Diary,

After some male employees at the airport in Mumbai make fun of my trip there for a Perpetually Singles Study, a nice lady (and the men’s boss) called Anika came to my rescue.

She left me at the Transit Lounge, where I thought we had a moment but she wouldn’t even give me her phone number. But that, it turned out, was the least of my immediate worries.

For the next one and a half hours before my next flight, I occupied myself with a book, a Stephen King tale called Christine. I was enjoying the escapades of a murderous car with the titular name when I noticed something. There were dozens of miserable faces pasted to the outside of the lounge’s large glass windows.

Miserable souls, most of them mere skeletons under their tatters. Some had fresh wounds oozing fresh blood. My doctor instincts kicked in and I rose to try and offer some aide, wondering why no one else was bothering to.

A soft hand cupped my own firmly. I turned around to see a beautiful woman in a red and gold sari and a smile that could warm Hitler’s heart.

“Don’t bother.” She shook her head. “It just beggars.”

“Just beggars?” I shook my hand free. “Can’t you see? They’re injured. They need medical help.”

The smile broadened. “First time to India, I see. That man’s missing hand is no accident. He chopped it off.”

“What?”

“Yep. He’s a professional beggar and he rubs the stump every morning to keep the wound fresh. More pity that way, you see.” She nods in the other direction. “The inner lounge offers more privacy.”

My heart was still bleeding for the injured man. “Are you sure?”

She shook her head as if with pity. “How long will you be staying in the land of Ganesh?”

“A week or so.”

“Prepare, then, for a lifetime of wonders. Allow me to buy you your first beer in India. You do drink, don’t you Mr…”

“Tom.”

“Well then, Mr Tom. I’m Priya. It means ‘Beloved’.” A flash of more incredibly white set of teeth. “This way please.”

As we sat to our beers, I said, “I thought only married women wear saris.”

“A common misconception.” She spins on her bar stool. “You like?”

Now, I also smiled, the beggars and their fresh wounds all but forgotten. “What’s not to like? But just so we’re clear, are you—”

“Coming on to you?” She laughed. “Is it working? Don’t answer that. I just like meeting new people, is all.”

I sip my beer. “And saving poor souls in India for the first time?”

“I always welcome a chance to show off, don’t you? Helping others is the most accessible super power that requires no cape or webs shooting out of one’s hands.”

Beauty and brains, I thought to myself. God bless India.

“Are you in airports a lot?” I asked.

“Unfortunately, I do. I’m an Airline Quality Assurance Staff member.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I fly all over the country under the radar — pun intended,” she laughs. “My job to evaluate service quality.”

“Is it?” I put down my beer. “Maybe I should tell you about a couple assholes back in arrival who were making fun of me.”

Unfortunately, that’s the last thing I remember of my encounter with Priya. I woke up several hours later on a bench in the main Transit Lounge. The beggars were still pressed against the windows, but my wallet was gone, and with it my money, passport and ticket. I was practically marooned in Mumbai.