The Great Guava Heist: A Symphony of Sweet Rebellion

By S Kunaal Jaiswal

The sun beat down, a relentless hammer on the earth, as Shreyansh, Dollar, and Rudra became one with the sugarcane field, their young bodies pressed low, eyes fixed on the lone, dozing guard of the guava orchard. The air hung heavy, thick with the sweet, intoxicating perfume of ripe guavas, a promise of forbidden delights that made their mouths water. A hot summer breeze whispered through the rustling stalks, a soft, conspiratorial sound in the oppressive stillness.

With a mischievous glint, Shreyansh plucked a small, smooth stone, weighing its cool heft in his palm before sending it skipping with a flick of his wrist. It landed with a dull thud on the baked earth, a soft echo that pulsed in the quiet. They held their breath, their hearts a frantic drumbeat against their ribs. The guard stirred, a lazy sigh escaping him, and slumped back into his half-sleep. This was their signal.

They melted into the orchard, bare feet light on the packed soil, their shadows flitting like ghosts between the trees. The verdant leaves brushed against their arms, cool and reassuring. The scent of guavas intensified, pulling them deeper into the forbidden grove. Without a wasted moment, they plucked fruit after succulent fruit, devouring some on the spot—the juice bursting bright and tart on their tongues, a symphony of flavor that made their senses sing. The rest, plump and heavy, were crammed into their bags, their fingers sticky with the sweet residue of victory. The thrill of stealing made the taste even sweeter, a heady rush that danced in their veins.

Their triumphant procession was cut short. Standing in the middle of the path, Ashu, the orchard owner’s son, materialized like a phantom. His gaze was a sharp, questioning blade that sliced through the haze of their glee. "Where did you get those guavas from?" His voice was firm, and they felt a cold knot tighten beneath the warmth of their hearts. Shreyansh, usually the calmest, stammered, his words a thin, wavering thread. Dollar, small in stature but fueled by an audacious spirit, stepped forward with a smirk, his chin jutting out defiantly. "Who the hell are you to question us? Mind your own business!" Ashu’s eyes darkened, his fists clenching, knuckles whitening. He held their gaze for a long moment before turning abruptly, muttering low, sharp words lost to the wind. Rudra, still savoring the tart sweetness of his last bite, watched him go, a quiet, amused grin tugging at his lips. Perhaps that fleeting amusement annoyed Ashu even more.

The Predator and the Prey: A Game of Wits

Weeks blurred into a ritual of delicious rebellion. Every afternoon, returning from school, they would slip into the orchard, plucking the sun-warmed guavas, their laughter ringing through the trees like victorious bandits. The addiction grew, transforming the mundane into magic. But Ashu was a patient hunter. He had observed their patterns, the predictable rhythm of their raids, and his patience, like a stretched elastic band, was fraying with each stolen fruit.

One afternoon, the air thick with the scent of impending adventure, Rudra, Shreyansh, and Angad—their school bags bouncing against their backs—walked straight into Ashu’s meticulously laid trap. He was already there, a silent silhouette blending with the branches of a mango tree near the orchard’s exit. He dropped down with a thud that sent dust swirling, and they froze, guavas clutched tight in their hands.

Angad, slim and the cleverest among them, tried his usual charm offensive. "Good afternoon, Brother! Nice to meet you! How are you?" he chirped, extending his hand with a wide, forced grin. Ashu didn’t even blink. His glare was unwavering. "Where is Dollar? I want to hear from him who I am to question you! Now that you’re caught red-handed, let’s see how fearless you are!" His words dripped with a challenging venom. Shreyansh, feigning composure, pointed to another orchard across the field. "We took these guavas from there. The gardener is my uncle, and he gave them to us willingly." His tone was steady, yet thin.

Ashu smirked, a knowing twist to his lips. "That’s funny because, as far as I know, he is my uncle. And he sold that orchard long ago. The vendor who bought it already harvested all the guavas." The lie crumbled, leaving Shreyansh utterly silent, his words drying up like a stream in summer. Rudra stepped in, his voice softer, coaxing. "Come on, Ashu Bhaiya! It’s just a guava. We’re, as villagers, practically family. Your father gave us guavas willingly whenever we visited." But Ashu wasn't buying it. He called the guard, scolding him with a sharp bark, and then, a mischievous glint in his eye, devised their unique punishment.

"You all have to do 20 squats and then race across the orchard, 500 meters from one end to the other. The winner gets to go home, and I won’t tell your parents." It sounded like a fair deal, a chance to wriggle free. "Wait," Ashu smirked again, "listen to the full deal first. The two who lose will have to race again—but this time on a couch like a chicken (the rooster position). The winner of that round won’t get reported." They exchanged nervous glances, the stakes rising like heat off the ground. Then Ashu’s gaze locked onto Rudra. "And the last one will have to do 50 sit-ups holding his ears… and race against me. If you win, you escape punishment. If not, I’ll personally take you to your father." Rudra gulped. This was about revenge for that fleeting amusement he’d shown, a thorn in Ashu’s pride.

The squats began. Rudra, heavy-set and out of shape, struggled through them, his legs wobbling, sweat beading on his brow. Shreyansh and Angad, lighter and quicker, ran their race, feet kicking up dust. Shreyansh crossed the line with a burst of speed, victorious. But just as Rudra and Angad were about to start their absurd "couch like a chicken" race, the guard suddenly spotted someone else stealing guavas from the other side of the orchard. He grabbed the culprit, dragging him towards Ashu, his grip firm on the squirming figure. Rudra, still crouched, thighs aching, watched as Shreyansh burst into wheezing laughter, clutching his sides. "It’s Dollar! Dollar got caught, too!"

