Secret Confession #8

In the cute lanes of my childhood town, once upon a time, there was a quaint little bakery that attracted me because of its sweet, mouthwatering fragrances that used to flow in the house. I could find it but just a stone's throw from my home, it whispered secrets of sugary confections and warm, buttery pastries. Those were innocent days, and the bakery turned out to be a hub for my senses to blossom—a haven where my cravings blossomed and I found solace in my dreams.

Our family was familiar to the friendly baker, who would smile at us each time we came in. We had a special understanding; we were allowed to collect our sweets on tick, the baker silently marking off our excesses. Each month, as the moon made her turn of the sky, we paid back the cost. This informal pact was so inveigled in the tapestry of our lives-it became a ritual that made our home bright and full of flavor.

But then came those stormy years of adolescence, with a bad plot churning within my brain. When the baker was distracted by whatever, I got caught playing in the shadows. My pockets, usually so light, innocent, grew heavy from stolen pleasures. I reckoned my spoils to be at least two thousand rupees and what, in the judgment of a boy, should stand for a fortune. The baker's errand-boy, unschooled and altogether unversed in the manipulation of numerals, would hand me a ledger containing the accounts, and whilst affecting studious industry, I should scribble semi-scrawl in the place of currency values.

I loved it for months, this life that was not mine, dwelling in the excitement of an illicit adventure. Then, from day to day into weeks, a nagging voice began rising in me, like a whisper that grew louder and more insistent every moment; and I saw myself now with a cold and stark realization-stodied and stark-that I was not a loyal patron but a thief masquerading as a customer.

This painful awakening brought with it a vow, made to my heart: I would return what was not mine, earning it through honest toil and hard work. Thus determined, I set out to right my wrongs, promising myself that one day, with an open heart, I would face the baker and confess my misdeeds.

It had been some time since then. I became a professional; I graduated into it. With the responsibility came the fruits of labor—the first modest pay was treasure to me. This was the day when I went before the bakery with my heart full of grief for all that had happened to me. I knew I would have to stand face to face with the man who had welcomed me with open arms.

Familiar smells had enveloped me as I stepped into the bakery. This brought memories of childhood and warmth. The baker looked up and his eyes widened, realizing that it was me. Hands were shaking and heart racing, and I handed him my restitution—a sum tenfold more than it had grown since days of deceit.

To my amazement, the baker's shocked expression diffused to understanding. He accepted the offering, and his kindness showed on me like the first rains of the monsoon season. At that moment, an enormous weight on my back was removed, and the sense of relief became overpowering.

In hushed tones, I asked the baker to keep the story between us so that maybe he could help protect my parents from the disappointment that would cloud their eyes. He nodded with a very slight, sweet smile playing on his lips as he assured me that my secret was safe.

And so, on that day, standing under the forgiving eyes of the baker, I found joy unequalled—a moment of redemption that would forever dance in the chambers of my heart. The little bakery, where once I robbed and looked on for hours from the keyhole of my imagination, now stood as a backdrop to redemption and second chances, telling the world that even the smallest acts of honesty lead to profound healing.