The Thief’s Story

#Ruskin Bond Stories

I was still a thief when I met Romi. I was only fifteen, but I was good at it. Romi was watching a wrestling match when I walked up to him. He looked like he was about twenty-five, and he seemed friendly and easy to trick. I thought I could easily become his friend.

A skinny, young boy (Hari Singh), no older than 15, with a mischievous grin and close-cropped, dusty brown hair, approaches a slightly older man (Romi), maybe 25, with a lean build and kind eyes. Romi is captivated by a wrestling match in the foreground. The wrestling ring is a makeshift pit in a dusty, vibrant Indian market, with two powerfully built wrestlers grappling in a cloud of sweat and dust, their oiled bodies glistening under the harsh midday sun. The scene is alive with the cacophony of market sounds and a riot of colors: saffron robes, turquoise textiles, and earthen browns. Sunlight creates deep shadows, highlighting the texture of the rough-hewn wooden fence surrounding the ring and the animated faces in the crowd. Watercolor illustration with soft blending and natural flow, capturing the vibrant energy of India.

‘You look like you could wrestle, too,’ I said. Being nice is a great way to start a conversation!

‘So do you,’ he said back. That surprised me because I was pretty skinny back then.

‘Well,’ I said, trying to sound cool, ‘I wrestle a little.’

‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Hari Singh,’ I lied. I changed my name every month to stay ahead of the police and the people I used to work for.

After that, Romi just watched the wrestlers. They were grunting, groaning, and pushing each other around. When Romi started walking away, I followed him.

‘Hello again,’ he said.

I gave him my best, friendliest smile. ‘I want to work for you,’ I said.

‘But I can’t pay you anything – at least not for a while.’

I thought about that for a second. Maybe I was wrong about him. ‘Can you feed me?’ I asked.

‘Can you cook?’

‘I can cook,’ I lied again.

‘If you can cook, then maybe I can feed you.’

He took me to his room above the Delhi Sweet Shop and told me I could sleep on the porch. But the food I made that night must have been really bad because Romi gave it to a stray dog and told me to leave.

Hari Singh and Romi are in a cramped, low-ceilinged room above the Delhi Sweet Shop. Soft, diffused light filters in through a small, dusty window. Hari Singh, looking young and vulnerable, is attempting to cook a meal over a small, smoky charcoal stove. His face is smeared with flour and his brow is furrowed in concentration. He’s unsure, holding a dented metal pan awkwardly. Romi, leaning against a rough, whitewashed wall, watches with a slightly amused but patient expression. He has a rolled-up sleeve and a relaxed stance. Cooking utensils – a chipped wooden spoon, a rusty knife – and simple ingredients like onions and lentils are scattered around a rough wooden table. The room has a warm, slightly cluttered feel with visible cobwebs in the corners and a worn, patterned rug on the uneven wooden floor. The overall color palette is warm yellows and browns, conveying a sense of home and humble living. Watercolor illustration, focusing on the textural details of the room and the interplay of light and shadow.

But I just stayed there, smiling as nicely as I could, and he couldn’t help but laugh.

Later, he said it was okay, he’d teach me how to cook. He also taught me how to write my name and said he’d soon teach me how to write whole sentences and do math. I was so happy! I knew that once I could write like a smart person, I could do anything.

Romi, with gentle hands and a patient smile, is teaching Hari Singh how to write on a small, worn slate board. Romi is pointing at a freshly chalked letter with a kind expression, his face illuminated by the soft glow of a single oil lamp. Hari Singh, seated on the floor, looks focused and eager to learn, his dark eyes reflecting the lamplight. His brow is slightly furrowed in concentration. The room is simple and sparsely furnished with a woven mat on the floor and a single, tattered blanket folded neatly in the corner. The walls are a faded ochre color. Shadows dance on the walls, creating a sense of intimacy and quiet dedication. The overall color palette is muted and warm, dominated by the yellow and orange tones of the lamplight. Watercolor illustration with a focus on the expressions and the subtle play of light and shadow, capturing the emotional connection between the two characters.

It was nice working for Romi. I made tea in the morning and then took my time getting food for the day. I usually made a little extra money for myself, like two or three rupees. I think he knew I did that, but he didn’t seem to care.

Romi made money sometimes. He would borrow money one week and lend it the next. He always worried about getting his next paycheck, but when it arrived, he would go out and have fun. He wrote for magazines in Delhi and Bombay, which was a strange way to earn a living.

One night, he came home with a small bunch of money. He said he had just sold a book to someone who publishes books. I saw him put the money in an envelope and hide it under his bed.

I had been working for Romi for almost a month. Besides cheating a little when I bought food, I hadn’t done anything really bad. I could do whatever I wanted, and Romi trusted me more than anyone I had ever met.

That’s why it was so hard to steal from him. It was easy to steal from someone mean. But stealing from a nice guy was a problem. And if he didn’t even notice I was stealing, it wouldn’t be exciting!

‘Okay, it’s time to do some real work,’ I told myself. ‘If I don’t take the money, he’ll just waste it on his friends. He doesn’t even pay me!’

Romi was sleeping soundly. The moon was shining on his bed. I sat on the floor and thought about what to do. If I took the money, I could catch the 10:30 train to Lucknow. I quietly got out of my blanket and sneaked over to the bed. I reached under the mattress and felt around for the money. When I found it, I pulled it out without making a sound. Romi sighed in his sleep and turned over. I got scared and quickly ran out of the room.

