The boy’s father wrapped his arms around his son and whispered a silent prayer of thanks to Kamya.  

Heather O’Riordan stepped in front of the camera and lifted the microphone. “Phil, Ashanti,” she said, addressing the WAES-7 anchors back at the newsroom, “We came to Marigold Masala today to interview the young woman, Kamya Kumar, who is being called the Miracle Maker of Marigold Bay. Instead, we were witness to what I can only describe as a bonafide miracle performed by Miss Kumar. In all my years of reporting, I can honestly say this is the most remarkable thing I’ve ever witnessed. We’ll be interviewing the little boy and his father and others here at the restaurant, including, hopefully Kamya Kumar herself, but for now, back to you.” 

In the commotion, Kamya somehow managed to slip away from the attention and back to the cash register where the uncomfortable man who’d asked to buy a miracle still stood. “How did you do that?” he asked. “Was it really a miracle? Can you really make miracles?” 

Kamya shrugged, not even sure herself. “I don’t know. Maybe. I just don’t know.”

“Will you try for me? Please. It’s my wife. She has…” he trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. “Will you try?” 

“I’ll try,” she nodded. She had no idea what was happening to her, but it was no longer her secret. And if she could help others, she would try. 

Outside the restaurant, a new line of people was already forming. Not seeking masala but miracles.