A short story
Mukhtar’s gaze lingered on her, captivated by the outline of her face. She undeniably resembled a typical Maharashtrian girl, and their brief, intense glances filled him with a surge of anticipation for another encounter. This was all part of his quest for a relationship, famously labelled “love jihad.”
She was the most alluring woman he had ever encountered. The abrupt braking of the bus jolted him back to reality. Despite Maulavi’s warnings about the distractions women could pose to his ambitions, Mukhtar found himself in a silent battle, torn between his desires and his dedication, unwilling to heed the elderly man’s caution.
The bus was crowded. He stood towards the front while she was at the far rear. Squeezing between people, he craned his neck to the left again. She was still there, dressed in a simple cotton saree, her hair tied back, a bag precariously slung over her right shoulder. The man standing next to her eyed her bag. Mukhtar wanted to warn her but curbed his instincts.
Mumbai was as humid as ever. He raised his arms to wipe the sweat off his handsome, unconventional face. Why hadn’t he met her earlier? He could have easily charmed her, asked for her number, and maybe even shared a cutting chai and vada-pav at the Andheri crossing.
But today, his focus was more significant: his mother. After a great deal of hard work, he had finally saved enough money for his mother’s cancer treatment at a well-known clinic. Poor thing, she could not even breathe properly for years. Thinking of his mother made his eyes moist, and he gently outlined the bundle of notes carefully tucked away in the inside pocket of his trousers.
Dream sequence!
He turned his attention back to the girl. She was gone. His heart almost missed a beat as he frantically scanned the crowd, trying to find her amidst bobbing heads and bodies. Where could she have disappeared to? With Ammi’s treatment in place, she could have been the perfect girl to care for Ammi and their home, too. But like a mirage in the desert, she had vanished, leaving him with a profound sense of missed opportunity that weighed heavily on his heart.
“Hi, can you help me, please?” The serene, almost temple-like voice made Mukhtar jump and look to his right. To his surprise, she was standing right next to him, holding the iron frame of the seat, trying to strike a balance between defending her private space and the erratic rhythm of the bus. Her sudden appearance left Mukhtar momentarily stunned, unsure of how to react.
The usually loquacious Mukhtar was at a loss for words. “Someone did this and took all my money.” She pointed to her bag, sliced precisely as if done by a deft surgeon. “I have an interview and need to get a cab. Could you lend me some money?” Mukhtar didn’t know how to respond. “I know it seems odd, but you are the only man on this bus I can trust.” Her angelic face showed strains of embarrassment, her plea for help piercing his ears.
Without hesitation, he pulled out the wad of notes tucked inside his trouser pocket and handed her three two thousand notes each. “No, no, I just need five hundred.” Her embarrassment grew as the passengers around her started looking, passing sly giggles. “You can return the money, no sweat,” Mukhtar insisted. “What’s your number?” she asked, “I will give you a missed call, and you save my number. I will Paytm you the money from my father’s phone.” The driver braked again, and she almost landed on Mukhtar. “Sorry, my stop has come.” She inched towards the exit door. Suddenly, she turned back towards Mukhtar, “Thanks for your help.”
*** *** ***
Standing in front of the cancer clinic, Mukhtar’s face was stained with tears. His fingers repeatedly caressed the precise incision on the front of his trousers. He could not believe that the two-and-a-half lakh bundle, the money he had saved so painstakingly for his mother’s treatment, was gone. What hurt him most was that the girl on the bus had managed to hoodwink Mumbai’s most notorious pickpocket.
