A woman in her mid-40s is walking towards Huda City Centre metro station. She has just gotten out of the auto and in her plain maroon salwar kameez, she is now sprinted, checking her watch. It’s going to take an hour to get to work, she thinks, and fears another lashing by her boss.
She gets into the women’s line for the security check and hands off her handbag on the x-ray machine. On the other side, she takes out her metro card from her wallet and stops on her tracks. Her money is missing.
She clearly remembers putting in a hundred rupee note in that black wallet that has seen better days. She moves to the side when people start pushing past her and checks it again. It isn’t there. Did she give it to her daughter for lunch? No, she always packs lunchboxes and gives her daughter an extra 20 for emergencies. Did it fall off into her handbag while paying the autowalah? She starts rummaging through her scruffy gray bag. She reassures herself that it just needs a wash whenever it feels like she needs to replace it. She can still use it for another month. At least.
Sitting on the stairs of the metro station that no one uses, she digs into it again. It’s such a small thing, this note, but she needs it. She needs it to take an auto from Rajeev Chowk to her office. She can’t walk two kilometres to work today, she’s already late. Even if she takes a ride with someone at work to the metro station later in the evening, she will still need it get back home.
In despair, she puts her head down on her knees, her eyes glistening with tears. Around her, the hustle of a 9am Monday morning is about, no one pays any notice to a woman, torn apart by hopelessness.
Ab kya karun? She is thinking when she hears someone politely saying, “Aunty?”
She looks up and her long braid falls heavy on her side. She rearranged her dupatta on her neck and tries to wipe her tears away.
The stranger, a young boy with a foppish haircut and headphones around his neck, is eyeing her. “Aapke paise gir gaye the bahar gate ke paas. Sorry, security line lambi thi toh main de nahi paya. Yeh leejiye.”
Her note. He is extending his palm which has her note. She mutely stares at him and the boy, doesn’t realising what a huge problem he just solved, gives her the note and leaves without expecting a word of gratefulness. She sees him rearranging the headphones on his head, punching in his metro card, and disappearing from her line of vision.
She whispers a thank you. To him, to God, to the universe. And she smiles her first smile in the morning.
She gets into the women’s line for the security check and hands off her handbag on the x-ray machine. On the other side, she takes out her metro card from her wallet and stops on her tracks. Her money is missing.
She clearly remembers putting in a hundred rupee note in that black wallet that has seen better days. She moves to the side when people start pushing past her and checks it again. It isn’t there. Did she give it to her daughter for lunch? No, she always packs lunchboxes and gives her daughter an extra 20 for emergencies. Did it fall off into her handbag while paying the autowalah? She starts rummaging through her scruffy gray bag. She reassures herself that it just needs a wash whenever it feels like she needs to replace it. She can still use it for another month. At least.
Sitting on the stairs of the metro station that no one uses, she digs into it again. It’s such a small thing, this note, but she needs it. She needs it to take an auto from Rajeev Chowk to her office. She can’t walk two kilometres to work today, she’s already late. Even if she takes a ride with someone at work to the metro station later in the evening, she will still need it get back home.
In despair, she puts her head down on her knees, her eyes glistening with tears. Around her, the hustle of a 9am Monday morning is about, no one pays any notice to a woman, torn apart by hopelessness.
Ab kya karun? She is thinking when she hears someone politely saying, “Aunty?”
She looks up and her long braid falls heavy on her side. She rearranged her dupatta on her neck and tries to wipe her tears away.
The stranger, a young boy with a foppish haircut and headphones around his neck, is eyeing her. “Aapke paise gir gaye the bahar gate ke paas. Sorry, security line lambi thi toh main de nahi paya. Yeh leejiye.”
Her note. He is extending his palm which has her note. She mutely stares at him and the boy, doesn’t realising what a huge problem he just solved, gives her the note and leaves without expecting a word of gratefulness. She sees him rearranging the headphones on his head, punching in his metro card, and disappearing from her line of vision.
She whispers a thank you. To him, to God, to the universe. And she smiles her first smile in the morning.
