Lost Wallets

After a long, expensive and tiring day of shopping, our final stop was at the bakery. I decided to wait in the car while my aunt went to buy the bread. Of course, the minute I’m alone, I automatically reach for my cell phone, my one true addiction.

While fiddling with the cell phone, I suddenly realize that somebody is talking to me. I look out the window and see a well-dressed man, carrying what we call a missionary bag.

“Please, sister, can you tell me the way to Egmore.” His English is impeccable.

“The bus depot is just there. Just go there and take a 27H or a 27L and ask for Egmore.”

“Yes, but how far is it if I had to walk?”

I think about this for sometime, mentally trying to calculate the distance. “You can’t walk there. It’s about 16 or 17 kilometers from here! Take the bus.”

At this point his voice breaks and he yells out, “Praise the Lord!”

Huh? Oh well, back to my phone. Another tap on my window. I look out. He’s still there. I roll the window down again.

“You see…” he falters. “I need to go home to Nagercoil.”

“Oh, in that case, you need to go to the main bus stand. That’s only a fifteen minute walk from here down this road.”

At this point he shows me his leather bag. The side of the bag is slashed open and there is a big gaping hole there. “All my money has been stolen, and I need to get back home.”

“oh…kay….”

“Please sister,” his voice dissolves into tears, “I’m not a beggar but I need money to get back home. All my money was stolen.”

I look at him uneasily.

“Please, I also have daughters your age. All I want to do is get back home to them.”

Okay okay. So I’m a sucker for sob stories. I sigh and take out my wallet and hand him a ten rupee note. I look for any sign of my aunt but she’s nowhere in sight.

The man does not move. In fact, he begins to sob uncontrollably. “The fare to Nagercoil by bus is 480 rupees.” He looks down pathetically at the ten rupee note in his hand.

What? He expects me to give him more money?

“My aunt will be back now,” I say, “Maybe she can help you.”

At this, he looks panic stricken. At that time, I thought he may have been panicking because of his bus fare. But now, on hind sight, maybe the thought of my aunt seeing through his charade, might have sent him into a panic.

“Please sister. I promise you I’m not a beggar. But can you give me the money to go home?”

“I don’t have 380 bucks to give you!” I sputter.

“Please sister. Only 90 rupees?” And we go through the whole rigmarole of the voice-breaking-and-dissolving-into-tears routine all over again.

“Okay okay. I have only 20 rupees more. But that’s all I have.” Like I said, it was a long, expensive day of shopping.

He looks like he’s going to cry again so I quickly take out the money and hand it to him.

“Praise the Lord!” he says and disappears into the night just as the car door opens and my aunt gets in.

I’d like to think that I helped out someone in their time of need. I’d like very much to think that he reached his home and family safely and that I may have had a hand in getting him there. I’d like to think so.

Then why do I feel so cheated?