THE PETTY THIEF

THE PETTY THIEF




Papu started his day as always at nine in the morning. He caught the Virar –Churchgate local and went about his work.
“My wallet, my wallet someone just stole my wallet. My credit card, my driver’s license,
What will I do?” The old man would not stop crying. He was already knee deep in dept he said. His daughter was about to get married, but fate had dealt him a blow. His heart gave a jerk. His fists were clenched. He could not move. His breathing became heavier. He lost his balance and the lights faded out. They tried to save him but he died before reaching the hospital.

Papu was unfazed. According to him he just got hold of a thousand rupees and a credit card from which he could take out thousands more. He knew what he was a pick pocket, a petty thief destined to earn the curses and bad will of all those whom he had stolen from. He did not feel guilt; he did not feel any remorse for what has happened.
On every Tuesday he would go to his favourite spot in the city.
“Savitri-bar and phamily restarant. Pure veg and Non veg,” Papu saw that sign every week and knew that the sign board would make any English professor cringe. But to him it was a metaphor for his perfectly imperfect life. After a completing a bottle oh his favourite Budweiser, he always ordered a glass of Old Monk. On the rocks he would say but the bartender could scarcely understand Hindi leave alone English,”Baraf dya mala, baraf.” The bartender would promptly crush a slab of ice using a stone and would fill up the glass and pour some rum. “I was student of fifth standard. I was coming first in he class of my, I am educated am I.” The words would blurt out from his mouth. He would blame the city for leaving him orphan twety-eight years ago.
He would also thank the city for providing him with all that he has today; the alcohol and the sweet smell of money. He would pray then to his only true God, the city of Mumbai. Not the city of dreams and certainly not the city of joy. But he prayed to the city of filth, the city of mistrust, deceit and betrayal. The city he called home. He prayed that he survive the next day only because he had come to enjoy his own existence.

Papu had a simple routine. At nine he would board the Virar local. Get hold of at least five unsuspecting people. He specially liked the Gujrati men who would board the second class compartment. Their wallets filled with money, loads of it.
He would then get down at Churchgate station and walk till the gateway of India. He would have a Vada pav for lunch and if he was a bit richer he would then treat himself to some pav bhaji. On days where he would hit the jackpot, he would even wear a pair of decent jeans and a white shirt. Papu then would go to Regal cinema and would sit in the upper stall. He would letch at the young college girls, and would swear at the young men sitting beside them. He could not bear to see people together. It would pain him to see people who were not alone like him in the city. He then walked all the way to Café Leopold. The foreigners and the thugs, the teenagers and the whores, everything he thought filled up a space in Mumbai.

Then one Tuesday morning Papu went about his work as usual. He cherished the thought of going to Savitri-bar and phamily restaurant, of drinking Budweiser and Old Monk.
He picked out his target, a young man by the door listening to his i-pod. He smoothly put his hand in his pocket and before he could remove it he was slapped across his face. “Catch him, the pick pocket, don’t let him go.” The furious passengers went on a rampage, Papu was beaten left, right and centre. Before he knew it he was thrown out of the train. He was bleeding from his head and his legs were no longer there. He then breathed his last. That was only after he heard the sound of a little boy crying in the slum nearby. The child was abandoned. And like Papu always said another one always fills up the space. A new petty thief, a new Papu was born in this city again.