Law of Attraction
The one time he didn't get away.
Raj was in his usual crisp suit when he slipped into the crowd outside the theatre — eyes scanning for his next victim.
He never bothered with disguises; the thrill was in doing it as himself. The fear of getting caught — of even someone seeing him doing it — added to the adrenaline rush.
He moved with the grace of an artist making bold strokes on canvas, eyes fixed on his target: a short, round man in his fifties, bald on top with a fuzzy border of hair circling his head. Raj named him Doodoo — an old habit of naming strangers. To Raj, the man didn’t matter; only the slight bulge in his back pocket did—a wallet full of bills or cards or sometimes just receipts.
He slid behind Doodoo at the perfect angle — hidden from eyes — and with practiced ease, lifted the wallet. Smooth. Clean. Art.
And then, he felt it. The unmistakable sense of being watched. He knew that — instincts sharpened by years of pickpocketing.
He darted his gaze in that direction — and froze.
चेहरे पे ज़ुल्फ़ें बिखरी हुई थी, दिन में रात हो गयी।
एक अजनबी हसीना से यूँ मुलाकात हो गयी।
(Her hair spilled over her face, turning daylight into dusk.
That’s how I met a beautiful stranger.)
The old Hindi song played in his mind.
Bathed in the golden hue of evening, she stood there — hair flowing in the breeze, strands half-veiling a face but unable to hide her beauty—heck no! they added to her mesmerizing beauty. Her dark eyes beneath arched brows; her mischievous smile made him forget he was in the middle of a crime.
He blinked himself out of that spell, pulled out the smallest note — five dollars this time — and slipped the wallet back into Doodoo’s pocket. Doodoo, of course, remained blissfully unaware.
He never did it for money. His corporate job paid him enough to stay bored in luxury. This — this was his hobby. His drug.
But those eyes had shaken him.
His eyes shifted back to the place, where he had seen her. She was gone. He desperately pushed through the people, scanning everywhere carefully—no trace.
Then, that sensation again. Watching eyes. He turned and spotted her walking briskly toward the gate. The white shirt, the short denim jacket — unmistakable.
He hurried after her, just in time to see her slip into the back seat of a luxury car by the valet exit.
“Follow that car!” he shouted to the nearest taxi.
The driver, a bald, weary-looking man, adjusted his glasses and started the engine like he hated driving.
Raj offered double fare, begged him to skip the red lights, but the old man drove like a model citizen. Raj named him Mogambo out of pure frustration when he finally got off at his bungalow.
Back home, Raj tossed his suit jacket aside and slumped into his chair. For the first time, the thrill felt hollow. He wasn’t thinking about the five-dollar trophy, he was thinking about her.
Sighing, he pulled out his little black notebook — the one where every stolen bill, receipt, or card was glued in neatly, labeled with date and location. His own scrapbook of sins.
He opened his wallet to add today’s prize — but the bill was missing.
“What the…”
He emptied his wallet onto the bed. No five-dollar note. Instead, there was a tiny folded slip of paper.
He opened it.
A grin spread across his face.
(555) 019–4726
Raj leaned back, chuckling.
He found his soul mate.