Excerpt: A Guardian And A Thief

Page 110-111: 

It was a child, a boy of five or six, wearing a T-shirt with glow-in-the-dark fish on it. “Hands up!” said the boy, pointing a finger gun. “Put it back!”

But Dadu had steadied himself, and his hands were already working to peel the orange, its skin loose as a large winter jacket on a thin person. He popped one segment in his mouth to be sure it was fresh, and the pulp burst on his tongue, acid and sugar and brightness. He chewed, his stomach beginning to hurt, until his teeth were left working the white membrane. He had to get the rest of the orange to Mishti. He put it in his bag. 

“Give it back!” shrieked the boy. Dadu looked at the boy’s thin legs emerging from baggy shorts. His knees were crisscrossed with Band-Aids. His hair was overgrown, at that stage where it was impossible to keep strands out of the eyes, and he tried in vain to tuck it behind his ears, employing a whole palm to mash the hair against his face, while the other hand directed Dadu to return the orange to the desk. 

“Where is your Ma?” said Dadu.

The boy took a moment to decide whether he would tell him. “She has gone to poo”.

Dadu froze. Then he scanned the surrounding walls, searching for an indication of the bathroom door, but there were various doors – managers’ offices, storerooms, a door to a vault – and behind each was silence. He went quickly from desk to desk, looking in each drawer for a snack left behind hoping to find a stash of crackers or a bag of raisins forgotten. Every few seconds, he glanced up for any sign of the mother’s return. Each drawer showed folders, ripped envelopes, staplers and faded receipts. While there was still no sign of the mother, Dadu exited the office, stubbing his toes on the heavy lock that lay, forcibly cracked, on the floor, which he hadn’t seen before, then hurried down the stairs, ears pricked for the sound of the mother approaching. The child stood in the doorway and watched him, then looked at the stairs going up. Perhaps the bathroom was on an upper floor.

“That was our orange,” he called when Dadu was nearly at the door. “Ma told me to hold it. I only put it down for one minute.”

He began to cry. 

He began to cry, and Dadu heard Mishti crying, all the instances of sorrow consolidated in the haze of months – Mishti bullied off a slide by a bigger child, Mishti refusing to eat green beans, Mishti upset about wearing a sweater, Mishti exhausted and ready to sleep, unable to simply close her eyes and be still. Dadu heard Mishti crying, child of his child, pulse of his heart, and stomped down the part of himself that wanted to turn around and return the orange. There was such a part.

Excerpted with permission from A Gurdian and A Thief by Megha Majumdar published by Penguin Random House India