Nicking napkins and black magic

Had Phulwanti, our maid, not taken leave, I would never have known that I am a kleptomaniac! Yes, I do look so innocent, but kleptomaniacs don’t necessarily have to look like thugs, do they?

- K.C. VERMA

The shameful discovery that I am a klepto came about with events that started on Monday morning. When the missus opened my wardrobe, she saw three square pieces of black cloth lurking among the handkerchiefs. She let out a scream and dropped the two shirts she was about to place inside. I rushed from the study and found her standing transfixed, mutely pointing to the evil black patches.

“Where did these come from?” she asked in a frightened whisper. I looked at the black pieces of cloth. Each measured about four inches by four inches, with a neatly stitched border. They looked quite harmless to me, but the little woman was alarmed. “Where did these come from?” she repeated. I did not have the foggiest and said so. The missus feared that some voodoo skulduggery was afoot—an effort by my enemies to put a hex on me. I proudly declared that I had no enemies, but that cut no ice. She grabbed the three bits of black and warned me not to move. She then did some mumbo-jumbo around my head with a worn-out slipper and a broom. I ridiculed her belief in all this evil eye stuff, but she said, “Shush”, and I had to shush.