Bag of Memories Stolen forever

“Bag of Memories Stolen forever” explores a deeply personal letter from the author whose backpack was stolen from the streets of London. The letter reflects the loss, empathy, and fragments of nostalgia that the author has lost forever.

Dear Stealer of My Bag,

By now, you know quite a lot about me, but I can only imagine you. That doesn’t seem fair, does it?

After you took my backpack, my first move was to cancel all my cards. The second was to worry about losing all my on going graduate work saved in my iPad, and well the iPad it self. Then I remembered the Find My feature on my phone and tracked you to your first location. It was just a two-minute walk from where you nicked my bag—from a Lime Bike basket, no less. The area was a part of South London unfamiliar to me, so poorly connected that the nearest bus stop was a 30-minute walk away, the same distance as my house. You weren’t there, of course, nor was my bag.

The next location was two minutes away, inside a house in a dingy, deserted area. It didn’t feel safe to go alone, so I called 999. Within minutes, dispatch arrived. But by then, your location had changed again—another residential area, two minutes away. That one stayed constant. After circling the perimeter, the police came back empty-handed. Then, just as hope started to fade, a female officer returned, bag in hand. My iPad was still inside. I’m sure there’s a feminist statement I could weave in here, but I’ll digress.

She said you’d dumped the bag near a dumpster. She advised me to wash everything, which I did the moment I got home. What was left of my stuff, anyway.

You kept my wallet. Maybe those £40 mean more to you than they did to me—whether it’s for food or something else, I’ll give you that. But my Indian IDs? My expired BRP? Completely useless to you. My empathy swelled when I got a notification that you’d tried using my card for groceries, only to be thwarted by my PIN, because I realised food might have been the most important thing for you.

You also took my gloves, leaving me shivering as I navigated my way back. The weather that night was worse, so I hope they kept you warm. I can always buy new ones. You took my rolling tobacco, papers, and lighter. For a moment, I imagined you hiding them to save me from smoking—a noble cause, but futile. I bought replacements.

By the end of it all, there were three police cars and nine officers involved. Intimidating? A bit. But I kept a level head because that’s what I do. You’d know that, though, wouldn’t you? You stole my journal.

You must have read about how I live in a constant state of survival—fight or flight—even when it’s not needed. So you should know what you put me through was something I’m equipped to handle. And before you judge me and say, “That’s messed up,” let’s not forget—you stole my stuff. I have the moral high ground here.

Morality is subjective and objective. Subjectively, if you needed the money and gloves more than I did, fine. Objectively, you owe me an enormous apology for taking my journal. How dare you? It’s practically a law of humanity: we don’t read each other’s journals. What use is it to you?

You’ve read one of my worst breakdowns—it was well-written, by the way. I was going to type it up, but now it’s gone forever. You stole my reflections on 2024—what made me happy, sad, and what I wanted to leave behind. My dreams for 2025? Those are still mine. I’ll write them again.

But what you truly stole were pieces of my past. A receipt from ‘S.A. Dosa,’ scribbled on by friends before graduation—a moment now lost forever. An old black-and-white Polaroid of the Indian flag, with the year and location penned on the back. Fragments of nostalgia that mean nothing to you.

If you still have my wallet, take care of those items. Do with them what you will, because I’m letting go.

See Also

Humanity Over Politics: Assam and Nagaland Flood Crisis

Now, tell me something about yourself. Who are you, really—not my imagined version? Where are you from? What’s your story? What was your second thought when you saw my bag unattended? I assume the first was to steal it.

I noticed you took my book Show Your Work!—are you a reader? You took my pen as well. Will you write in my journal? Are you making it yours?

Perhaps one rainy day, I’ll see you with my umbrella on a London street. Maybe we can share a cigarette, and you can answer my questions.

Oh, and just so you know, I won’t be carrying a bag that day. Fool me once…

Sincerely,
The Person You Robbed