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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