THE PICKPOCKET.

Anbarasan stretched.

Outside, the daytime din was at its usual pitch, people were busy with their own things. He however was disconnected & oblivious. He lived in his own world and he was his own master. He liked to say that he tells the sun when to rise for him.

He could afford to be like this. When the person opposite to him was well-dressed, he would casually slip in that he had a small business of his own. There was no reason for a stranger to disbelieve this because Anbu did carry himself so. He commanded an equal respect from those who saw him everyday and knew very well what he did for a living.

Sometimes he would muse that he was an artist of sorts. There was talent in his fingers. He would say that a man who has skill in his hands could find work anytime and would never go hungry. So he alone decided when he would work and that was one of his justifications for describing himself as a businessman.

If there was one person who could throw cold water on these pretensions, it was Poongudi, his beloved wife. He was an orphan and grew up as a true street-child. There were some who did show mercy, fed him, taught him a few things but all these were just rungs of the ladder that he climbed before he could stake his claim for a place under the sun. After he became a Man, Poongudi was the only one to whom he became truly attached.

She too had lost her parents early and a distant relative had kept Poongudi with her, taught her to string flowers and sell them near the temple. The old lady had moved out of town after they got married and Anbu had told his dear wife there was no need for her to go out & work. She was attractive and aware of it though not vainly proud. Hence it had not been easy for Anbu to win her hand. He loved her very much and called her Poo, though she often seemed to be keen to prove she was far from it.

About six months ago, after submitting to his advances one night, she had hesitantly expressed her serious reservations about his vocation. She had lectured to him about hard work, what other people would think & say, respect, sin, Hell ........ Anbu played with her locks of hair as he let her talk, taking note of the passion in her tone. When she paused for a breath, he told her she looked beautiful. He could feel her eyes rest on his face for a long moment, then she became silent. Don't I take care of you, he had asked; it is not that, she had replied.

A little later she had revealed her plans to go out & take up a job. Even as he began to protest, she had rattled out that it will be something light, her friends had promised to find one easily, she will not be away for too long and would come home for lunch if it was close-by, she will take care of all his needs just as before. Then she had laid the final straw that there was no one else at home anyway.

Anbu did not like his beloved Poo saying this. Somehow she always succeeded in making him feel he was responsible for the love between them not blossoming into another life. In the end, his love for her had overpowered his thoughts and he had consented.

And she had changed once she had settled down in her job. She would be quiet & thoughtful at times, then she would open out and speak tirelessly about her work, her colleagues, their families, their discussions about respect & values. Just as Anbu was beginning to feel happy that Poo was happy, she would go into a shell again. She never liked to miss going to work even for a single day, she used to be tired but not complaining, he did not ask her how much she earned or what she did with it, though he noticed that his Poo was becoming more presentable each day. Her independence made him vaguely uneasy, though she had ceased to protest about his work; and, though she came to him just as easily at night, he would feel she was somehow distant.

Presently he got up, wrapped his lungi around him and stepped out. His destination was Anwar Bhai’s tea-cart. Anwar Bhai was quite older and a confirmed bachelor. He went about his trade quietly even as he lent an ear to his customers’ mundane woes. He was also a universal solutions provider.

No one had seen Bhai having anything to do with the female of the species yet he could perfectly understand the nuances of the relationships that his customers spoke freely about. Anbu too chose to unburden his worries before Bhai occasionally and some of it concerned Poo, though he was too shy to disclose everything unabashedly before a third person. In conclusion, Bhai would cluck his tongue and proclaim, “ Women are always like that” - Anbu wondered how Bhai knew it.

He had no queries today nor any woes to share, so he stood there sipping tea without a word and Bhai was sensible enough to let him be. Anbu often did this – his best campaigns dawned on him as he stood sensing the traverse of hot tea inside him. It started with a decision about whether he wanted or not to work that day, followed by the venue. This done, he would return home, get into his business clothes and reach the place, expecting to find further signals from the Divine for what he was ordained to do.

There was method in his approach to work. For one thing he operated alone: he believed his line of work made it too risky to operate in a team. Moreover he was too good and staunchly believed that he was mostly self-made, hence sharing the spoils went against his thinking. For the same reason he was almost a recluse when it came to associating with other professionals of his ilk.

For another, his fingers were all the tools he ever wished to use for his trade. He was also very particular about sticking on with one thing, rather than keep switching them often like several others did, because he had observed that it got them into serious trouble one day. A wee lapse of concentration and a mismatch between thought & action was more than enough to do them in.

As a precaution, he was consistently unpredictable about the time, location and type of quarry. He believed in thinking on his feet and improvisation. In a way the time depended on the location and vice versa. Still, anticipation would begin to well up as he looked at his wrist watch and selected the best option. If it was early afternoon he could go to the cinema hall, if it was late he would choose a crowded bus, odd hours found him on the bazaar street, evenings he went to the vegetable market, and if there was a shandy going on somewhere then that was the place to be. The common factor in all these was that it should be crowded.

Commotion to Anbu was like warmth to an ice-cube - he thawed and flowed. In fact, he was very sure if the situation turned real hot, he could even evaporate ! Be there and see everything yet not get noticed by anyone.

The whole thing was akin to staging a play – so much of planning & preparation and a delicious tension building up that it also took some time & effort to unwind after the act. And Anbu enjoyed each & every moment of it.

Which is why Anbu left the choice of quarry to the very end as he accorded the least priority to it. Why, everyone was quarry ! Anbu picked them on the spot and everything would be over quickly. He did not stalk them; nor did he pick another if his attempt paid poorly. There would be no big expectations before and no disappointment afterwards. It was purely his luck or otherwise, hence there were no subsequent visits to the temple nor any slapping of one’s cheeks before the Lord.

And if all these took a little longer than usual to crystallize, Bhai would quietly push another frothy cup of tea towards Anbu, which he accepted gracefully.

Afer the second cup today he decided he would just walk up to the bus stop and see what was in store for him. This done, the rest was easy. His rituals completed, he strode up confidently to the bus stop. It was as though his fortunes awaited him today – there was this plain-looking person standing alone, his body facing the direction from which buses were to come. With his arms folded over his chest he stood there waiting calmly, a small bag hanging from one arm. Anbu was sure this was another office-going character and wondered what he was doing there at this hour. Then he looked away – he never really liked people with a low appetite for adventure! He did not like this man too, but it did not matter, he had a job to do.

Presently a crowded bus came their way and both of them jostled in. That was sufficient opportunity for Anbu to transfer the moderately stuffed wallet from the man’s hip pocket into his own shirt, wait till the next stop and drop off from the bus.

It was Anbu’s practice to hang on at the alighting point till one or two buses came & went, then he would casually take out the wallet and pore through its contents thoughtfully. As though taking out his fare, he would deftly run his fingers all over, check the contents, take out all the cash and put it in his shirt pocket, put the worthless wallet in his hip pocket. Then he would turn and walk back slowly, chucking the empty wallet into an obliging gutter at the first possible instance. Never carry any guilt back home, only what you have earned.

Proceeding with the post-mortem operation now, Anbu paused to glance at the photograph that the man had treasured in his wallet. It was a typical family photograph with the man standing behind, his arms encircling the neck of his woman. Sitting before him on a stool, smiling contentedly into the camera was Poongudi.