He looked down at the day's collection. Not bad, he thought. Two chains and seven wallets. One of the wallets seemed to be branded, but almost certainly a fake. Who would have branded wallets and travel on trains as well? The pickpocket took up the two chains and put them away in his trading bag. The jeweler sahib would take them for about three grand, a tenth of their real value. It didn't matter. At least his family would well fed. He proceeded on to the wallets. The first six held no surprises, the usual consortium of a few hundred bucks, calling cards, maybe a debit card or two and every now and then a driving license. He put everything except the money and wallets into a pile; those would be mailed back to the owners. His conscience never troubled him. The man felt at peace with the world as he looked down at the gentle flow of the river. He knew it was a facade, he had felt her fury. He looked around, people were flashing by in their swanky cars, blissfully unaware of him and the emotions within him. He looked at the river again and pictured it happening. He felt no dread, just a grim satisfaction. He picked up the seventh and last wallet. It was of the poorer variety, rough material and two pockets. Probably belonged to a migrant worker, the sort who were worse than a native cheapskate. The pickpocket opened it. He felt a surge of rage when he saw no money inside. The people should learn to respect his choice of profession, thought he, they should help him in carrying it out. He was about to throw it along with the rest of the wallets when he spotted the letter. It was a scrap of lined paper, folded and refolded multiple times. His curiosity got the better of him. In his line of work, many weird thing turned up, from love letters to divorce letters, and they always managed to give him some sort of satisfaction to know that everyone else also suffered as much as he did, if not more. He unfolded the paper. Something was written on it in a long sloppy handwriting. Cuts and scratches were many, and at a few places the ink seemed smudged, as if water drops had splashed on them. It took him some time, but he managed to read it through. It was a suicide note. The man looked down at the river again. It was the same river that had taken away in her rage everything he had devoted his life for, everyone he had given his life to. There was nothing left for him in this hostile world; no home to return, no relatives to love. It would be impossible for him to build his life back up again, everything was lost. It was nothing short of poetic justice that he gave himself to her, she who had taken it all away. This way he could live forever with all that mattered to him. He searched for his wallet. It was missing. A wave of depression washed over him. No one would even know why he did it. It would be like he never existed. A non-entity. He jumped; and realized it was a mistake. The pickpocket walked out of the hospital in his drenched clothes. The doctor had assured him that the man had only minor bruises. It was hard to fight the current and drag him to the shore. It was even harder to get someone passing by to help. The man was still unconscious, but when he would come to, he would find his wallet and in it a meager amount waiting for him'I am no saint', thought the pickpocket as he went over the contents of the doctor's purse, 'but at least I am human'. 