“Ziddi dekhna hi hai… I have to watch Ziddi somehow, by hook or by crook.”
That thought kept circling in my teenage mind.
One afternoon, my uncle came down from native place. He was preparing to go abroad for work, and as usual, time moved on with school, chores, and the rhythm of home life. But inside me, the urge to watch that film grew stronger.
I hatched a plan, my own version of a perfect heist. I applauded myself for the courage and brilliance I imagined it would take.
Back in the ’80s and ’90s, Samsonite number-lock suitcases were a big deal—sturdy, high-tech, a status symbol. My uncle’s suitcase wasn’t just filled with clothes and a Holy Bible for faith and strength. It was also, like for many men of that time, a safe for bundles of cash.
The day came. My uncle had stepped out for shopping, mainly alcohol and cigarettes. My mother was in the kitchen, the sound of vessels clanging assuring me she wouldn’t move anytime soon. The stage was set: just her and me at home. Perfect.
With trembling hands, I fiddled with the lock. I waited for the click, the little jerk. And there it was the suitcase opened. Pride swelled in me. In my imagination, a crowd cheered and applauded my “skill,” as though I had just pulled off a masterstroke.
Later that evening, Dad came home from BARC, where he worked as a head clerk, and joined my uncle for their usual drinks. No one suspected anything. The next day, with cash in my pocket, I went to a friend’s house. We enjoyed Ziddi to the fullest, with a Bagpiper quarter to add to the thrill. It felt glorious.
But the glory didn’t last.
The following day, when I returned home, Dad and Uncle were waiting, their eyes heavy with suspicion. Uncle pulled me aside. Gently, he explained the purpose of that money—it had been set aside for something crucial. My pride fought back, but eventually, guilt won. I confessed.
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