Moon at Half Past Noon

She moved through Select Citywalk’s glitter and sprawl,
A vision untouched by the mall’s common brawl.
At thirty-five, her grace a deliberate art,
She practiced the kleptomaniac’s quiet heart.
A Kapaas kerchief, a Fabindia fold,
A box of Kismis, a story untold—
For Jahnvi, the taking was breath, was a need,
A balm for a restlessness nothing could feed.

Then she saw him, planted near Wafi’s sweet haze,
Holding a single, hopeful rajnigandha’s gaze.
Arjun. He checked his phone, then scanned the busy floor,
A prince in a crisp linen kurta, waiting for
A face from an app, a promised “hi” and a smile,
Believing in destiny, for a little while.
Jahnvi watched, and she knew with a sharp, sudden thrill—
The clock ticked past meeting time. The girl wouldn’t come. She stilled.

He checked his phone again, a flicker of doubt,
But his hope was a flame that wouldn’t blow out.
He believed his date was just stuck in the crowd,
A belief so sincere, it left Jahnvi cowed.
This faith was a jewel, so fragile and rare,
And a wild, wicked impulse took hold of her there.
To not let that hope die, to become the delay,
To steal his disappointment and toss it away.

She approached, a breeze from a cooler place.
“Arjun?” she said, blending mischief with grace.
“I’m so, so sorry—the traffic was a war.”
She introduced herself as Myra, holding the door
To a beautiful lie. His face, lit with relief,
Accepted the miracle, beyond disbelief.
The rajnigandha, now meant for her sight,
Became the most precious thing she’d stolen that night.

She led him on a tour of her stolen domain,
A magician of moments, erasing his pain.
“They gave us an extra sample,” she said with a wink,
As they tasted kebabs, on the house, near the drink.
She palmed two tickets for the ice-skating rink,
“My treat!” A stolen bracelet, silver and pink,
She clasped on his wrist. “For my lucky charm,”
And she felt his solid, good heart beat, warm.

In the Crossword quiet, ‘midst Tagore and Rushdie,
He looked at this ‘Myra’ and felt less shy.
“It feels like I’ve known you for years,” he confessed,
And shared a old dream that he’d never repressed.
The realness of him was a punch to her gut,
A mirror held up to her hollow-lined rut.
To answer his truth, she offered a fake,
And slipped a worn copy of ‘The God of Small Things’ in her bag for his sake.

At the Food Court, sharing a plate of too-spicy rolls,
He laughed, “This is perfect.” She felt her control
begin to unravel. A child at the next stall,
Dropped her new Gattu toy, watching it fall.
Jahnvi’s hand darted, a reflex, a curse,
To make the pink auto vanish deep in her purse.
The girl’s eyes welled up—a trust broken, a loss—
And Jahnvi saw her own path, strewn with dross.

They returned to the fountain, the water’s soft crash.
His eyes held the stars, post the spicy-food flash.
“Myra,” he said, “This was… magic. Truly, you are.”
He leaned in. She saw the approaching, true scar
Her lie would inflict. She pulled back from the kiss.
“My name is Jahnvi. And it went like this…”
One by one, from her tote, her day’s plunder came out.
The kerchief, the Kismis, to remove any doubt.
“She never did come. I saw you standing there,
Your hope was so bright, I felt I had to spare
it from dying. So I stole it. I stole this whole night.
None of this real. None of it right.”

The Hindi love song from the nearby store
Sounded like mockery. His face, no more
alight, just… still. The silence spread, a stain.
He looked from the trinkets to her, again and again.
Then, his eyes settled on the book in her hand,
The stolen Roy, meant for a future he’d planned.

She held it out, a feeble, final plea,
“This… I thought you should have this. I’m sorry.”
He didn’t take it. His gaze was a wall,
Where the portrait of ‘Myra’ began to crumble and fall.
The betrayal wasn’t loud; it was a quiet collapse,
The death of a dream in a few brief, painful laps
Of time. He just stared, and in his eyes, she could read
The inventory of her deceptions: every word and deed.

“So… you felt sorry for me.” A statement, not prayer.
“No,” Jahnvi said, her voice raw, finally bare.
“I was jealous of something so real in you.
The only real thing I did here, I swear,
Was to stop before breaking a heart past repair.”

She placed the book on the ledge by the fountain’s rim,
The one honest gesture left for him.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t nod.
Just watched the retreat of a beautiful fraud.

She turned, the thief, the kleptomaniac,
Walking away, and never looking back,
Into the mall’s vast, unforgiving gleam,
Carrying the weight of the night she’d redeem
Not by keeping, but by letting go,
Leaving him with the truth, and the silence, and the slow,
Settling dust of a love that never was,
And the shadow of a stolen, perfect pause.