conscience.

The first time I ever witnessed, understood, or was introduced to the idea of conscience was in third grade. That is my earliest memory of knowing what having a conscience meant.

At the time, my family and I lived in Raichur, Karnataka. I think I have the most memories of my childhood from the two years I lived there. It was almost the best possible setting to grow up in. A dozen kids to play with, a whole ground to run around in, to plant whatever tree or plant you wished and watch it grow. School was as good as school can be for a third-standard kid. Families close enough that we kept visiting each other across different cities for the next five years, even after we all eventually left. My mother is still in touch with most of them, if not through frequent calls then at least somewhere in her contact list.

The apartment building we lived in had two houses on each floor, and the families came from different parts of India, different ethnicities. The family on our floor had two kids, so naturally my siblings and I got along with them. Their mother and my mother became close friends, and eventually, both families did too.

There was a small ground surrounding the building, and every evening three groups would come down around the same time. The ladies, the uncles, and the kids. Each group played their own set of games – badminton, walking, talking and sometimes the three groups blended into one.

One morning, like every other morning, my family opened the front door as soon as we woke up. Beside the door, there was a charging point on the wall. My dad would place his black-and-red keypad phone on charge there, usually resting it on a chair. This was a daily occurrence.

That day, however, when he came back after a while to get his phone, it wasn’t there.

It had vanished.

It was clear that it was lost. My family spent the entire day asking around. The family on our floor did the same, trying whatever they could. Nothing came of it. Eventually, everyone gave up searching, though the loss stayed at the back of our minds.

The next morning, the routine repeated itself. The door was opened again at the crack of dawn. And when my dad wandered near the door after some time, the phone was back. Exactly where he had left it.

That was strange. Naturally, he felt relieved, of course, but also deeply curious.

Soon after, the uncle from the family on our floor, our houses were directly opposite each other, was scolding a man we knew in passing. Their newspaper delivery man. He stood in front of my dad as well, and the uncle asked him to apologise.

We were confused.

The man explained that he had taken the phone the previous day and returned it that morning. He had stolen it, but didn’t want to. Something in him had stopped him. The uncle had witnessed him correcting his mistake.

The man apologised while crying, pleading with folded hands.

My dad told him it was alright. That he understood. That he knew the man hadn’t wanted to do it, only that he had been momentarily overtaken by the complicated human mix of need, impulse, and circumstance. My dad thanked him for his honesty.

I think about that man once every few years. Usually when I hear about one of my dad’s lost phones, or when newspapers come up in conversation. Today, I thought of him randomly while cleaning my room.

He probably doesn’t remember me. His face is a blur to me now. But I know what conscience is because of him.

I hope you and I both think of him when we reach moments that test our values.