“What’s this, just 200 rupees?” Akshay taunts me as he waves the two-hundred-rupee note I had secretly taken from my father’s shirt pocket.
“Dude, that’s Marlboro! A pack costs 300,” Rohan chimes in.
“Just let me try one today,” I find myself begging.
Feeling a bit sorry for me, they hand me a lit cigarette. I take a puff and immediately cough. They promise me that it’s normal for first-timers, and graciously let me smoke the whole stuff. They really are good friends!
‘How lucky they are to be born in affluent households! And how fortunate I am to have found such friends at tutorials.’
“Hey,” Akshay calls out. “Aren’t you getting any pocket money? You’re fifteen, man! And you don’t have a handset either. How are we supposed to call you?”
‘Pocket money?’ That was a fantasy. The school bus dropped me off, and the two boxes my Mom packed would have to do for lunch and evening snacks before my tutorials.
I always thought pocket money was for college students. My sister, Namrata, gets it, and she also has a handset. Maybe I have to wait till I step into college. And how was I going to make my rich friends understand that, though we lived a comfortable life, extravagance was not in my dictionary?
“Hey, don’t forget to somehow grab another 100 rupees tomorrow.” Rohan reminds me
‘But how?’ I ponder as I arrive home to see an ambulance.
“Come quickly!” Mom calls me. “Dad’s had a heart attack. Namrata has been informed. She will come to the hospital.”
In a daze, I jump into the ambulance and see Dad on a stretcher, some equipment attached to his nose, and tubes hanging off him. Even in this crisis, Mom looks at me and asks, “Did you eat your snacks?” I nod, wondering why moms are always worried about whether their kids have eaten.
Guilt gnaws at me. Could Dad have figured out that I took 200 rupees from his pocket? There were lots of notes; I only grabbed a couple. Maybe he found out, and that’s what caused the heart attack. I have seen this happening in plenty of movies.
Mom explains that he’d been feeling unwell since noon, which is why he came home early but collapsed right at the door. That brings some relief; he hasn’t noticed the missing money. I reassure myself and start plotting how to get another 100 rupees from the same pocket. I feel ashamed. I can’t help but notice that Dad’s health crisis feels oddly secondary to my desire for more cigarettes.
A man approaches my mother and says something. “Oh no,” she shakes her head. “We forgot the medical file. And I’ll pay a twenty-thousand deposit now, but the rest will have to wait until tomorrow.” The man nods.
“Navin, can you take an auto and grab Dad’s medical file along with the cash in the same drawer from his cupboard?” Mom suggests, and my heart races.
I can go home and get my money from my father’s shirt pocket.
Mom sends me off with the fare for the round trip. “In the left drawer just below the file marked ‘Medical records of Anurag Sharma,’ you’ll find a brown envelope with exactly twenty thousand rupees. Bring both back carefully.”
I unlock the door and first run to my father’s shirt pocket. It is empty. Looks like Mom has taken the money to the hospital.
I cringe, wondering how I was going to lay my hands on any cash if the envelope had the exact amount that Mom needed.
I unlock the cupboard and open the drawer. Sliding out the file and brown envelope, something shiny catches my eye—a wallet. I smile and open it, only to find an old photograph and a crumpled letter. It looks like Mom is holding me as a baby, with my sister standing close by.
Something stirs uneasily in my stomach, a feeling I can’t quite place. I cautiously unfold the letter that’s yellowed at the crease. I recognize the signature: Harshavardhan Sharma; it was my grandfather’s letter to my father.
“Dear Anurag,
We’re all thrilled to hear that you’ve adopted a baby boy. It takes a generous heart to shower love and affection on a homeless child. Navin is a beautiful name that goes perfectly with Namrata. We are even more delighted to see that Namrata has taken to her brother so well. We were concerned she might resent sharing her parents’ love with someone not born into the family. May God bless you all. We will visit soon to meet Navin.”
My hands tremble as I carefully fold the letter and tuck it back into the wallet. And then another file catches my eyes- Mamta, home for orphans and destitutes– in bold letters. A document inside states that Anurag Sharma and Kirti Shama adopted a boy on 5th September 2010.
My birthday, all of them celebrate with so much affection every year!
What have I done? Stolen money from the very home that shelters me just to smoke and impress two guys I thought were my friends.
At that moment, I hate myself. I take out the two-hundred-rupee note from my pocket and return it to my father’s shirt pocket.
I need to hurry; my mother must be waiting for me!