Hari Singh, bathed in a sliver of cool moonlight streaming through a grimy window, is carefully taking money from under Romi’s mattress. Romi is asleep in his bed, his face relaxed and peaceful, his chest rising and falling gently. Hari Singh’s hand trembles slightly as he slides the crisp rupee notes out, his face etched with internal conflict. His body language is hesitant and furtive. The room is dimly lit, with the moonlight highlighting the rough texture of the worn cotton bedding and the cracks in the plaster walls. Shadows stretch long and distorted across the floor. The color palette is cool and muted, dominated by blues and grays, reflecting the stillness of the night and the internal turmoil of Hari Singh. Watercolor illustration, emphasizing the contrast between the tranquility of Romi and the turmoil of Hari Singh, and the textures of the humble surroundings.

Once I was outside, I started running. I had the money tucked into my shirt pocket. When I was far away from Romi’s place, I slowed down and took out the envelope. I counted the money: seven hundred rupees! I could live like a king for a couple of weeks!

When I got to the train station, I didn’t stop to buy a ticket (I had never bought a ticket before). I ran straight to the train platform. The Lucknow Express was starting to move. It wasn’t going very fast yet, and I could have jumped onto one of the cars. But I stopped – I don’t know why – and I missed my chance to get away.

Hari Singh stands alone on a rain-slicked train platform, clutching a wet, crumpled envelope of money. The Lucknow Express train is departing in the background, its carriages partially obscured by the torrential rain and swirling steam. The platform is deserted and forlorn. He appears lost and uncertain, his clothes soaked and his hair plastered to his forehead. He clutches the envelope tightly, as if it’s a lifeline. Rainwater drips from the eaves of the station building, creating puddles that reflect the blurred lights of the train. The color palette is dominated by cool blues and grays, reflecting the bleakness of the weather and Hari Singh’s despair. Watercolor illustration, capturing the feeling of isolation and uncertainty through the use of atmospheric perspective and a limited color palette.

After the train left, I was all alone on the platform. I didn’t know where to go. I didn’t have any friends because I thought friends were more trouble than they were worth. And I didn’t want to stay at a hotel because people might ask questions. The only person I really knew was the guy I had just stolen from. I left the station and walked slowly through the market.

I had watched people’s faces after they found out something was stolen. Mean people looked scared. Rich people looked angry. Poor people looked sad. But I knew that Romi would just look a little sad – not because he lost the money, but because I broke his trust.

It was a cold night – November nights can be chilly in northern India – and it started to rain, which made me feel even worse. I sat down under the clock tower to get out of the rain. Some homeless people were lying next to me, all wrapped up in their blankets. The clock showed midnight. I felt for the money. It was all wet.

Romi’s money. In the morning, he probably would have given me five rupees to go to the movies. But now I had all of it! I didn’t have to cook, buy food, or learn to write sentences.

Sentences! I had forgotten about them. I knew that writing sentences could one day make me more money than this. Stealing was easy. But being a really great, smart, and respected person was something else. I should go back to Romi, I thought, even if it was just to learn to read and write.

I hurried back to his room, feeling really nervous. It’s much easier to steal something than to give it back without getting caught.

I opened the door quietly and stood in the doorway. The moon was shining. Romi was still asleep. I tiptoed to the bed and reached for the money. I could feel his breath on my hand. I stayed still for a few seconds. Then I felt for the edge of the mattress and slipped the money back under it.

Hari Singh, his face etched with remorse, is subtly sliding the envelope of money back under Romi’s mattress while Romi sleeps peacefully, unaware. His movements are slow and deliberate, his posture conveying a sense of deep regret. The room is lit by a soft, ethereal moonlight, casting long shadows across the floor. The air is still and quiet. The rough texture of the blanket contrasts with the smoothness of Romi’s skin. The color palette is muted and calm, dominated by soft blues and grays, creating a feeling of peace and forgiveness. Watercolor illustration, emphasizing the contrast between Hari Singh’s inner turmoil and Romi’s peaceful sleep, using soft lighting and delicate brushstrokes to convey the emotional weight of the scene.

The next morning, I woke up late. Romi had already made tea. He held out his hand to me. There was a fifty-rupee bill in his fingers. My heart sank.

‘I made some money yesterday,’ he said. ‘Now I can pay you regularly.’

I felt so much better! But when I took the money, I saw that it was still wet from the rain. So he knew what I had done. But he didn’t say anything about it.

‘Today we’ll start writing sentences,’ he said.

I smiled at Romi in my friendliest way. And the smile just came naturally, without me even trying.

Romi, his eyes twinkling with knowing kindness, is handing a wet, slightly crumpled fifty-rupee bill to Hari Singh. The morning sunlight streams through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air and casting a warm glow on their faces. Romi smiles knowingly, his expression forgiving and understanding. Hari Singh, his head bowed in shame but with a glimmer of hope in his eyes, looks ashamed but deeply grateful. The scene is set in their simple room, with sunlight highlighting the rough texture of the wooden floor and the faded patterns of the woven mat. A chipped clay pot sits on the windowsill, holding a single wilting flower. The color palette is warm and inviting, dominated by yellows and oranges, conveying a sense of forgiveness and renewed hope. Watercolor illustration, focusing on the expressions and the interplay of light and shadow, capturing the emotional resolution of the story.

←

The Thirsty Crow

The Talkative Tortoise

→