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I was still a thief when I met Anil, and though only 15, I was an experienced and fairly successful hand.
Anil was about 25--a tall, thin fellow--and he looked easy-going, kind and simple enough for my purpose. I might be able to get into his confidence.
I gave him my most appealing smile. “I want to work for you.” I said.“But I can't pay you.”
Perhaps I had misjudged the man, I asked, “Can you feed me?”
“Can you cook?”
“I can cook,” I lied.
“If you can cook, then I can feed you.”
The meal I cooked that night must have been terrible because Anil gave it to a stray dog and told me to be off. But I just hung around smiling in my most appealing way, and he couldn't help laughing.
Later he patted me on the head and said never mind, he'd teach me to cook. He also taught me to write my name and said he would soon teach me to write whole sentences and to add numbers. I was grateful. I knew that once I could write like an educated man there would be no limit to what could achieve.
One evening he came home with a small bundle of notes, saying he had just sold a book to a publisher. At night, I saw him put the money under the mattress.
It's time I did some real work, I told myself. After all, he doesn't even pay me.
Anil was asleep.
I crept up to the bed. Anil was sleeping peacefully.
My hand slid under the mattress, searching for the notes. When I found them, I drew them out without a sound. Anil sighed in his sleep and turned on his side, towards me.
I was frightened and quickly crawled out of the room. I began to run, holding the notes by the string of my pajamas.
But I slowed down and sat down in the shelter of the clock tower, I should go back to Anil, I told myself, if only to learn to read and write.
I stood at the door, clutching the hem of my shirt—already soaked through with cold sweat. The threshold split into light and shadow beneath the moonlight, as if dividing my world into two irreconcilable halves.
Anil sat in the rattan chair, his elegant fingers—knuckles sharply defined—tapping the desk where a small stack of coins lay neatly arranged. His voice, soft as a feather, sliced through the silence: "Thought you wanted money?" The words pressed down on me, forcing my knees to buckle. The coins dug into the lines of my palm as I trembled.
"Stop… no…" My throat tightened as if clogged by a shard of ice. I clung to the crisp fabric of his starched shirt, seeing my own reflection shatter into trembling fragments in his pupils. He smiled suddenly, his thumb grazing the tear at the corner of my eye. "Why cry? Tell me—what do you want?"
Memories flooded in: the day I lied that I could cook, and he took me in, promising to feed me. My terrible cooking had been fed to stray dogs, yet he'd never scolded, only smiled and taught me patiently. He'd taught me to read, to write, vowed to teach me full sentences and numbers. And I'd only ever cared about his money. Or ...was that true? I didn't know. But I couldn't bear to leave—not just for the money. The thought tangled in my chest, unnameable.
The air carried the scent of his sandalwood aftershave, reminding me of the warmth of his knuckles against my wrist. My nails bit into my palm, yet my voice emerged even more mumbled than when I'd stolen the money: "I want you... to teach me to write."
He glanced down at my crumpled hand, then pinched my chin, forcing my face upward. His eyelashes cast delicate shadows as he spoke: "If you still want to stay with me... Learn to look me in the eye first." Withdrawing his hand, he took out a new notebook from the drawer, the steel nib of his pen scoring a precise line across the first page. "Start with 'repentance.' Write each stroke carefully. Can you do it?"
I stared at the ink blot spreading from the nib, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. His knee pressed against mine through the fabric, a silent restraint that sent a shiver down my neck. As the first wobbly letter took shape on the page, he brushed a bead of sweat from my nose with his thumb. "Sloppy handwriting like this—my naughty student?"
He poured warm milk into my cup. The coins had vanished into the drawer at some point. I inhaled the scent of sunshine lingering on his cuff, mingling with ink, a bittersweet aroma that settled on my tongue. This feeling of being held in someone's grasp—was it not fear, but…
"Tired?" The cap of his pen tapped my forehead. "Then come to my bedroom." His voice dropped, velvet-edged.
"Naughty puppies get punished."