Meena Bazar

The date was August 15th, a day that had us itching to escape the confines of our hostel after the morning's flag hoisting ceremony. I was in Vadodara, undergoing banking training, fresh out of college, and sharing my room with Shridhar Patil, a familiar face from my graduation. Along for the ride were my buddies Gaurav, Balu, and Rupesh, all of whom had become my comrades during this training stint.

After the stirring ceremony, we found ourselves at the hostel's gate, eager and ready to explore. Our excitement was palpable as we waited with bated breath for the tempo, a large van known for accommodating up to ten passengers. And, of course, my preferred spot was always on the rooftop for an unobstructed view of the world.

As we stood there, beads of anticipation forming on our brows, a tempo finally rumbled into view. We eagerly piled in, and I found myself perched on the roof, ready to soak in the picturesque panorama of the surrounding villages. The tempo spirited us away to our first destination: Mangal Bazar, a bustling market area with a magnificent pond at its center, crowned by a towering statue of Lord Shankar. I bowed to the deity, paying my respects, and then we sauntered off to explore the labyrinthine market.

Mangal Bazar was a riot of colors, a symphony of voices, and a whirlwind of activity. It was a vibrant microcosm of life itself, where vendors peddled everything from clothes and watches to mouthwatering street food and everyday essentials. Despite packing meticulously for my training stint, a sudden realization dawned on me—I didn't have any shorts for those sweltering hostel nights. That realization prompted an impromptu stop at an ATM, where I withdrew five thousand rupees. My buddies, foreseeing such a need, had wisely carried cash, so they breezed through the transaction. Thus fortified with cash, we embarked on a shopping spree, and I gleefully indulged in a variety of shorts and T-shirts.

Our next stop was a watch shop, where Gaurav's eyes sparkled at the sight of a particularly dashing timepiece. He handed over a one-thousand-rupee note to make the purchase, but the shopkeeper insisted on providing three hundred rupees in change.

"Anyone have change?" Gaurav inquired. Without skipping a beat, I chimed in, "Hold on, I've got some." My hand delved into my pocket to retrieve my wallet, but to my disbelief, it was gone. I frantically checked and rechecked my pockets, but my wallet had mysteriously disappeared. The realization sent a chill down my spine; my wallet held not only cash but also all my important cards. Panic started to bubble up as we reluctantly acknowledged that my wallet had vanished.

Suspicion began to grip me, and I cast wary glances at everyone who looked remotely average in the bustling market. My mood grew darker with each passing second, the loss of my wallet equating to the loss of everything it contained, including the crucial funds I needed for the days ahead. It was a disheartening blow, to say the least.

In the midst of my despair, Shridhar stepped forward, offering comforting words. "Don't worry; I've got your back," he assured me. We sought help from passersby, and they all suggested the same thing—head to the nearby police station and report the incident.

Summoning an auto, we instructed the driver to take us to the nearest police station. In what felt like a heartbeat, we arrived at the entrance of the station. It was an imposing establishment, with four rooms and two holding cells. In one of the cells, a group of male culprits languished, one of them leaning lazily against the bars. Meanwhile, a few distressed females pleaded with the police officials for their release, while the officials did their best to explain their bureaucratic helplessness.

"I've had my wallet stolen. I need to file a complaint," I told a constable seated at a desk in one of the rooms. He listened intently to my entire tale before delivering a rather disheartening declaration. "You'll need to offer chai pani."

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Gaurav leaped into action. "How much tea do you need? How many cups?" he asked, fingers dancing in the air as he calculated. He vanished from the room briefly and returned with a man carrying a thermal bottle filled with fragrant tea. He efficiently ensured that every policeman received a steaming cup of tea, settling a two-hundred-rupee bill from his own pocket. The constable, though still reluctant, finally agreed to register a non-cognizable crime report.

Later, the constable shared a tidbit that sent a pang through my heart. It seemed that pickpockets in the area often discarded their loot near the pond, and sometimes, benevolent early morning walkers would stumble upon these lost treasures and dutifully return them to the police station. This revelation was a bitter pill to swallow; five thousand rupees was a substantial sum in those days. Nevertheless, I managed to gather my composure and exited the station, flanked by my supportive friends.

The days that followed were an arduous ordeal, as I had neither cash nor cards to navigate the world. These were the days before the convenience of UPI, and every purchase felt like a Herculean task. I couldn't help but rely on the generosity of my friends, who graciously covered my expenses.

Then, one Saturday evening, as my friends embarked on various errands, I found myself alone in the room, idly scrolling through my photos. Out of the blue, my phone rang, displaying an unknown number on the screen.

"Hello?" I answered, curiosity piqued.

"Have you lost your wallet?" a voice on the other end inquired.

"Yes, yes, have you found it?" I replied, my voice trembling with excitement.

"Come to Meena Bazar tomorrow morning and call me," the voice instructed before abruptly disconnecting.

I gathered information from my friendly Gujarati hostel mates, who graciously provided directions to Meena Bazar. Sunday, a treasured day off, finally dawned, and we hailed an auto, arriving at Meena Bazar with palpable anticipation. I called the unknown number and was directed to look for a man named Manoj Nankani.

We ventured into a narrow lane, flanked by garment shops, and I began inquiring about Manoj Nankani. A young boy offered to help and made the call on my behalf. We waited anxiously, each moment that passed intensifying the pounding of my heart.

And then, as if guided by fate, I spotted a man in his late thirties, donned in gray pants and a brown vertically striped shirt. In his hand, he held my wallet, and with a sense of relief washing over me, I approached him. With trembling hands, I retrieved my wallet, cautiously examining its contents. To my profound astonishment, everything was intact—not just my cards but also the five thousand rupees and a handful of coins.

Wanting to express my gratitude, I reached for a one-hundred-rupee note, eager to offer it as a token of my appreciation. But the man, with an understanding smile, declined. "It was my duty to return your wallet. I can empathize with the hardships one faces without documents and money," he stated. When I pressed him about where he had found my wallet, he simply replied, "It had fallen on the road next to my roadside shop."

Overwhelmed with gratitude, I hugged him tightly, expressing my heartfelt thanks. He remained silent, but his eyes conveyed volumes. It was the satisfaction of performing a humanitarian deed, a reflection of his upbringing, and his face illuminated with the contentment that only comes from such acts of kindness. In that bustling market, amidst the chaos and commotion, I had not only found my wallet but also discovered the true spirit of compassion. It was a lesson that would stay with me for a lifetime, reminding me that kindness could be found even in the most unexpected places, like the vibrant streets of Meena Bazar.