Shakuntala

This hasn’t gone too far. You just haven’t met her yet. I know what it looks like. She has a knife in her hand, there is blood on the knife, and there is no way to know who it is coming from: her own freshly bloody jeans or the boy in front of her. I can’t say for sure. There was so much chaos that even I lost track. How do I begin to explain? Where do I begin?..

Okay, first of all, I am not next to her. I am nowhere near her. Thank God for that. I wouldn’t want to be there right now. I am just the narrator. In a way, I am God. And you have to trust me. Even though I may lose track and I may not be able to explain why some things happened the way that they did, they are very true. Shit, there’s nothing more real than the tale of this lady in red. Where, when, and how are not important because they wouldn’t make a difference. But this is happening in Agra, just to give you some context.

I wouldn’t need to rewind too far back. Shakuntala is a constant. Through all of her existence—every moment, every breath, and every action—she is boringly consistent. And she is a bitch. I am not being misogynistic. I am a proud misanderer. But she is a bitch. She was born right and raised right, but that doesn’t stop some people. This is a typical day in her life:

She wakes up early. To me, it first looked like she had a job because she spent so much time getting ready meticulously. But this little piece of shit walked out the door, strutted to the train station, and just started pickpocketing on the local trains. For a full 4 hours, she terrorizes the poor—and literally poor—folk who are trying to get to work through the crowds, stink, and sweat. Once that is done, she goes for brunch. And please do not imagine an American extravaganza; it hurts the narrative. This is some quality food at the local dhaba. And then it is time for the evening rush and hunt.

Now, I am not against people doing whatever they can to make ends meet. I do not have the same definitions of morality as you. But what I forgot to mention is her baby girl and her husband. She’s not an angel, and he’s not perfect. But they’re normal—absolutely normal. A stupid, cranky toddler and a committed husband who works at the local bank 20 minutes away. If it already feels like she does not have a reason to do what she’s doing... wait for it. She is a graduate in political science. Her household is not part of the fucked-up patriarchy where she is not allowed to work. Heck, her family equally relies on her as much as her husband.

But this daring woman chooses to lie to her husband and earn her living like this. THIS. Why, you ask? How would I know? She’s bored, a kleptomaniac, could be a million things—out of which only one thing is for sure: Shakuntala is a bitch. A scary, consistent, fearless, broken bitch. She’s a psychopath who is still finding her way to the mental hospitals that Agra is famous for. I knew she was going to get herself into something horrible. And I was hooked. Could not look away.

It was just one of these unassuming evenings when I was making a list of taglines she loves to use on the job. It must have been there. That is my best approximation, at least—I wasn’t looking at him. I only saw him when she left the dhaba, and he almost ran after her, fully choking on a piece of naan and leaving a full plate of food behind.

If you think it takes a thousand hours to get good at something, then remember: Shakuntala has been picking pockets as a full-time job for years. You will not spot her if she took your clothes off your body. But he did. I think you have to be in the same basket of broken to be able to do that. But that’s not the point. He did see her, and then he followed her. This boy who was supposed to go back home from school and do his homework followed her home. Not inside, but he noted down where she lived. I saw him write it behind his math textbook.

I had to see what he was going to do and who he was. Turns out, he’s just a boy. I am sure you’ve met them—the teenager boys. The ones who are perfectly normal at home and perfectly normal at school. But the perfectly normal for teenage boys is abnormal testosterone and uncontrollable hormones. This makes them stupid. We all know one or many of those. They’re usually spotted in herds, in my experience.

I think this was a canon event for both of them. One of those that happens once in a million years, like a neutron star collapsing into itself, discovering light is quantum, or Jennifer Lopez’s green dress. I added it to that list in my Google Notes. Because he returned the next day.

Shakuntala had created a real empire of terror along those train routes. Even in a city as crowded as Agra, multiple years mean you get noticed. But of course, she never got caught. However, the number of “Be careful of pickpockets” signs did multiply exponentially, it seems. I saw one every 10 meters at some of the stations. And it would have stayed like that if not for this boy. The police force in this city is a dump. In this particular station, they’re predictably lazy, uninterested, and corrupted. There is only one reason the inspector agreed to follow the boy that day: he had nothing better to do. And this has to be the canon event of his career, because he got her. They finally got her.

