Varun and Amit stood in the sector seven market of Devgarh, lamenting an order that they had failed to clinch. Sipping ginger tea beside a tea kiosk, they looked listlessly at people milling around the shops and munching snacks at the roadside barrows.

In their early 20s, both of them worked as salesmen with a water-purifier company. With just about a year’s experience, they had learnt that the probability of getting an order increased considerably if they could talk glibly and sound credible both while raving about their company’s product and while denouncing their rivals. But despite their eloquence and several rounds to potential customers, sales had been slack of late.

It was six in the evening, and even though it wasn’t yet dark, the streetlights had begun shimmering. As Amit turned left to look at a two-seater fancy car zooming past them, he was startled to notice a black wallet lying a few feet away. He sidled towards it and before anyone could notice, the wallet rested in his hands. The two friends were delighted to see the numerous currency notes inside.

“Three thousand and five hundred,” counted Amit in disbelief. Both of them hadn’t got their salaries yet. The thought of drinking and dining at their favourite restaurant -The Bluejay (where they had spent many happy hours) – hit them instantly. It was one of the two restaurants in town that also served liquor.

Amit could feel his mouth salivating at the very thought of its steaming butter chicken, mutton rolls and roasted chilly mushroom. And from the money left after paying the restaurant bill, they could even buy a T-shirt each. At the same time, he also felt hesitant to feast on someone else’s money. Varun too was thinking on the same lines but fearing that he might end up revealing his baser instincts to his friend, he held his tongue. As their consciences and cravings began pulling them in opposite directions, both of them found themselves stumped for words.

After a long pause, Varun broke the silence, “Just check if there’s any contact number in the wallet?” If Amit doesn’t find it, thought Varun, they could spend the money without feeling guilty. “Nothing except this,” said Amit, drawing out a few bus tickets, a restaurant bill and two visiting cards. He also found a photograph of a clean-shaven man with a mop of curly hair.

The man looked to be in his 30s. “Perhaps the wallet belongs to him,” said Amit, passing the photograph to Varun. “If only he had left his address or contact number inside. Can we find a man in a town like Devgarh just with his photograph or these visiting cards?” asked Varun, implying they were now free to spend the money as they liked. The solemn tone in which Varun questioned, however, made Amit assume that he was dead earnest to find the wallet’s owner. He realised that he must be kind like Varun.

“Though it’s not possible for us to find him, he might come there inquiring about his wallet,” suggested Amit, pointing at the police station located on the other side of the road. Varun could scarcely believe his ears. The proximity of the police station, coupled with their own confusion, gave them little time to reflect further. In a sort of trance, they began walking towards it. ***

The two-storey grey police station, enclosed by a boundary wall, had an arched signboard at the entrance gate with its name written in big bright letters. As they walked inside, their eyes fell on the confiscated vehicles -the dustladen rusting cars and bikes were a telltale sign of the apathy one got there. It seemed as if all the automobiles were imploring everyone to assist them to get out and avoid the place if they could help it.

Despite their unease, Amit and Varun climbed a small stairway and stepped into the building. There were about half a dozen rooms on either side of the corridor and every room bore the names and designations of the policemen on duty there. In one of the rooms, they saw a cop scrawling something in his ledger; in the opposite room a constable sat chopping onions.

Apparently, he was preparing dinner for his colleagues. As they walked a little further in the corridor, they heard someone pleading pitifully in an adjoining room, “Let me go inspector sahib, I won’t do it again…”

“Hold the bugger,” they heard a voice. It was followed by a scuffle, a swish in the air and then a loud thud. An agonising cry resounded in the corridor. Soon, the door of the room opened and two policemen, looking quite pleased with their work, emerged from it. Turning left, they stood beside the room, one of them puffing on his cigarette. Absorbed in their animated discussion, they didn’t even notice Varun and Amit in the corridor.

One of the cops was tall and thin-his long nose and beady eyes instantly reminded one of a prey bird. His senior, a hefty sub-inspector, looked like a well-fed ox. The tummy under his tucked-in shirt was so prominent that it looked like it might explode any moment. “Unless, you thrash these buggers soundly,” he said, resting his right leg on a stool, “They won’t blurt out.

The language these dogs understand, I know that. Sunder, it’s this that brings truth out of them.” The thrilled inspector waved his baton at his subordinate. He rewarded his senior with an obsequious smile. Both Varun and Amit grew ill at ease as they heard the inspector elaborate on his third degree procedures, punctuating his discourse with filthy abuses. Stunned, they signalled each other to get out.

