Delhi was my home until the little monkey took it away from me.

It was a strange, cold day at Delhi railway station. Abdoola sat on my shoulder, his chain tinkling as he looked this way and that, hissing at the beggars. He wore a bowler hat, as attached to London as I.

Through the transluscent air, I saw the train perched on the track. A tiger, I was ready to pounce but my path was blocked by a surging crowd. I was pushed this way and that.

Abdoola’s chain jangled and pulled at my wrist. As I reached for my simian companion, an opportune hand snaked around the leather strap on my shoulder and snatched the sachel that contained my most prized possession – my British passport.

Abdoola pulled on the chain and hissed as the ragged child ran. Despite my hot temper, I could only pity the barefoot urchin.


One of the new little stories I manage to write on some paper towels while it’s quiet at work.



About catherinehume

Catherine Hume: Writer, social care worker and a liver of a life less ordinary.
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