While I was planning the plot to ruin whatever the plan of marriage my mother is knitting for me in the web of her thoughts, my eyes caught something.
Someone.
Good God!
A tall—like very tall, man, in a pastel pink shirt, and light denim baggy jeans—was staring at the woman very keenly, who stood a few steps ahead of him, completely oblivious of everything around her, and was too much invested in the talk with the vendor before her.
I narrowed my eyes-now I know it's not a good habit to stare at anyone, but being trained to notice every single small thing for almost a decade, and mastering the art of observing small things. It's something I can't help.
And this guy looks weird, not because his physique is different, but the way he is staring at the bag, which the lady has kept on the floor. He was a few steps away from her, eyeing and hesitating. It's getting weird
And then I saw it, him moving closer to the bag that the woman had kept down. And before I could notice, my hand moved to my right Jutti—smothered in the cow dung and dust of the road- as I saw him pulling out the purse from the bag
The hell.
"CHOR!!" And my Jutti flew across the three stalls, directly aimed at the right arm of the man, whose head snapped at me, with a frown and frustration.
Everyone looked at me, and then at the man, who was still half bent down. He blinked in confusion and soon was surrounded by a group of people.
"What?" He looked down at me, his eyes were so black. As if it were the shadows that reside in them, the ebony eyes looked like the abyss of midnight.
"I saw you trying to steal something from that lady's bag," I answered, walking closer to pick up my Jutti. All the dirt was now wiped on this man's shirt, which looks quite disgusting.
And the audacity of this man to glare at me, "Pagal ladki, what the hell are you doing?"
His voice—like the woods and smoke—ranged deep, and I feel the anger bubbling in me.
"Oh, acting boldly after getting caught?" If I hadn't seen him taking out the purse himself, I'd have never done that. I hate the attention we are getting. But I'm already frustrated, and then I can't see anything wrong happening and not react to it.
"Dimag nahi hai kya, what are you talking about?" He took a step forward; his eyes did not hide the anger.
And this is what I was talking about. As soon as any argument takes any aggressive turn, my throat starts to feel heavy and as if the words have abandoned me.
I can't think of any word. Every. Single. Time.
It's frustrating, and it makes me feel weak-which I know I am not, but I can't help it. My heart starts to race up, and anxiety always surrounds me to suffocate every last strength.
And I stared at the man with blank eyes, trying not to show any sign of my lack of strength, to not take a stand for myself.
"You." Pointing my finger at him, I walked closer. "I saw you taking out a purse from that woman's bag-"
"Who? My mother?"
What the FUCK.
~~~
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