The Night Was Unbearable... The Second Euro Tour Shattered?
This happened on June 13th, just the second day after we arrived in Rome from Sweden. That’s when my passport left my side—stolen. CAN’T BELIEVE?
We Were Ruined!
That evening, after visiting the Vatican City and its magnificent museums, we decided to head out again for a stroll.
We booked an Uber cab and set off to explore more of Rome. After roaming around for a while, we decided to get off at Spagna Metro Station to experience the Metro vibe. The Metro in Rome has great connectivity, so we thought it would be a practical way to move around... just wished we hadn't thought this!!
My son and daughter were slightly ahead as we boarded, but kept checking to ensure I was close. I was just two steps behind them when suddenly, out of nowhere, a fair, strongly-built Italian man appeared right in front of me—and deliberately blocked my way.
I tried to step around him, but he wouldn’t let me pass.
I asked him, “Why are you not letting me go?”
But he kept babbling in Italian, non-stop. His behavior was confusing—he was gesturing, speaking fast, pretending to ask something, but all the while, keeping me from moving ahead.
I tried to push past him, moved to the left side of the entrance—but he shifted immediately, again blocking my way. This time, with even more force.
My children, standing a bit ahead, thought maybe I looked Italian or Spanish to him. They assumed he was just asking me for directions or trying to talk. But the reality was very different.
We didn’t know it then, but I had just become the victim of a classic distraction tactic.
While I was caught up with this man, my belongings were being targeted.
Nobody around noticed anything beyond the scene of me trying to move past someone. Nobody could see what was really happening.
As I settled around my children, Apurva asked me, "Mom, what was he saying?"
I just shrugged it off, trying to smile—but inside, I was shaken. Something about the encounter felt off, but I didn’t want to disturb my children. We were tourists in a new place, moving from one spot to another, and I didn’t want to spoil the evening.
Later, around 10 PM, we reached Gandhi Restaurant—we were all starving by then. We placed our order quickly, desperate for some food.
That’s when I casually reached into my purse to check something.
My heart stopped.
The zip was open.
My passport envelope was gone.
I searched frantically, my hands trembling, pulling everything out of my bag again and again—no, no, no—this couldn’t be happening!
I turned to my children, almost crying, my voice breaking,
“My passport is gone! It’s stolen!”
They looked at me, shocked, eyes wide, shouting back,
“No, this cannot be!”
But yes—it had happened.
We were on the verge of tears. I could barely breathe.
A few people nearby noticed the scene. Some came forward, trying to help, giving suggestions:
“Go to the police station first.”
“Without your passport, you can’t take a flight.”
“Only trains—you can only take trains now and that too, if they do not ask you!”
Our minds were spinning.
How could this happen? What were we going to do next? I was totally devastated! My kids were crying loudly and I was cursing myself for being so irresponsible!
Police Station! Yes—the Police Station!
We left the table immediately. Our food never came—we couldn’t have eaten even if it had. We just started walking towards the police station.
I was blaming myself the whole way.
This is my fault. I should have been more careful. I am a mother—how could I let this happen?
My son had planned everything beautifully, and here I was ruining it all because I wasn’t careful enough.
On the way, I closed my eyes tightly. I envisioned my passport coming back to me in the same green envelope, brought back by Hanuman ji himself.
That was the only hope I was holding onto—that somehow, some miracle would happen…
We reached the police station. It looked like a stall—a small kiosk, not the kind of police station we had imagined.
It was about to close.
A young officer sat there. When we told him what had happened, he simply said,
“Nothing can be done now. It is closing time. Come tomorrow morning.”
We were desperate. Our faces told the story, but he couldn’t understand English properly.
A young girl sitting nearby started translating for him.
We had no choice—we sat near the gate of that stall-like police post, the three of us together, in silence.
Ashen faces. Empty eyes.
Maybe they sensed our helplessness, or maybe the sight of a mother and her two children sitting like that shook them a little. After a while, they called us back inside.
Finally, they agreed to take the complaint.
Everything about the moment was heartbreaking.
The guilt was killing me inside.
This is all because of me, I kept thinking.
Meanwhile, my son immediately contacted both the Indian Embassy and the Swedish Embassy (as he stays and works in Sweden.
