The Divine Debt

Even as the evening shadows lengthened, the sweltering heat of the afternoon sun lingered in the air. After a session of loud arguments and laughter at the local toddy shop, George and Krishnan stepped out. George was fifty-two and Krishnan fifty-one. Both lived their lives on the fringes of the village, getting by through petty thefts and small-time hustles. In their own minds, they were experts on everything—not just on local spirits, but on world affairs.

They stopped at a small bunk shop by the roadside. The scent of smoldering cigarettes mingled with the smell of sweat.

"Hey, check this lottery for me," Krishnan said, handing a crumpled ticket from the previous day to the shopkeeper.

The shopkeeper scanned it and handed it back. "Nothing, Krishnan Chetta... just a waste!"     

"It’s fate, George... just fate!" Krishnan said sadly. He bought a ticket for the next day and tucked it into his pocket.

They began to walk. Smoke from their cigarettes spiraled into the air as their conversation drifted from Kerala politics to the in the Middle East.

"This Israel and Iran thing is going to end the world, you just watch," George said, sounding like a weary philosopher.

Suddenly, Krishnan’s small keypad phone began to ring. Seeing his wife’s name on the screen, he felt a sudden pang of unease. When he answered, all he heard was screaming and crying.

"Where are you, man? George’s wife, Anne, is here wailing. George’s son... Antony... he isn't waking up! He’s unconscious! George’s phone is switched off. Run home fast... we need to take him to the hospital!"

Krishnan stood frozen. The cigarette dropped from his hand.

"What is it? What happened?" George asked, panicked.

"George... it’s Antony... he’s unconscious! They said your phone is off. Run!"

Hearing those words, a bolt of lightning seemed to strike George’s heart. Every trace of intoxication vanished instantly. His only son, his very life. The boy had been tired lately, but George never expected a disaster like this.

"Jesus... my Lord!"

George screamed and ran down the village road, with Krishnan close behind. The stupor of the toddy shop was replaced by a cold, suffocating fear. In the silence of that dark village path, only the father’s cries echoed.

An auto-rickshaw stood in front of the house, its engine idling. Inside, Anne sat sobbing, clutching the unconscious Antony to her chest, with Sudha by her side. A frantic George scrambled into the front seat. By the time they reached the town clinic, every second felt like an hour.

After examining Antony, the doctor said gravely, "It’s appendicitis. I suspect it might have ruptured. Move him to a multi-specialty hospital immediately. Don't delay."

The doctor called an ambulance himself. George and Anne sped away toward the city hospital. With heavy hearts, Krishnan and Sudha returned home.

Back at the house, Krishnan washed up and sat down for dinner. The steam rose from the congee Sudha served, but no one had an appetite. As he sat silently with his children, the phone rang again.

It was George. His voice was trembling. "Krishnan... we reached the hospital. The doctors checked him. He needs surgery tomorrow morning at 8:00 AM. They are asking for fifty thousand rupees upfront. And we need O+ve blood. I have nothing, man... please help me somehow. He’s my son..."

George hung up. The depth of his helplessness hung in the air.

Seeing the despair on her husband's face, Sudha went inside and returned with her gold earrings. She placed them in Krishnan’s hand.

"Take this tomorrow morning to a bank or a pawn shop. It’s a child’s life... don't hesitate. We will go to the hospital at 7:00 AM."

          Krishnan looked at the small piece of gold in his hand. Looking at his wife, who didn't hesitate to give up her only savings for his friend's son, his eyes welled up. In that small village house, amidst poverty, a great light of love was shining.

Breaking the silence of the night, George rushed into the office of Reverend Father John, the administrator of St. Thomas Super Specialty Hospital. Father John was an elderly man, his face a blend of strictness and compassion.

"What is this at midnight? Who are you?" the Father asked in a calm but commanding voice.

"Father... I am a poor man from a village near Pala. My son is on his deathbed... he needs surgery now. I don't have the money..." With shaking hands, George handed the doctor's prescription to him.

Father John called his assistant to verify the details. Five minutes later, he returned and looked at George.

"The surgery will proceed. Usually, it costs eighty thousand rupees. I have waived the hospital charges and medical margins. You must find a way to pay the remaining fifty thousand. But there is one condition—you must come to church every Sunday for prayer. If not, I will file a complaint against you with God."

The thirty-thousand-rupee reduction was a massive relief for George. He ran back to the ward, filled with gratitude.

Meanwhile, in the village, it was past 11:30 PM. Sudha and the children were in a deep sleep. But there was no sleep in Krishnan's eyes. He rose quietly. He removed his shirt and dhoti and put on a pair of tight shorts. He smeared a thick, dark oil over his entire body. Tucking a small knife into his waistband and tying a black cloth around his head, he stepped out.

A pale half-moon cast a dim light over the dark paths of the rubber estates. In the distance, the howling of foxes and the barking of dogs could be heard. 'Krishnan the Thief' was heading out under the cover of darkness once again, for the sake of his friend’s son.

To save a life, he had decided to defy the law. Every step he took in the silence of the night was a mystery.

