The Theft at Home
A True Story from 1986
The house where I was born, where I spent my entire childhood, still holds the echoes of my memories. Each corner whispers stories from my past, preserved vividly and lovingly in my heart.
This particular incident dates back to 1986. We were living in a spacious bungalow, and one night, a theft occurred. The first floor of the bungalow had three bedrooms—one of which belonged to my grandfather. His room had a door that opened out to the gallery. It was the peak of summer, and instead of switching on the air conditioner, Grandpa preferred to keep the gallery door open to let in the natural breeze. He was a man who valued simplicity and conservation—especially when it came to electricity.
Grandpa often slept with that door ajar. But that night, someone climbed up into the gallery and sneaked into his room. Hanging behind the door was his shirt, from which the thief stole ₹2000. Back then, that amount was equivalent to nearly ₹20,000 today.
The next morning, as Grandpa reached for his shirt, he noticed his blue wallet was missing. Within an hour, the news of the theft had spread through our home and the entire neighborhood. In those days, news didn’t need WhatsApp or Facebook—it traveled faster by word of mouth.
Grandpa called the local police station, and soon a police inspector and a constable arrived to investigate. I was just eight years old then, and it was the first time I saw police officers up close.
Grandpa took them to the central courtyard where the staircase led to the gallery.
“Inspector sir,” he explained, “The thief probably entered through this courtyard, climbed the stairs, and got into my bedroom through the gallery. The cover over the courtyard must have been left open. He took ₹2000 from my wallet, which also had my driving license.”
Even as a child, I could sense that the inspector and the constable didn’t seem particularly interested in solving the case.
“Do you suspect anyone?” the inspector asked.
“No, I don’t. I filed the complaint mainly because the wallet had my driving license, and I wanted to ensure the thief doesn’t return. Thankfully, he only took the money. Things could’ve been worse—what if someone in the family had been harmed?” Grandpa replied.
“You’re right. Don’t worry—we’ll investigate and catch the culprit,” the inspector said, giving a half-hearted assurance.
After inspecting the room and gallery, the officers came downstairs and sat in our drawing room. Over tea and biscuits, they spoke about increasing thefts in the area and how alert the police had become. I listened quietly, but my young mind was caught in a swirl of thoughts.
I went to my mother and asked, “Mom, I sometimes take 50 paise or a rupee from Grandpa’s wallet. Is that stealing?”
“If you take it without asking, yes, that’s stealing. But do you ask him first?” she replied.
“Yes, but sometimes when I ask, Grandpa is already asleep,” I admitted.
My mother was stunned. The rolling pin in her hand, meant for making rotis, landed on my back instead. I howled in protest, but just then, my grandmother rushed in and saved me from further punishment.
“This boy keeps taking money from your wallet without asking,” my mother told Grandpa.
“I know,” he replied calmly. “I’ve seen him take it a couple of times. But he never takes more than a rupee, even when there’s more in the wallet. I knew, and I was just waiting for the right time to teach him.”
I apologized to Grandpa and asked, “You always say this house is mine. Then aren’t the things in it—including your money—mine too?”
Grandpa smiled and said gently, “The house is yours in love, but not the belongings in it. Anything that belongs to someone else—money or otherwise—must only be taken with their permission. Otherwise, it’s called stealing.”
“If the money in this house isn’t mine, then technically, the house isn’t really mine either,” I reasoned.
That day marked a change in me. From then on, I never took money from Grandpa’s wallet again—not even with permission.
The thief who entered our home was never caught. But that incident did lead to something meaningful: it reformed a small, innocent thief within the home—me.
That was the first time I learned how even an unfortunate event can carry a valuable lesson. The theft that night, in its own way, helped shape my understanding of honesty and integrity.