Paritosh Uttam is 31 and leads a Dr Jekyll-and-Mr Hyde existence in Pune, India. During the day he is a software engineer and turns into a writer at late night or early morning. Many of his short stories have been published in magazines, newspapers and webzines. More on his writing at: www.paritoshuttam.com.
Main
Contents
One More Chance


It took Lata a few moments to realize the man was addressing her, and another few to understand that he was begging.  He was dressed respectably enough, shirt and trousers intact, as respectable a man she could expect in a suburban train in Bombay.

"Just hundred rupees, Ma'am.  That's all I need to get back to Goa."

Lata tried to relax.  Her one hand, she found, was clutching her purse and the other was at her throat, feeling for her necklace that she no longer wore.  Why had the man singled her out in that jostling crowd?

"That's my home. Goa."

That was something she had to learn quickly, to stay on guard.  Now that it had befallen her to be a part of this city of a teeming nineteen millions, where people scurried like ants, living fifty thousand to a square mile and fighting for every breath, there was no other option.  On guard in the streets against ruffians, in bazaars against unscrupulous shopkeepers, even at home against the suspicious knock on the door, in the train against lecherous men bumping against women deliberately.  But this man talking to her didn't appear to be a threat.

"This city, I tell you, Ma'am, is full of thieves.  Yesterday my purse had five thousand rupees; today I don't have a purse.  I just want to go home, away from here, away from lies and dishonesty."

Wouldn't she?  The only one who seemed surprised by this man's speech was herself. The woman beside her, who had grudgingly vacated six inches of wooden seat for her, gazed vacantly out of the window at the speeding landscape.  The rest either hid their eyes in their newspapers, or were simply busy standing up in the swaying train.  At least this kind of begging was a welcome change from the usual amputee thrusting his sawn off limb under your nose.  And his English surely better than that of certain people in her office.

"You think I am lying, don't you?"  He was devoid of anger, his voice touched with resignation.  "I am a respectable man in my town.  Do you think it is easy for me to beg in public?  I appeal to you Madam," here his voice softened suddenly, "because you looked like you could give someone a chance.  You wouldn't be cynical like everybody else."

So that made it the second appeal to her trusting nature in less than two days.  Lata felt the edges of Vinod's letter inside her purse.  She didn't need to take it out, having read it four times since it had arrived the previous day.  Why was only she expected to get over her distrust?

"I know I don't deserve your forgiveness Lata.  I didn't value your love when I had it. But the shameless wretch that I am, I am back and expect your forgiveness and love once more, but this time with the promise of never leaving your side."

He obviously did not remember that as one of their marriage vows that he had already broken.

"Look Ma'am, give me your address and I will send the money back to you as soon as I get home.  I give you my word."

Now that the novelty of his fluent English was wearing off, his persistence was beginning to irritate.  Lata felt flustered with the attention it was starting to get her. Despite their newspapers and vacant stares, everybody's ears were open.  She fished inside her purse and got out a note.

"That's only fifty rupees, Ma'am."

"I can't spare more."

"But it won't be enough, Ma'am.  You either trust someone or not; you can't half-trust.  I will send the money back.  I swear."

The longer she entertained him, the more embarrassing it was turning out.  Now they had dropped their pretenses and were looking on with unabashed curiosity.  Lata handed over another note.

"Thank you so much.  Your address?"

Lata began mumbling her address before realizing it was not a very intelligent thing to do in public.  "Forget it."

"God will reward you for your kindness and trust," the man said, edging away from her, and losing himself in the crowd quickly.

The woman next to Lata spoke up.  "You shouldn't have given him the money.  It's their daily business."

Lata shrugged, forcing a casualness into her voice to mask her anger.   "Who knows?  Maybe he was speaking the truth."  Why had she kept mum while the man was importuning her?  "Everybody deserves a chance," Lata said.  "We need to trust people sometimes."

"Not in Bombay," the woman said, barely able to keep the laughter out of her face. 

"If only I had that much money to throw around," someone sighed behind the cover of a newspaper.

Lata ignored them for the remainder of the journey.  She was glad when it was her stop, and at office, she couldn't wait for the day to end.  In the lunch break, she re-read Vinod's letter in a quiet moment.

Back home, after supper, Lata sat down to compose her reply.  Two hours on, she found she had filled six pages detailing the anguish and rumble-tumble of emotions she had gone through after his abandoning her for another woman.  The shock, the hurt, the insecurity, the humiliation, the practical business of having to earn her keep, but most of all, the loneliness.

Reviewing her own letter, Lata was seized by doubt.  Maybe she was opening herself up too much, too quickly, to the same man who had betrayed her trust.  She had to be more pragmatic this time around.  She settled for a couple of lines, agreeing to meet him and talk things over.  That would make him think she wasn't falling over herself getting back with him, though she was not sure she could maintain her poise when they met.  Her heart thumped at the thought of meeting him again after so many months. She couldn't half-trust.  She kept both the letters -- the sentimental 6-page one and the practical half-page one -- in her purse, unable to decide which one to mail.

The letter-writing kept Lata awake late into the night, and consequently, she woke up an hour later than usual and pushed her next day's schedule by an hour.  But it was not too much of a worry: her secretarial job in a government department was a sort of sinecure.  Her arriving to work one day at eleven instead of ten wouldn't cause the skies to fall.

Lata felt she was beginning to get used to Bombay and its nuances: she felt the crowd in the 10.42 Fast different from the one in the 9.38 Fast. Given time, one probably could get used to anything -- to loneliness, to crowds, to the jostling for every square inch of space, to squalor, to fancy skyscrapers standing tall amid clusters of slums.

"Just a hundred rupees, Ma'am.  That's all I need to get back to Goa."

The man obviously did not recognize her.  Perhaps it was hard to remember when you said the same thing to a gullible face in the crowd over and over, hundreds of times. Lata felt her eyes smart with tears.

She opened her purse.  The man faltered in his tale, disbelieving his easy success.  Lata took out the letters, tore them, and let the wind snatch the pieces from her hand outside the train window.
Paritosh Uttam