The Fingersmith

 

As the ticket collector asked for the ticket, I dug my hand into my pocket only to discover that my brown leather wallet, which is housed my train ticket was missing. I gave the ticket collector, a rather tall man, whose face seemed to be perpetually fixed in a scowl, a sheepish smile and moved to check my other pocket. My heart beat sped up at the lack of the familiar texture of my wallet, but I prided myself on being a level headed individual, reasonable even in a crisis, so I swallowed my mounting panic and checked my back pack. I opened every zip, checked every crevice with growing desperation. Unsurprisingly, my back pack did not miraculously conjure up my wallet.

I took a fortifying breath and mentally ran over my day. I knew I had my wallet until I reached the platform as I purchased a children’s book for my cousin there. I had distinctly remembered placing it in my right pant pocket. After that I had braved the crowd to check train schedule. Then I waited for the train. I did not need my wallet at any point in between and had thus not removed it. So, I was certain that I did not simply forget my wallet anywhere, which left only one reasonable conclusion. I had been pick-pocketed.

I recounted my tale to the ticket collector who had begun to look rather impatient. Some distant past of me noted that my hands were shaking. The rest of me was too occupied with mindless panic. The wallet did not actually have my life's savings or anything. Not only would that be highly reckless but I was also only a student and did not have that kind of money. Neither did I have a zillion credit cards that I needed to cancel. My wallet had a total of eight thousand, four hundred and seventy-three rupees, a pass for Mumbai Metro, my train ticket, my membership card to the local library and a few business cards.  It had nothing truly irreplaceable. No, my real cause for panic was failure.

As someone suffering from mild atychiphobia, failure is not only abhorrent but also outright terrifying to me. This trip had been a test to see if I was responsible enough to go to a University abroad after finishing high school the next year. But responsible people were always cautious, always aware of their surroundings. They did not get pickpocketed on railway stations and worse still fail to even realise it for hours afterwards. I did, ergo I failed.

Of course the railway officials would not just brush off the incident. It did put their reputation at stake after all. Though his disposition did not improve much, the ticket collector was rather helpful. He logged a complaint of larceny of a wallet at the Mumbai Railway Station, Platform 2 sometime between 11 and 11.30 am. He explained that while this would be enough for the authorities to launch a hunt for the thief there were a few other things I had to do. Protocol after all could hardly be ignored. Aside from filling out a bunch of forms, I had to get down at the next station and file a FIR with the Railway Police Force. I decided not to point out that it had been two hours since we left Mumbai which was more than enough time for any decent pick pocketer to vanish.

The next stop was thankfully a long one. Apparently, it was a popular place for people to grab a bite to eat from the tantalizing array of unhealthy and unhygienic foods displayed. Fortunately, this meant that I had enough time to lodge the complaint. I then called my parents and explained the situation to them. As always, my father told me it was alright. He then proceeded to explain how it was most certainly not my fault and my mother narrated a tale about how she herself had been pick pocketed when she was a student.  As always, the conversation lifted my spirit considerably.

The train was just leaving the station when the call was over. I opened my bag to grab a bottle of water when familiar, worn brown leather caught my eye. I reeled back in shock. It was my wallet, sitting there innocently in my bag when I was certain that it had not been there before. I frowned and extended a cautious hand to place feather light touch on it, as though it were an illusion that I was afraid to shatter.

I carefully extracted my wallet, glaring at it for the anxiety it had caused me, when a folded piece of paper fell out. It was a hand written note. It read: "I apologise for stealing your wallet. I generally do not steal but today was an emergency. It was vital for me to leave Mumbai as soon as possible but I did not have enough money on my person to buy a ticket to an appropriately for off destination. I have used five hundred rupees from your wallet. I shall hope that I get an opportunity to repay them. I regret any and all worry that I may have caused you." The handwriting was a neat cursive and the overall tone was educated and ever polite if quite frank. A quite check of the money in my wallet did show that the note’s affirmation was true. I stared at both note and wallet in stupefied amazement far a few minutes.

It was as I was folding the note that I saw a signature at the back. It was not a name but rather a title. In curling black ink were the words:  'The Fingersmith'. I could not stop the laugh that bubbled out of my throat at the rather presumptuous moniker. If nothing else this, thief certainly did have good taste in literature. Roald Dahl has always been amongst my favourites.

Time passed, as it tends to do, flying without so much of a by your leave. I returned from my grandmother place without further incident and was deemed capable of living thousands of miles away. It was two years later, when I was home for holidays, that I found myself planning my cousin's seventh birthday. After much deliberation it was decided that there shall be a magician and for some unfathomable reason (though I believe some credit may be due to my own fascination with tricks and illusions) the task of finding an appropriate one fell to me.

Thus I wondered over the streets of Mumbai, dismissing magicians for being too flashy, too obvious or just not good enough and bemoaning my fate as a relatively mature adult. A somewhat frayed notice for a magic show promising wonders beyond imagination caught my eye. Curiosity has always been a weakness of mine and so it came no surprise when I found myself entering a decrepit theatre to watch the show.

Perhaps it was the allure of the ancient theatre, or the atmosphere created by the soft music that played in the background, but I found myself completely mesmerized. The magician was definitely skilled. His movements were elegant without being too showy, his tricks extremely well curated and he seemed be a master at the sleight of hand. It was quite easy to imagine that he was actually performing miracles. Even I, who had long studied magician’s tricks, found myself at a loss to explain some of his acts. His own grand demeaner and magnetic presence added to the charm of the show.

I wasted no time in asking him to come to my cousin's birthday party and to my surprise and delight he readily agreed. He was a big hit at the party. The children spent his whole show spell bound and called for encores that he readily provided. Even the adults were dazzled at his craft.

At the end of the party, however, he disappeared before we could pay him with the same ease with which he had made small trinkets vanish during his show. He left behind a note taped to the kitchen table. Written in familiar cursive were the words, “You have no need to pay me for anything. While no amount of magic shows in the world could ever be enough to repay you, I do hope that the smiles I invoked today come close." Once again it was signed "The Fingersmith."  

I could not help but smile at it, after conducting a thorough check of my pockets of course.