The Lost Wallet

Look no further dear sir/madam. This is the only piece of parchment in this wallet, and it is in some way a practical joke that my eccentricity compels me to play. I left this wallet on the gray side walk, next to the Azad Maidan, nearer to Eros. And now as you read this letter I sit on my cane chair imagining you, a passerby on the sidewalk, bending down to pick that leather wallet lying so conspicuously in your way. The vehicles passing you by, some honking, some zipping by under the blue town sky mottled with white clouds. I really can’t help but think about what must have gone through your mind when you saw this wallet lying there on the road. Did you think of the many bombs that have gone off all over the country? Or did you think of the money? Maybe my address that you could have possibly found tucked in somewhere with the bank notes or on my employer’s card. Possibly your mind was thinking of all the above, thoughts racing past you as you stopped to pick that piece of leather up. You were probably imagining me, somewhere in some part of this huge city, waiting for that one call from some decent soul who would tell me how to get my wallet that had my salary in it. In any case, here you are, with that wallet in your hand, standing on the side walk and reading this curious piece of parchment, probably angry or amused. I only hope you read this letter to the last word, to me it is important, for I am imagining you reading this and thinking how clever it was of me to have played this little joke. It would be a pity if you threw this letter away into the bushes. I like to imagine you standing still on the very spot you found this wallet and reading this message as the people, cars and clouds zoom past you. I like to think that this letter has caught your attention, for one small moment of the millions that your life is made of. Tonight (for I like to think it is evening when you find this wallet) you will go back and tell your family about it. They may not seem so amused, to them it is some incident that floated in and out of their consciousness while it was bloated with the TV soap or the video game or the cooking or the fatigue that the days in a city burden you with. I’m not so concerned about those people, I am only thinking about you dear sir/madam, the reader of this letter. Now a suspicious citizen, now a greedy passer by, now a benevolent human. But I should not let my imagination run wild, it may lead to disappointment, may be you just picked the thing up and thrust it in your pocket, may be you opened it and found this piece of paper you can’t read. May be it is not evening, just some Monday morning, when you are not so interested in what I, an eccentric fool, have to say. It may not hold your attention, this letter of mine, and the sky may not be the blue thing mottled with white clouds, but a gray dominating canopy about to pour it’s fury down on you.

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