Gomti and Hari

The woman who stole money every night and her husband who earned it

Gomti ran barefoot from no one at midnight. The notes were crumpled in her tightly clenched fist. Some fell to the ground in her haste.

She had done this a hundred times before. She went to the same stall every night when the market was empty. A tin box was attached to the table with a chain, yet loose at the top. It fell open under her hands, brimming with notes.

After wandering through the Lal Chowk, the tourists swarmed to the Momos stall in need of a spicy snack. They didn't care if the food was stale, the chicken variety had more cabbage than meat, or the mayonnaise was watery. The shop still sold more than the desi chaat around the corner.

The owner's wife had also suggested that she accompany him to sell cold drinks to the customers and earn a bit extra. But he didn't like the idea. Her spicy Momos were enough to attract hungry people and fill their tijori.

Gomti glanced around to make sure no one saw her. She took whatever she could hold in her blouse, her petticoat covered by the saree and her hands. Her husband would be happy. It seemed like a better day for the owner.

They would be able to afford a fridge now. One that had two doors, separate for the freezer. But Gomti slipped on the red chutney. Her back met the ground, and a cry rang out in the air. She tried to stand up, letting go of the money to find hold on the ground. The pain was too much.

Gomti would have been caught that day if Hari hadn't come to find her an hour later. He carried her back home, consoling her that no one saw.

She cried harder when she saw the work left for tomorrow morning. The flour had to be kneaded, the vegetables had to be grated, and the chutney had to be put on the stove.

Her husband took her directly to the room, ignoring her protests of letting her down to work. He took the money from her and kept it in the bedside drawer where the rest of the money from the tin box lay. He would get the rest in the morning.

She was bedridden for two weeks. The Momos stall was shut for the same.

Hari couldn't operate without her. They made do with the money from the drawer. Her husband hid the brochure for the fridge deep under their Laxmi maa chowki, a dream that would have to wait for a while.

By the third week, Gomti was crying to work. Hari cooked with her, only half of their regular batches, and went to the chowk at noon. The chat wallah scrunched his note at the return, hawking his wares to the public.

Hari ignored it. His mind stuck to the thoughts of his wife and what she must be doing. He was pleased to find her sleeping when he quietly snuck into the bedroom. He sighed before falling beside her in exhaustion.

He should have been shocked when Gomti woke him up in the middle of the night. Her Slippers were still muddy, and her tears mixed with the rain. He rushed up from the bed to get her out of the verandah.

She sobbed and showed her empty hands to Hari as he gathered fresh clothes and towels. He shook his head with a small smile. He opened the bedside drawer to show her the money from the day.

Gomti sniffled and looked at him with a mix of confusion and hope. He took her hands and put them on his shoulders for support. He gently dried and changed her.

Hari hummed her favorite tune, gently kissed her forehead, and held her in his arms before sleep overtook her.

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Laxmi Maa is the goddess of wealth and prosperity in Hindu religion.

I am fascinated by the complete devotion that people in love have. And how the relationships grow in sickness and health.

If you liked this story, I am sure you would love Sasmit, the man who never smiled.

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