I had traveled to Chennai—back when it was still called Madras—for a job interview at a software company. My brother was working there at the time and had a rented place, so naturally, I went to stay with him. When I arrived he had already left for work, but he’d arranged with his landlord to hand me the keys.
After a shower I set off for my interview. Chennai felt like another planet—the language barrier was my biggest challenge—but I somehow managed to find the right local bus, I even got to my destination without getting lost. The interview went well, or so I thought, and afterwards I hopped on another local bus to head back to my brother’s place.
The bus was crowded. Not knowing all the stops—or exactly where to get off—I was a little stressed and kept looking out the window for the landmarks I had made a mental note of during my ride that morning.
Finally, I spotted my stop, squeezed my way to the door, and hopped off. As I started walking back, I did what I always do—patted my back pocket to make sure my wallet was there. A cold wave of dread hit me. I checked again—nothing. My stomach sank. There was no wallet, I’d been pickpocketed.
It was my first time being pickpocketed, and honestly, it felt personal. The wallet didn’t have much cash, but it had all I needed for my return trip to Bhubaneswar. Back at the house, I told my brother. He laughed and said he had forgotten to warn me about pickpockets and to be careful. Then he handed me some money, and that was the end of it.
Years later, my brother and I were driving somewhere with my nephew in the back seat. My brother suddenly asked if I remembered the time I got pickpocketed in Chennai. I said yes—that I never got that job I thought I’d done well in the interview for—and that I probably still owed him the money he had given me. We both laughed.
