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Irfan made a dash for the house, and vaulted himself over the iron-grilled gate. Once inside the courtyard, he hid himself behind some shrubs and waited for the crowd, hoping against hope, that they would not have noticed him taking refuge inside the house. The crowd ran up the street shouting: “Thief…Thief…Thief…” He lay low, hidden behind the shrubs without making a sound but trying to regulate his breath, until peace returned to that area. The crowd had by now dispersed, apparently unsuccessful in spotting him.
Slowly, he had got up from his hiding place, and took stock of his surroundings. As luck would have it, he found the backdoor of the house open. He let himself in and stood silently in the darkness, trying to make out the best course of action that was now left open to him. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain shooting up his arm, the intensity of which shocked him into reality. In his haste, to make good his escape, he had not noticed the iron spikes on the top of the gate. He realized that his shirt had grown sticky and it was not because of the sweat. He recognized that he had hurt himself badly and felt light headed because of the steady loss of blood.
Nevertheless, he could not allow such trivial matters bother him. Feeling his way, he walked into the corridor and was now in the hall. At the far end of house, he could make out a dim lantern burning, casting its pale light inside the house. He stealthily made his way towards the light, to be greeted by the sight of an old woman praying, in the verandah on a prayer mat. He could make out a serene face, wrinkled with age, lost deep in concentration as she went through the routine of bowing and prostrating as she finished her salah. After completing her prayers, she had had raised her hands for making supplications to her Lord, deeply engrossed, until she finished them, and sat on her prayer mat, and reached out for her rosary beads to make a few rounds on them before she rounded up her prayers.
At the moment, Irfan who had hid himself well behind the shadows of the curtains slipped in his pool of blood, which had gathered at his feet, and made a sound, which alarmed the old woman. She immediately got up from her prayer rug to investigate, and had peered into the hall. She cried out in a trembling voice: “Is there anybody out there? Whoever you are, in the name of Allah, identify yourself!” Irfan was now deeply worried that he had been discovered second time in a row that night. However, he immediately freed himself from all anxiety, as the words of the old woman were not loud enough to be carried over the walls of the house. He reasoned that if she shouted hard to alarm her neighbours, he would strangle her with his bare hands rather than being rediscovered by the crowd. But, he was a thief, not a cold-blooded murderer, he would not stain his hands with the blood of an old woman who had reached the evening of her life, and was living on borrowed time until. The woman, after sometime returned back to her prayer mat to complete the counting of her rosary beads before she wrapped up her prayers and retire for the night, cursing the hordes of rats in her house who would not let her live in peace.
Bleeding had weakened Irfan considerably. His throat was now parched and he was thirsting for some water. He tried to feel his way to find out a water pitcher to quench his thirst. Suddenly, he was overtaken by a bout of giddiness and collapsed in a heap of himself, unconscious to the world around him.
Hours later, he opened his eyes. He lay where he was, but there was a pillow underneath his head, and a warm blanket covered him to protect him from the cold. His wounds were neatly dressed, packed with some herbs to stop the bleeding. There was a dull pain in his arm, which was easily bearable. The woman was now standing in front of the stove, heating milk, and pouring it into a tumbler. After cooling it for sometime, she came up to him and said: “Son! Get up, have some milk. It appears that you have not eaten anything for a long time. You need the strength to pull yourself from the nasty cut in your arm.”
In Irfan’s mind, there was a lot of confusion and a whirlwind of thoughts, as he took the tumbler of milk from the old woman’s wrinkled hands: “She must have informed the police, and they would be here anytime to cart him to jail. Perhaps, she had alerted her neighbours who were lying in wait for him outside to recover.” Amid those thoughts, the voice of the old woman interrupted him again, “My son! Get up and bring me that lantern. I simply don’t know where I have kept those pain tablets. I cannot see anything without the help of that lantern.”
Irfan got up with a great effort, and ran inside to fetch the lantern. Inside, he could make out a box of jewelry. His curiosity getting better of him, he opened it to be welcomed by the sight of a lot of gold jewelry lying inside the box. “How stupid it would be of me, if I did not rob this house,” he thought, “He could easily overpower the frail, old woman, before she knew what was happening and be outside the house in a few moments.”
The woman had, by then, managed to locate, the tablets by herself, and he took the two tablets offered to him, swallowed them with the help of some water. She told him: “Lie down on the cot, when you get up, you will have supper with me.”
Before falling to sleep, Irfan started asking probing questions to get into her background, “So you live here, all by yourself, mother?” He asked her.
“No, my daughter Zainab also lives with me. She has gone visiting her uncle’s house in the village. She lost her father at the age of six. I have toiled day and night to bring her up. Now that we have received a good marriage proposal for her, we Insha’ Allah, hope to get her married by next month. After that I intend to spend the remainder of my life supplicating to Allah.”
Her words made Irfan tremble in every limb of his body with remorse, and in his heart there began a life-and-death struggle between the hate he had developed against the society and the goodness this old woman was showing to a stranger who had come to her house with the intention of robbing her. Finally, in his heart, he came to the conclusions that the actions of the old woman had triumphed over the evil in his heart.
‘Woe unto me! How mean I am?’ Irfan thought. The woman had toiled all her life to bring up her only daughter against all odds and here I am, an able-bodied male committing burglaries night after night.’
Deeply engrossed in his thoughts, Irfan fell into deep slumber till the sounds of the twittering birds woke him up in the early morning hours. His fever and pain were all gone, and he felt completely fresh and recovered. The darkness of the departing night had given way to early hours of the day. The old woman was fast asleep, on another cot near him. For a few moments, he looked deeply at her kind, serene face, but this time his looks were filled with devotion and love towards her. He got up from his bed, opened the latch and let himself out on the lonely street. It was a completely changed Irfan!
Two weeks later, the old woman received a registered letter with two notes of Rs. 500 tucked underneath the folds. She began to read:
“I was a stranger in your house and you took me in. I was hurt badly and extremely sick, and you nursed me back to health. I was hungry and you gave me food. I was thirsty and you offered me milk. You have done all this to a person, who deserves the least kindness and honour. I had come to steal in your house, and yet you trusted me. Mother! That day, I could not bid you a proper farewell. Soon after I left your house, I got recruited in a construction firm and am currently on a worksite. Please accept this small amount from the advance that I have received in my salary for the bridal suit of my sister, Zainab. Remember your sinful son in your prayers.”
Sincerely yours,
“A thief”
As her glance got riveted to the last word, she uttered: Crazy fellow!
(Translated from Payam-i-Taleem, July 2007)
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