Raj from Chaguanas

 The dice in Raj’s hand felt like living things, bones that knew his secrets. In Chaguanas, they said Raj could charm the spots off them, but no one trusted the charm. His smile was a well-practiced curve, his laughter a currency spent freely at rum shops and dusty pavements where men gathered to forget their wages. He won often, but it was the way he won that etched his name in the town’s mind: a little too smooth, a little too lucky, always leaving just before the mood turned.

“Raj from Chaguanas? Better check your pockets after you check his eyes,” they’d mutter.

The truth was, Raj trusted no one either, least of all himself. His inner voice was a constant, frantic calculation, odds, tells, escape routes. It was a voice of fear disguised as cunning. He never listened to the quieter, deeper pull beneath it, the one that whispered enough.

The change came on a rain-soaked Friday at Mr. Benny’s backroom game. The air was thick with smoke and desperation. Raj was on a hot streak, the pile of wrinkled notes in front of him growing. Across the table sat an old man named Joseph, a cane farmer who played with a slow, deliberate sadness. Raj saw the tell, a slight tremor when Joseph bluffed. It was like taking candy.

He called the old man’s final bet, a substantial one. Joseph revealed his hand, a weak pair. Raj allowed his victorious smile to spread as he laid down his cards. A straight.

But as he reached for the pot, he finally heard it. Not the inner commentator tallying the score, but a deeper, clearer voice. It spoke without words: Look at his eyes.

Raj’s gaze flicked up. Joseph wasn’t looking at the cards. He was staring blankly at the money, his shoulders slumped not in defeat, but in despair. Raj’s hand froze over the cash. The room’s chatter faded. In that silent space within, a brutal communication occurred: This isn’t winning. This is stealing a roof. This is you, confirming what everyone says.

The other players watched, confused. “Take your money, Raj, stop the drama.”

Raj’s fingers didn’t close on the notes. Instead, he did the unthinkable. He pushed the entire pot gently toward the center, toward Joseph. “Your tell was too easy, uncle,” Raj said, his voice unfamiliar even to him. “This was no game. Keep it.”

The room erupted. “Wha’ kind of foolishness is this?” “He gone mad!” Joseph looked up, stunned, suspicion and hope warring in his wet eyes.

Raj stood up, the weight of his reputation feeling like a coat he could finally shrug off. “I’m out.”

Walking into the humid night, the rain cooling his face, Raj felt a strange, quiet peace. The inner noise of schemes and suspicion was gone, replaced by a single, solid sentence that communicated everything he needed to know: You are not your reputation.

Chaguanas would talk for weeks. Some said it was a bigger con. Old-timers nodded slowly and said maybe the boy had finally found an honest game, the one against himself. And Joseph? He paid off a debt that was choking him.

Raj, the infamous young gambler from Chaguanas, still played sometimes. But now, when he sat down, people watched him differently. Not with outright distrust, but with a curious pause. They were waiting to see not just what he would do, but who he had decided, deep within, to become.