The thief

Living in the bazaar was an experience unlike any other. My humble abode was not exactly within the bustling marketplace itself, but rather tucked away behind its lively stalls, in a small corner shack. Each morning, I was roused from slumber by the vibrant cacophony of the crowd as they flocked to the various vendors. The sounds of children scurrying about, coins jingling in their pockets, searching for the next trinket to catch their fancy became my daily alarm. The aroma of freshly cooked soup, succulent chicken, fish, and an array of fruits and baked goods filled the air, teasing my senses. However, my breakfast consisted of the same stale bread discarded by the bakers at day's end. It was a stark reminder of how people often fail to appreciate the value of things until they are lost or never had them to begin with. It bewildered me how easily they took everything for granted.

Despite my tender age of seven and my small, frail frame, I always felt older than I truly was. The only indication of my youth was my ability to effortlessly slip into narrow crevices unnoticed. My bony hands were inconspicuously minuscule, and my feet, scarcely more than skin and bones, treaded lightly upon the ground. Hence, when I pilfered, no one saw me.

I never considered myself selfish for thieving; I believed it was the wealthy who were truly selfish. How could I fathom passing by a destitute seven-year-old boy, living in a dilapidated shack, scantily clad, struggling to care for a baby, without offering assistance? If I were in their shoes, I would undoubtedly extend a helping hand. I envisioned myself bedecked in finery, donning the extravagant garments I admired as carriages paraded by, relishing the taste of a sumptuous muffin I could afford, all while keeping extra cash in a neat leather wallet to assist a poor child and an infant. "You are too kind for this world," my mother once whispered to me. I closed my eyes, attempting to summon memories of her tender voice. The aroma of freshly baked bread, corn, and soup once again filled my nostrils, emanating from the stalls just ahead. I opened my eyes as the baby cried, yearning to be able to express my hunger through whimpers and tears like she could. The scent of the tantalizing food made our stomachs rumble. It was time for me to begin my work.

With care, I soothed the baby back to sleep before hastily rising and making my way into the bazaar. Time was of the essence, as she would awaken again soon, craving nourishment. Blending seamlessly with the bustling crowd, my eyes scanned the area for a faint glimmer of opportunity—an inattentive seller with few customers. It was a slim chance, but a chance nonetheless. I spotted the familiar stall that sold bread, which had become an easy target for me lately. Ever since a new baker stall with lower prices had opened next to it, this particular vendor's sales had dwindled. I gradually approached, awaiting the moment when the tired seller would yawn, cough, or become momentarily distracted, providing the perfect opening for me to snatch a piece of bread from the counter and make my getaway. Running, running, running. Sometimes, when I was quick enough, I delighted in letting the seller know they had been robbed. However, this was not the time for such antics. Little did I know what consequences awaited me as I burst into laughter, inadvertently alerting the seller and inciting his anger. If I had known the ordeal I was about to face when I stumbled over a rock and landed face-first in the dirt, I would never have left the safety of my shack.

"Thief! Catch him!" I heard the cries from behind, but I was already too far away for anyone to apprehend me—until I tripped and tumbled, my face meeting the earth.

I braced myself for the worst. I anticipated kicks, punches, beatings, scoldings, and all manner of humiliation. Clutching the pilfered bread close to my chest, I listened as the crowd gathered around me, their murmurs blending into a commotion. The dirt stung the cuts on my face, burning my eyes, and my head spun dizzily. The rhythm of my racing heart grew louder and louder as footsteps drew nearer. Then, I heard whispers—the kind of whispers that accompany someone's unexpected or peculiar actions. With my soiled face, I looked up to see a bony hand reaching out towards me. I gazed into the eyes of the seller I had stolen from, overwhelmed by a mix of embarrassment and astonishment. "You are too kind for this world," my mother's words echoed in my mind. I had always assumed she said that because everyone else was cruel and lacking in mercy. Yet, in that moment, as I accepted the man's hand and returned his bread, I recalled the forgotten part of her statement: "...many of us are, but we were simply never given the chance."

Over time, I had lost faith in people's kindness towards me. Ever since my mother's passing, I no longer expected kindness from anyone. The wealthy individuals who passed by my shack day after day never spared a penny. However, as I sat beside the bread seller the following day, assisting him behind the stall in exchange for food for myself and my sister, I refused to relinquish hope for kindness in every soul I encountered.