Five Rupee Awareness

As a continuation to my previous post, I also remember the first time I tried to steal.

I failed.

This was in 1999, when I was preparing for IIT and staying in a rented room. My roommate often spoke proudly about how he had flicked imported chocolates from a shop nearby. It sounded casual, almost normal, the way he said it.

One afternoon, I went to that shop.

I was surprised by what I saw. Shelves filled with imported chocolates and chewing gums, things that felt rare and expensive at the time. After walking around for a bit, I slipped one chewing gum into my pocket.

Almost immediately, fear set in.

I became conscious of my hands, my posture, my breathing. When the shopkeeper uncle looked at me for a moment longer than usual, I panicked. I started fiddling with items on the counter, asking the prices of things I had no intention of buying. He answered calmly.

Then he looked at me and said, “That chewing gum is five rupees.”

I froze.

I took the chewing gum out, paid him, and walked out of the shop.

As I left, he gave me a soft warning. Nothing harsh. Nothing loud. Just enough.

That was the last time I tried to steal anything in my life.

What stopped me was not the fear of being caught, but something quieter. The realization that stealing was not just about taking something without paying. It was about becoming someone I did not want to be.

Some lessons arrive without punishment. They arrive through awareness. Through the discomfort of seeing yourself clearly, even for a brief moment.

I still remember that shop.

I still remember the chewing gum.

Five rupees was all it cost to learn that lesson.

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Fifty Paisa

I still remember the first time I cheated.

I was in the sixth standard. I usually walked to school, but on rare days when I got late, my mother would send me by bus. The bus ticket cost fifty paisa. For me, that was a lot of money. It was enough to buy a refill for the ink pen.

Most children who travelled by bus every day had passes. When the ticket collector came, they would simply say “pass,” and he would move on.

One such rare day, when I was late, my mother gave me fifty paisa and sent me by bus. As the ticket collector walked towards me, I did what I had seen others do. I said, “pass.”

He stopped and asked me to show it.

I told him I had forgotten the pass at home.

He knew I was lying.

He slapped me once and then asked me to pay the fifty paisa. I did.

I still remember that incident.

At that age, I did not cheat because I was dishonest by nature. I cheated because fifty paisa mattered. Because a pen mattered. Because I had learned, even then, by watching others.

What stayed with me was not the slap. It was the sudden understanding that a small lie can carry a weight far greater than its intent. Childhood is often where our ideas of right and wrong first take shape, not through instruction, but through experience.

I do not remember what was taught in school that day. I do not remember the lessons or the teachers. But I remember that bus ride.

Some memories stay with us not because they are dramatic, but because they quietly shape the way we see the world.

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