In the pitch black, Krishnan crouched near the massive wall of the Vishnu temple. He was afraid to even let out a breath. He sharpened his ears... was there any talk, any movement, the sound of a guard? Hiding in the bushes, he waited for his moment.

It was 2:30 AM. The entire village was in a deep sleep. Krishnan took a heavy rope from his bag. He climbed a large tree near the wall and, with the help of the rope, slid down into the temple compound.

An eerie silence filled the temple. He walked softly. The air smelled of incense and flowers. Using a hacksaw blade, he began to saw through the lock of the offering box. He worked with extreme caution, making no noise. He emptied the money from the box into his bag.

Then, he took a packet of chili powder and sprayed it all over the floor around the box—an old thief's trick to throw off the police dogs.

He climbed back over the wall using the rope and dropped to the other side. He ran through the rubber estates. To erase his scent, he climbed a tree and jumped into the river. Swimming through the cold water to the other bank, he ran home.

The village remained unaware of the "sin" committed that night for the sake of a blessing. To save his friend’s son, Krishnan had robbed the treasury of God.

3:15 AM. The temple doors opened. The priest and his team began their daily rituals—cleaning the premises and preparing the prasadham. By 4:00 AM, everything was set, and devotees began to arrive.

Narayanan Kutty Master, a retired headmaster, was now a deeply spiritual man. He visited the temple twice a day. As usual, he removed his shirt and stood near the temple flagpole to pray. After his prayer, as he went to drop a ten-rupee note into the offering box, he saw it—the lock had been cut away!

"My Lord... Vishnu... what an atrocity!"

He almost fainted. Shouting, he ran to the office to inform the authorities. The temple committee rushed to the spot. The police were notified immediately. Villagers gathered. The temple was temporarily closed. During the investigation, the police noticed something—it wasn't vermilion spread on the floor, but deadly chili powder. They realized the theft was highly professional. An FIR was registered, and the investigation began.

Meanwhile, around 7:00 AM, Krishnan and Sudha arrived at the hospital. Antony had already been taken to the operating theater. George stood outside, trembling with anxiety.

Sudha went straight to the cash counter and paid fifty thousand rupees. Behind her, Krishnan handed a bundle of crumpled notes to George. There was ten thousand rupees in it.

George looked at the notes. They didn't smell of incense; they smelled of his friend’s sweat and smoke. The 'thief' inside George realized exactly where this money had come from. The oil on Krishnan’s skin and the faint trace of chili powder on the notes told him everything. But in the face of his son’s life, George remained silent. He pressed the notes to his chest and looked at his friend with tearful gratitude.

The "theft" to save God’s child with God’s own money was now complete.

After forty-five minutes of agonizing uncertainty, the theater doors opened. The doctor emerged with a smile. "The surgery was a success. He will be moved to the ward in an hour. We need to monitor him for 24 hours. If all is well, he can be discharged tomorrow."

Tears of joy filled George’s eyes. He looked at Krishnan. His gratitude was beyond words. He felt immense respect for the friend who had risked his life to bring his son back.

Leaving the hospital, Krishnan and Sudha went to the market to buy groceries and supplies for the Vishu festival. Seeing the rising prices, Sudha spent every rupee carefully. After shopping, they went to a hotel and had a good meal.

"Sudha, you head home... I have a small job to do," Krishnan said after eating. He saw her off on the bus and went straight to a bar in Pala town. He needed the alcohol to ease the tension and fear of the previous night.

Around 6:00 PM, the police intensified their search. They checked the list of local habitual offenders. Naturally, Krishnan and George’s names were there. However, the inquiry revealed that both had been at the hospital since the previous night for a surgery. Convinced of their alibi, the police concluded that this was the work of an interstate gang of thieves.

Leaving the bar, Krishnan walked to a lottery agency. He showed the ticket he had bought the previous day. The agent was stunned. "Krishnan... this has won the third prize of five hundred thousand rupees!"

Krishnan was shocked. "How can I cash this?"

"It will take at least a week through a bank. If you want the money now, give the ticket to me. I can give you three hundred and fifty thousand in cash right away. I’ll keep the rest as commission," the agent suggested.

Krishnan didn't hesitate. "Fine, give me the three hundred and fifty thousand."

The agent counted out the cash immediately. Krishnan walked out with bundles of notes in his pockets. The man who robbed God’s treasury had been answered by God through a lottery. He saw it as a sign—a chance to return the stolen money and start a better life.

That night at 11:00 PM, Krishnan dressed in his black gear once more. He moved through the rubber estates with the same caution, but his heart felt lighter.

He climbed the tree and dropped back into the temple compound. In the silence of the courtyard, he approached the offering box. Through the slot of the box, which had been temporarily repaired, he slipped exactly one hundred thousand rupees—more than what he had taken.

The sound of the money falling inside eased the ache in his soul. Before turning to leave, he faced the sanctum and folded his hands. "It wasn't a theft, Lord... it was a loan for my friend's son. Here it is, returned with interest."

Climbing back over the wall and swimming across the river, Krishnan returned home and fell into bed, feeling a peace he hadn't known in months. As he slept between Sudha and his children, he was no longer a thief on the run.

Outside, in the moonlit night, the village slept—none knew of the great secret shared between God and His favorite thief.

The End.