Both embassies said the same thing - with the Police report, I will be issued an Emergency certificate to go back to India. Although the Indian Embassy was helpful and suggested ways, I was sure I would have to take a flight back home to India from Italy. I would not be permitted to enter Sweden!
“Come on Monday.” Both had said.
But it was only Friday night.
Saturday morning, we were supposed to visit the Colosseum—one of the dreams of this trip. And for that, I needed my passport. Without it, we couldn’t even step inside.
Sunday, we had tickets to leave for Florence. After that, Venice.
From there—Amsterdam. And finally, back to Stockholm.
Everything was booked. Every seat, every hotel room, every flight and train ticket—all of it paid for, all of it planned to the last detail.
It wasn’t just bookings—it was months of effort, hours of research, my son’s sweat, his savings, his love, poured into making this trip perfect.
And now, in one moment, it was all crumbling.
All of it—crashing down like a house of cards.
My heart was breaking—not for me, but for my children.
I kept thinking: “Because of me, this trip is ruined. Because of me, everything is lost.”
We stood there, devastated, trapped in a nightmare, watching all the days ahead of us—Florence, Venice, Amsterdam, Stockholm—disappear in front of our eyes like sand slipping through our fingers.
And there was nothing we could do.
Nothing.
We were shattered.
We sat there at the police station for over an hour.
Our hunger had disappeared completely.
They finally gave us the complaint document.
While at the Police Station, I called my husband back in India… It was 3am there. He was shocked and made a few phone calls to his acquaintances…and was adamant that I cannot cancel my trip- though I told him, everything is finished… gone down the drains… I will have to come back…
What Happened in the Middle of the Night
My daughter, still clinging to hope, whispered,
“Shall we just check once at the Metro station?”
My son, completely broken, replied,
“There’s no point. In Europe, you don’t have manned stations or helpdesks. No one will be there. Forget it.”
But she was adamant. So devastated, yet determined.
So, we went back to the station.
We searched all around.
We checked every dustbin near the platform, just in case the thief had thrown away what he didn’t need.
We—the devastated mother and daughter—kept scrounging the bins, our hands shaking, our faces pale with fear. People were giving us strange looks!
Apurva dragged himself downstairs to check the lower level of the station.
As he was looking around, he noticed something—a desk-like structure, two people sitting near it, talking. And there, on the other table, something green caught his eye.
Could that be…?
It was around midnight. He was shattered, but somewhere, deep inside, a tiny ray of hope flickered.
He went closer and asked, “My mother lost her passport… Indian… Did… did you guys know something about it?” He was shattered!
One of the men looked up and asked, “What’s your mother’s name?”
Apurva’s voice cracked as he replied,
“Rashmi Singh.”
The man reached out, picked up that green envelope from the other table, and extended it towards him.
“Check,” he said.
Apurva’s hands were trembling. His eyes blurred with tears.
He opened it—and there it was.
My passport. Our most precious Green Envelope.
He started crying right there, overwhelmed and shaking.
Both the station officers consoled him,
“Calm down, calm down—it’s okay. This is a miracle. TOTAL MIRACLE! Someone came and gave this here. Do you know how rare this is? Stolen passports are never returned. NEVER. We call these pickpocketers ‘Pigs.’ You have to be careful now. But you are lucky—be safe.”
Apurva came running upstairs, almost weeping loudly. His face ashen, his body trembling…
Ayushree saw that green envelope in his hand. We all shouted so loudly and hugged each other, tears pouring down. We stood there, crying and crying—the nightmare lifting off us in that one moment. People again looked at us confused!
Those four-five hours were the deadliest hours of my life.
And I knew—this was my Hanuman ji, and my Laddoo Gopal, watching over me.
Who brought the envelope?
Who gave it?
We will never know.
But faith survived. Hope survived…
The Next Morning
The next day, we went again to the police station, withdrew our complaint, and thanked them sincerely.
We made it to our Colosseum and Roman Forum visit—we had early batch tickets. We clicked pictures, tried to breathe, and tried to soak it in.
Our trip survived.
We survived.
This is not just a travel story.
This is a story of hope survived...
A real story.