Dollar, still oblivious, heard Shreyansh’s mirth and turned to see them in their ridiculous positions, with Ashu standing over them, stern as a storm cloud. Understanding dawned on his face, splitting into a wide grin. Ashu crossed his arms, his voice dry. "Welcome, Mr. Dollar. Take your position."

Dollar and the guard stood at the edge of a narrow canal, the water dark and still below. Realizing he was trapped, Dollar smirked. "You think I can’t escape?" he dared. Ashu raised an eyebrow, calm and confident. "You can’t escape." Dollar’s grin widened, wild and reckless. "Then… watch."

Before anyone could react, he jumped—straight into the canal, dragging the guard with him in a splash that shattered the quiet! The guard, unable to swim, thrashed and screamed for help, arms flailing in panic. Ashu, his composure dissolving, plunged in to rescue him, water erupting around him. That was their chance.

Dollar swam across the canal, climbed out dripping wet, hair plastered to his face, and yelled, "RUN, RUDRA, SHREYANSH, ANGAD!" his voice a powerful, rallying cry. Without a second thought, Shreyansh and Angad grabbed their school bags in one hand—and the guard’s sack of guavas in the other—and bolted towards the wooden bridge, their footsteps a frantic drumbeat against the earth.

Ashu, furious, climbed out of the canal, soaked, his clothes heavy with water. Rudra was still on the bridge when Ashu started running after them, his wet shoes slapping the ground. He was getting closer, his shadow stretching long and menacing. Thinking fast, Rudra fumbled with the bridge’s rope, his clumsy, trembling fingers loosening it. The unstable wooden planks wobbled violently under Ashu’s feet, making him swing back and forth like a pendulum, arms windmilling as he cursed. That was Rudra’s cue to escape. "I’LL COMPLAIN TO YOUR PARENTS!" Ashu roared, his voice raw with rage.

Home, Heart, and a New Beginning

That evening, after all the running and the lingering threat of punishment, Rudra was starving, his stomach growling louder than a monsoon thunderclap. But just as he stepped inside, about to beg for food, a voice boomed, cutting through the house like a trumpet: "Rudra got punished by Ashu for stealing guavas from his orchard!"

Rudra froze, his breath hitching. Panic shot through him. What will happen now? Before anyone could grab him, he bolted to Nandini’s stable—his family’s beloved, pregnant cow’s home—his heavy frame lumbering through the dusk. He knew he needed a hiding spot, a sanctuary from the storm he’d brewed. He squeezed himself into a big wooden storage box, the rough wood scraping his sides. It was cramped, but he fit, curling up tight. Naturally sleepy, exhaustion quickly claimed him, his eyes fluttering shut.

That’s how his grand guava heist ended—hiding in a box, fast asleep, while the world outside debated his fate. Rudra slept on, completely unaware, the wood muffling the distant village murmurs. When his mother couldn’t find him, and it was already late evening, her voice tight with worry, she searched neighboring houses and sent his elder brother to scour the village. When his father returned from the market, he locked Nandini’s hut, his hands steady despite the day’s toil. While the entire family was tense and searching for him, Rudra slept on, carefree, his soft snores a secret in the dark.

Suddenly, Nandini began experiencing calving pains, her moans growing loud and urgent, echoing through the hut. Being an animal doctor, his father immediately sensed it and opened the door, the hinges groaning. As a ritual, he burned dried cow dung cakes to keep mosquitoes away, smoke curling thick and grey. Then, he decided to leave for the market to buy tea, pulses, and medicine for Nandini, his steps brisk. Just as he was about to leave, Rudra woke up from the smoke, and started crying from suffocation, his voice hoarse and desperate.

Hearing his cries, his father rushed back inside, heart leaping. Rudra’s mother was already worried sick, her hands wringing as she hovered near the door. When his father found him curled up inside the box, using a sack as a bed, his first reaction was to slap him—after all, the entire family had been frantic with worry, fear gnawing at them through the night. But then, seeing him scared and suffocating, he laughed, a rough chuckle breaking free, picked him up, and handed him over to his mother, his grip firm yet gentle.

While making rotis, his mother smacked him with the rolling pin. In a mix of frustration and affection, she asked, her voice trembling between scolding and relief, "Why were you sleeping there? What if a snake or some poisonous animal had harmed you?" Sitting in front of the house, his uncle chuckled and added, "I thought the cow had given birth to a human child," his laughter rumbling through the courtyard. Meanwhile, Rudra’s brothers, who had been searching the entire village, returned home, faces flushed with exertion. The moment they saw him safe in their mother’s lap, they each tried to give him a slap on the way out—punishment for making them wander around in the night—but got slapped by his mother in return, her hand swift in his defense.

But soon, all attention shifted back to Nandini, who was about to give birth, her moans growing urgent. Everyone forgot Rudra’s mischief as they prepared to welcome the newborn calf, the air buzzing with anticipation. As the whole family slept that night, Rudra’s father stayed awake, sitting beside Nandini, protecting her from any possible danger, his eyes fixed on her heaving sides. His mother, too, stayed up, cooking pulses, tea, and medicine for her, the clatter of pots a soft rhythm in the quiet. This spirit of the village—the deep care for every family member, even an animal—left a lasting impression on Rudra’s heart, a warmth that seeped into his bones, lingering long after the guavas faded from memory.

By S Kunaal Jaiswal