Jail is disgusting. It is usually disgusting, but it’s worse if you’re in Agra, and it’s the worst if it is the holding cell majorly occupied by the drunk, or the homeless, or both. Shakuntala puked several times in the corner. But they didn’t let her out. She sat next to her puke, marinating in the smell and the embarrassment. That is what I like to think—that she felt more embarrassed than disgusted in that moment. After all, it was her first red card in years.

But here’s the thing: she was caught picking one pocket, which is not proof of anything. And even if they took her to court, she would get only a couple of months before she was back. So she initiated it. The deal. She couldn’t have her husband know it. THAT would be too far. So she agreed to tip the officers regularly if they let her go. It was really simple. I am convinced she was arrested just so the inspectors could make a deal anyway.

When she got home is when things got out of hand. The day ended as expected. She put her girl to bed and made sure her husband was asleep before going to check her loot. It was mostly out of habit because she hadn’t made any money that day. But there it was. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was gone. And she knew. It took her two days to convince herself. But she knew. It was that stupid boy from the stupid train. I do not think Shakuntala needed a rational chain of events or explanations before she started hunting the boy. Reporting her was one thing. But coming after her loot? It was too far.

It took her only three days before she found him. She wasn’t a novice with these rails. And she did what he did. But she went further. As soon as he saw her calling out to him, he started running. But it was already too late. He had already entered the tiny apartment building, and the only way was up. I think it is something about nerves, but he went to the terrace instead of his home. Or maybe it is about his parents finding out. That is not the point. She whipped out the knife she had been carrying religiously for the past few days.

Let’s take a pause before I tell you what happened next. Because you’re going to feel betrayed. You think there is going to be a splendid explanation. That there will be a deep insight that I will share about the fucked-up human nature that pushed her beyond. That she is egotistic. That maybe she is a maniac. That maybe she enjoys the thrill of it all, and the only way she could find it in her otherwise boring life was this career. But nothing will explain her actions. You’re not meant to understand them. You are normal. It is Shakuntala who is the bitch. The only way to understand her is to be her or be like her. So, did she go too far? Maybe. But maybe this is just the beginning for her. About the boy, there is a lot also. But it is not the point.

She asked him gently, with the knife in her hand and extreme annoyance on her face, “Where are my wallets?” There are multiple ways to answer this. The boy said, “They’re not here.” Now, I am not omnipresent. I cannot follow multiple threads in the story at the same time. But I am with her on this. That is a very suspicious thing to say for an innocent person. So she asked again, “Did you spend all the money already?”

“Yes,” he said. BINGO. She got him.

“Where are the wallets then? What did you do with them? Are they inside your home?”

“No. I don’t know. Can you take the knife away? You stealing bitch. I don’t have them.”

“What did you do with the wallets?”

“I threw them. Who cares? It wasn’t your money in the first place. I am going to scream and you will get caught again. So you better take the knife away and leave. Bitch.”

What happened after this is a blur. For Shakuntala, for me, and for the boy. But one thing is for sure: she got hurt first. He stabbed her in her legs and threw the knife. She fell—onto her knees and then on her back. But she held onto him. The adrenaline of the stabbing and the scuffle must be it, because she got back up and stabbed him. I have no idea how she got the knife back. I didn’t sign up for this. I thought she would get involved with a cartel, not stab random teenage scum.

And he didn’t scream. He stayed there, and she ran. Washed herself off downstairs by the garden tap and ran back home. I couldn’t follow it any longer. I left the story. I have a very loose definition of morals, but something irked me about this one. He deserved it, I guess. But not from her. I am not scared of Shakuntala because she is capable of murder. I am scared of her because she is unpredictable and irrational. Her limits are not defined. So, she will cross them, but you will never understand when and how. They do not make sense to me. Probably not to you. But this story wasn’t about sense. It was a true story. That’s it.