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Monday night was one of those regular working days: I had had a fight with the deadline, cribbed with my boss, haggled with the cycle rickshaw puller to save those precious five rupees, and was figuring out what I could manage for dinner. I had nearly reached home, crossing Indra Vihar bus stop in Mukherjee Nagar, when two young men on a bike zipped past me and I felt a hard tug at my bag. Even before I realised, they were off. I screamed. Out of fear at first, and then for help, but they were off the block in no time.
I knew I had to call the police, perhaps with a foolish hope that they would get it back immediately. But that could happen only when they would take my call. I dialled 100 a couple of times, and an electronic voice message asked me to stay on hold, reassuring that my call was important. I headed for the police chowki, deserted at the time — the cops later admitted that it was time for them to go home; another one said there was an important meeting. A few frantic calls to people I knew had ‘contacts’ with local police, and the jeeps and bikes came rushing in. The FIR was lodged with consolatory words. Only, I wonder what if I was just another student or professional.
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