Almost, at the same time, the burly inspector turned to light another cigarette. As his eyes fell on the two young men gaping at him, he was shocked to discover that his policing lessons had been eavesdropped. “Saalo, what brings you here?” he questioned, staring at Varun and Amit with his bloodshot eyes. The two friends were crestfallen by this unexpected hospitality.

Discovering his name, Balwant Singh, from the metallic batch he wore on his breast-pocket, they looked at him timidly as if he had caught them committing a crime. Their silence exasperated the cop further. “Out with your woes,” he bellowed, “I am not a deaf cop”. “Ea… A wallet sir …” mumbled a visibly shaken Amit, trying to string his words coherently. Before he could succeed, Balwant Singh brusquely cut him short. “I see! he exclaimed aloud, “Another case of pick-pocketing. Sunder, I can tell it from their faces. Tell me boys, where did you lose your wallet? Maybe I can help you get it back.”

Pleased to have scared the boys and eager to demonstrate his good judgment, he raised his brows a couple of times, implying that he wanted a quick answer. “We haven’t lost any wallet sir. Rather, we found one lying there-near that tea kiosk,” explained Varun, pointing at the market.

Realising how much off the mark he was, the smile on the inspector’s face suddenly disappeared. In a tone that was now somewhat mellow, he said, “In my 15-year long career, I have only seen people reporting about things they lose, not about what they find. To see someone walking inside a police station with a wallet! Sunder, we still have honest souls amidst us!”

As Amit handed the wallet to constable Sunder, he saw him nodding at the inspector like a schoolboy all ears to his teacher. As several 500-rupee notes tumbled out of the wallet, the two cops found it difficult to believe their eyes. With their mouths wide open, they stared at the cash with undisguised longing.

Breaking their spell from the cash, Varun said, “There’s a photograph of a man in the wallet. It’s possible he might come here inquiring about it. There are also two visiting cards.You could call the numbers listed on them.”

Sunder pulled out the photograph and cards from the wallet and gave them to his senior but he didn’t even bother to look at them. It took a few moments for the cops to bring back their attention from the wallet to the boys.

Looking around cautiously, inspector Balwant said, “You impress me boys. We’ll try our best to deliver the wallet to its owner.” “Do we have to sign somewhere to deposit the wallet?” Varun asked hesitantly.

“No formalities required,” said Sunder tersely. Realising that their presence was no longer required, both Varun and Amit turned around and walked back to the tea kiosk where they had parked their bike. It was now dark and a half-moon had begun glowing in the eastern sky. Exhausted and unnerved, the two friends fell silent for a while. Standing beside the bike, Amit said, “I’m not sure what they’ll do with the money.”

“Crazy man,” cried out Varun, “Why did you suggest taking the wallet to the police station?” “But who suggested looking for a contact number inside it?” asked Amit, “You have no right to blame me now.” ‘You squarely deserve the blame. Trusting the cops to return the money! They must be thanking us donkeys for ensuring a grand feast for them tonight.” “If you knew I was committing a blunder, couldn’t you stop me?” “No point in arguing now,” said Varun on a resigned note. “The money, which we had stumbled upon, is lost forever.”

As Varun summed up their misfortune by emphasising the word “lost”, it made both of them feel utterly miserable. Suddenly, they yearned to reverse what they had done.

A week later, Varun spotted a cleanshaven man having tea at the kiosk in the sector seven market. He seemed vaguely familiar. When he pulled out his wallet to pay for the tea, Varun realised that it was the same wallet they had handed over to the cops. Varun nudged Amit. Before he could tell him, Amit had already recognised the curly-headed man. “When did you get your wallet back?” Amit asked him excitedly. The man looked at both of them pleasantly surprised. “Are you the guys who took it to the police station?” Varun nodded.

“Never thought I’d meet you,” the man exclaimed, shaking hands with them. “I am new in town and my name is Anand. Give me an opportunity to thank you. I work in a restaurant nearby.” “Which restaurant?” asked Varun.

“Follow me. It’s just around the corner.” Before long, Varun and Amit were nursing their drinks and digging into the mutton rolls and chilly mushroom. To their pleasant surprise, Anand turned out to be the manager of their favourite restaurant, The Bluejay.