She Forgot Her Purse. I Returned It. She Didn’t Say Thanks.
Friday morning, 8:43 AM.
She got in like always. Perfume, yoga mat, no eye contact.
We rode in silence.
Ten minutes later, she got out near Pali Hill Café, on the phone with someone.
Left the door open longer than usual.
Didn’t look back.
It wasn’t until I hit the next red light that I noticed it.
A beige purse.
Slim. Branded.
Still zipped.
Lying on the floor of the back seat like it didn’t belong in this dusty rickshaw world.
I pulled over.
Didn’t touch it for a moment.
Just stared at it like it might explode.
Then slowly picked it up — holding it like a temple lamp.
For a second, I imagined keeping it.
Selling it.
Spending it.
Taking back some of the dignity she chipped away at.
But I knew I wouldn’t.
I’d already seen her name on the tag inside:
ISHA KAPOOR.
I waited.
She didn’t call.
Didn’t message.
Didn’t return.
At 10:12 AM, I drove to her house.
Knocked at the gate.
The guard looked at me like I was garbage trying to deliver itself.
“She forgot this in my rickshaw,” I said.
He didn’t answer. Just stared.
I held it up.
He picked up his walkie-talkie and buzzed someone.
A minute later, she came out.
Hair tied. Sunglasses on. Holding her phone.
“Driver?”
She saw the purse in my hands and frowned.
Not surprised. Not worried.
Just annoyed.
“Ugh. I was wondering where that went.”
She walked down the steps, still typing on her phone.
I held it out to her.
She took it, casually.
Not even looking at me.
Not even checking what was inside.
“Thanks,” she muttered — without looking up.
She turned around.
Walked back toward the house.
Paused. Looked over her shoulder.
“You didn’t open it, right?”
I shook my head.
“No, madam.”
She shrugged.
“Good.”
And just like that — door shut.
No smile.
No real thank you.
Not even my name.
I stood at the gate for five more seconds.
Then turned back.
Sat in my rickshaw.
Hands on the handle.
Not moving.
I’d returned something valuable.
But still felt poorer than ever.
That’s when I saw the ad again.
On a billboard across the street.
Bright blue. Flashy font.
"India bets on 4rabet. Do you?"
I didn’t know why it caught my eye this time.
Maybe because it looked so confident.
So bold.
So opposite of how I felt.
I turned the key.
Engine coughed to life.
And somewhere in my chest, something whispered:
“Try something that pays you back.”
[to be continued...]
Friday morning, 8:43 AM.
She got in like always. Perfume, yoga mat, no eye contact.
We rode in silence.
Ten minutes later, she got out near Pali Hill Café, on the phone with someone.
Left the door open longer than usual.
Didn’t look back.
It wasn’t until I hit the next red light that I noticed it.
A beige purse.
Slim. Branded.
Still zipped.
Lying on the floor of the back seat like it didn’t belong in this dusty rickshaw world.
I pulled over.
Didn’t touch it for a moment.
Just stared at it like it might explode.
Then slowly picked it up — holding it like a temple lamp.
For a second, I imagined keeping it.
Selling it.
Spending it.
Taking back some of the dignity she chipped away at.
But I knew I wouldn’t.
I’d already seen her name on the tag inside:
ISHA KAPOOR.
I waited.
She didn’t call.
Didn’t message.
Didn’t return.
At 10:12 AM, I drove to her house.
Knocked at the gate.
The guard looked at me like I was garbage trying to deliver itself.
“She forgot this in my rickshaw,” I said.
He didn’t answer. Just stared.
I held it up.
He picked up his walkie-talkie and buzzed someone.
A minute later, she came out.
Hair tied. Sunglasses on. Holding her phone.
“Driver?”
She saw the purse in my hands and frowned.
Not surprised. Not worried.
Just annoyed.
“Ugh. I was wondering where that went.”
She walked down the steps, still typing on her phone.
I held it out to her.
She took it, casually.
Not even looking at me.
Not even checking what was inside.
“Thanks,” she muttered — without looking up.
She turned around.
Walked back toward the house.
Paused. Looked over her shoulder.
“You didn’t open it, right?”
I shook my head.
“No, madam.”
She shrugged.
“Good.”
And just like that — door shut.
No smile.
No real thank you.
Not even my name.
I stood at the gate for five more seconds.
Then turned back.
Sat in my rickshaw.
Hands on the handle.
Not moving.
I’d returned something valuable.
But still felt poorer than ever.
That’s when I saw the ad again.
On a billboard across the street.
Bright blue. Flashy font.
"India bets on 4rabet. Do you?"
I didn’t know why it caught my eye this time.
Maybe because it looked so confident.
So bold.
So opposite of how I felt.
I turned the key.
Engine coughed to life.
And somewhere in my chest, something whispered:
“Try something that pays you back.”
[to be continued...]
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