Idle musings...composed quite some time back

A KLEPTOMANIAC’S CONFESSION

It was just another day. I was returning from my office by train as usual. I work in a bank. I am not the branch manager there. I am a sub-staff.  Everyday I return at this time in the evening by the same train. I am a simple common man with a very regular life style. I have my dal-chawal regularly in the morning, go to off ice regularly, have my Tiffin from the same tea-shop regularly…and I steal regularly.  

Yes. I am a kleptomaniac. 

But…but believe me I don’t steal on my own will. I know you don’t find it plausible but that’s how it is.  My hand, my arm then seems to possess a will of its own. I have tried to strip myself off this but I can’t. You know i have very nice fingers…shapely and tapered.  As a child my mother used to tell me that my fingers indicated that I would grow up to be a learned man. And my grandma used to tell me… But why am I telling all this to you?  I wanted to tell you the incident which happened that day which was just another day.

I boarded the train from ballygunge. It was packed to capacity and I was standing sandwiched between two men. Sweat was pouring down my forehead and as I looked down to take out my handkerchief,  I noticed a young man sliding his fingers into the pocket of the person , standing in front of him. I stood rooted to the spot, excitement flooding through me. It was the same sensation I savored every time I stole something, as I watched his fingers slide gingerly into the pocket. They went in, a gentle tug and the brown leather purse was coming out. I saw the man taking it out, pocketing it and then standing nonchalantly-his work was done.

I moved a little sideways…a step to the left and I was right behind him. His pocket with the stolen purse was within my range. As the train swayed I lost balance for a second and my hand brushed against his pocket. A wave of adrenalin crashed within me as my fingers twitched in anticipation. As the train approached the next station , there was a mad rush for the door. The pick-pocket was pushed and jostled and by the time he regained his position, his previous efforts to acquire money had been made futile.

The brown leather purse was in my pocket.

Two stations later the man whose pocket was picked approached the door. As the train stopped, and he was about to get down, I gave him a push from behind. He lost his footing and fell flat on the platform. I rushed to him, concern writ large on my face, helped him up, took up his bag, brushed it, adjusted the clasp and handed it over to him. As the man walked away, I too turned around and made my way home smiling to myself as I imagined how he would feel when he would reach home and find his purse with his lunch box in the bag.

Oh! I forgot to mention my name. It’s…. Forget it. Call me the thief.