The Wrong Number

 

Courtesy: Pixabay

Fakkad Singh came early for duty that evening.

He always did.

The sun was still hanging low, its heat softened by dust and distance. The village road outside the bungalow was empty, as if everyone had collectively decided to disappear for the night. Fakkad liked it that way. Quiet places asked fewer questions.

He placed the plastic bucket near the tap, checked if there was water, then dragged the old woven cot from the corner and spread it under the neem tree in the courtyard. The rope creaked like an old man stretching his bones. Fakkad smiled. The cot was older than him—maybe wiser too.

He walked through the rooms one by one. The furniture was covered with white sheets. Curtains tied back. Cupboards locked. A rich house always felt like this when its owners left—clean, silent, and a little arrogant.

At the gate, he stood for a moment, squinting at the road. No one.

He closed the gate, slid the iron latch into place, and returned to the courtyard. He lay down on the cot, one arm under his head, staring at the sky. The neem leaves whispered above him. Somewhere far away, a radio played an old song, its tune broken by distance.

The phone rang.

Fakkad opened his eyes slowly.

He reached out, pulled the long black wire toward him, and brought the receiver close, as if it might run away.

“Fakkad Singh,” he said.

There was a pause. Then a woman’s voice. Soft. Careful.

“Hello… I think you received the money order. I didn’t get your reply.”

Fakkad frowned. “Money order? No, madam. I didn’t receive anything.”

“Oh.” Another pause. “Is this number 240344?”

“No. This is 240345.”

A small gasp. “Ya Allah… I dialed the wrong number. I was in a hurry. These fingers don’t listen to me anymore.”

Fakkad chuckled quietly. “I don’t think so.”

“Why?” she asked, surprised.

“Old fingers don’t dial wrong numbers,” he said. “They dial memories.”

She laughed. A gentle laugh, the kind that didn’t try too hard.

“You’re kind,” she said. “Who are you?”

“Fakkad Singh. Security guard.”

“Security guard,” she repeated slowly. “That sounds… strong.”

“I guard empty houses,” Fakkad said. “They don’t argue.”

Another pause.

“I’m Nikahat Begum,” she said. “You can call me Begum.”

“Begum ji,” he said, sitting up now. “Your voice is very… young.”

She laughed again. “You’re the first person to say that today.”

They fell silent. Not the awkward kind. The comfortable kind—like two strangers sitting on the same train bench, watching fields pass by.

“What are you doing right now?” Begum asked.

“Lying on a cot,” Fakkad replied. “Looking at the sky.”

“What do you see?”

“Stars trying to come out early,” he said. “Like children peeking before permission.”

She smiled on the other end. “Did you eat?”

“I got a tiffin from the owner. I don’t take tea.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like sipping things slowly,” he said. “Makes me think too much.”

Begum hummed. “I like tea. It gives me company.”

Fakkad imagined her—sitting alone in a quiet house, steam rising from a cup.

“Where do you work?” she asked.

“I work when I feel like working,” he said. “Today I’m guarding this house. The family has gone for a wedding.”

“They trust you,” she said.

“They trust the lock,” he corrected.

She laughed again, but softer this time.

“You must have big moustaches,” she said. “And strong arms.”

“Only what this job has maintained,” he said. “And you?”

There was a pause. Longer this time.

“I used to be beautiful,” she said finally. “Now I’m just… remembered.”

Something tightened in Fakkad’s chest.

Before he could reply, he coughed—a rough, dry sound.

“Please take water,” Begum said quickly.

“I will,” he said. “Give me a moment.”

He placed the receiver down carefully, as if it might feel abandoned. He walked to the tap, drank water from his steel cup, then stepped outside the gate. The lane was narrow, quiet. A dog slept near a wall. Somewhere, a bulb flickered.

He lit a beedi, took two drags, then crushed it under his shoe.

When he returned and lay down, the phone rang again.

“Fakkad Singh,” he said.

“Hello,” a woman’s voice said, sharper this time. “I’m Asha. Did you find your tiffin near the stairs? Lock the main gate properly and stay awake.”

“Yes, madam,” he said.

The call cut.

Fakkad sat up and checked the gate again. Locked. Secure.

He returned to the cot.

The phone rang once more.

“Fakkad Singh here.”

“This is Begum,” the soft voice said.

He smiled without knowing why.

“I hope I didn’t disturb you,” she said.

“No,” he replied. “I was just guarding silence.”

She laughed. “I made tea,” she said. “Too much, actually.”

“Then you should drink it,” he said.

“I thought… maybe you’d like to join,” she said lightly. “Just for tonight.”

Fakkad looked at the dark sky. At the quiet house. At the phone wire stretched between them like a fragile bridge.

“I don’t sleep on duty,” he said. “But I can listen.”

“That’s enough,” she replied.

They spoke until the stars settled into their places.

For the first time in years, the empty house felt… occupied.

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