I WAS still a thief when I met Anil. And though only 15, I was an
experienced and fairly successful hand.
Anil was watching a wrestling match when I approached him. He
was about 25 — a tall, lean fellow — and he looked easy-going, kind
and simple enough for my purpose. I hadn’t had much luck of late and
thought I might be able to get into the young man’s confidence.
“You look a bit of a wrestler yourself,” I said. A little flattery helps
in making friends.
“So do you,” he replied, which put me off for a moment because at
that time I was rather thin.
“Well,” I said modestly, “I do wrestle a bit.”
“What’s your name?”
“Hari Singh,” I lied. I took a new name every month. That kept me
ahead of the police and my former employers.
After this introduction, Anil talked about the well-oiled wrestlers
who were grunting, lifting and throwing each other about. I didn’t
have much to say. Anil walked away. I followed casually.
“Hello again,” he said.
I gave him my most appealing smile. “I want to work for you,” I said.
“But I can’t pay you. thought that over for a minute. Perhaps I had misjudged my man.
I asked, “Can you feed me?”
“Can you cook?”
“I can cook,” I lied again.
“If you can cook, then may be I can feed you.”
He took me to his room over the Jumna Sweet Shop and told me I
could sleep on the balcony. But 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
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