By Vimal Kapoor
In the narrow lanes of Rampur, three small-time crooks—Hariya, Jagat, and Mangal—managed their living by picking pockets and snatching gold chains. “Another wallet today, boys!” Hariya would grin after a successful attempt, but the police were never far behind. “You’re under arrest again!” they’d bark, snapping cuffs on their wrists. After a few years behind bars and brief stints on parole, the trio would huddle and mutter “Let’s lie low for a bit”, only to slide back into their old ways again.
One evening, after Hariya swiped a fat wallet bulging with crisp notes, the three bolted to Belapur to celebrate. “Kashi’s dhaba tonight—nothing but the best!” Jagat whooped as they bought a bottle of desi daru. They guzzled it down, throats burning, and stumbled into the dhaba. “Bring us your spiciest mutton curry and butter naan!” Mangal ordered. They devoured the meal, laughing like kings, and then staggered to a shady mango grove. “This is the life,” Hariya sighed, leaning against a tree.
“Yaar, Hariya,” Jagat said, letting out a loud belch and wiping his mouth with his sleeve, “we’ve had enough of this pick pocketing nonsense. Let’s plan something big—one score so we don’t have to rush around like rats for a while.”
“Absolutely,” Mangal nodded, his eyes showing his keenness. “I’m in. What do you say, Hariya?”
“Done,” Hariya agreed, thumping their backs. “We’ll stay back in Belapur tonight and do some serious homework tomorrow.”
The next day, they roamed the town like shadows, planning their next move. “Look at that sprawling kothi,” Hariya whispered, pointing. “That’s Lala Shiv Prasad’s place—the richest man here, they say.”
They befriended Lala’s helper, Shayam, over cups of chai. Shayam, loosening up, spilled the beans: “In two days, the whole family’s off to a wedding out of town.”
“Shayam bhai, you’re a gem,” Jagat said, slipping him a bottle of liquor. “Let us crash in the servant quarters while they’re gone? Just one night—no harm.”
Shayam, already tipsy, grinned. “Alright, alright, come on in. But keep it quiet!”
That night, they inundated Shayam with ‘daaru’. “Drink up, friend!” Hariya urged, pouring glass after glass until Shayam snored like a buffalo. The trio scaled the wall, pried open a window latch, and crept into Lala’s plush master bedroom. “Jackpot,” Mangal breathed as they rifled through drawers. They found a hidden safe and cracked it open. “Crores in cash and jewels!” Hariya gasped, eyes wide.
“Grab that big backpack over there,” Jagat hissed. They stuffed the loot inside, hearts pounding, and vanished into the night.
“This is it—enough for a lifetime,” Hariya panted as they fled. “No going back to our Rampur shack; cops will raid it once the dacoity news hits.”
“Let’s head to the dense forest on Belapur’s outskirts,” Mangal suggested. Deep in the jungle, they found a crumbling old hut. “Home sweet home—for now,” Jagat chuckled.
A day later, hunger gnawed at them. “I’m starving,” Hariya groaned.
“Thirsty too,” Jagat added.
“Alright,” Mangal said. “Hariya, you’re the fastest walker. Trek few kilometres till you find a bus to Pipadiya village. Pack food, fruits, and a carton of water bottles. We’ll guard the backpack.”
“Fine, I’ll go,” Hariya grumbled, slinging on his shoes. He trudged through the thick forest, thorns snagging his clothes, until he approached a dusty road. A rickety bus rattled by, and he hailed it. “Pipadiya, quick!” As the bus jolted along, a dark thought took root in Hariya’s mind. Why split the loot three ways? Poison the food, let them die in the jungle, and the riches would be his alone. He could flee far away, marry, start afresh—no one would find him. After lots of internal conflict he convinced himself that his plan was right.
In Pipadiya, Hariya bought a big box of rat poison. “This’ll do,” he muttered. He grabbed a hearty meal at a local joint, then packed daal, roti, and sabzi for his friends. In a deserted maidan, he opened the daal container and dumped in the entire box of poison. “Sorry, friends,” he smirked, hailing the return bus, his mind buzzing with dreams of freedom.
Back in the forest, Jagat and Mangal huddled by the hut. “If we finish Hariya,” Jagat whispered, “the loot splits two ways, not three.”
“Smart,” Mangal nodded. “Hide in the bushes. We’ll jump him—he won’t stand a chance against both of us, together we can easily overpower him.”
Footsteps crunched through the underbrush. Hariya appeared, packet in hand. “Surprise!” Jagat and Mangal roared, leaping from the bushes. A cloth tightened around Hariya’s neck. “What—guys—no!” he choked, thrashing, struggled valiantly but darkness swallowed him, life oozing out.
They dumped his body in the underbrush. “Whew, tired now,” Jagat panted. “Let’s eat what Hariya brought.”
They tore into the food greedily. “This daal’s delicious,” Mangal mumbled, mouth full.
Minutes later, Jagat clutched his stomach. “Ugh, my stomach!” he groaned, face twisting in pain.
“I’m burning—seems to be poison!” Mangal gasped, his throat and convulsing.
They stared at each other, agony etching their faces, visions blurring, limbs going limp. “You… reap… as you sow,” one whispered faintly as life ebbed away, leaving them lifeless in the dirt.
And so, the old saying held true: they reaped what they sowed.
(Vimal Kapoor, a Dehradun resident, is passionate about literature, creative writing, cricket and exploration through travel)
