Stolen Sunshine

It was the kind of night when frogs croaked like old men and crickets played tabla in the wet dark. A thin drizzle hung over the sleepy Bengal village of Beldanga, where most honest folk had gone to bed after their rice and fish curry. But one man, Haru Chor, as everyone fondly called him, was still awake.

Fondly, because though Haru was a thief, he was also the village clown. He stole more out of curiosity than necessity, and half the time he stole the wrong thing.

Once he stole a barber’s broken mirror thinking it was a silver tray. Another time, he lifted a cowbell from the grocer’s bull, hoping to sell it as “temple metal.”

That night, Haru had drunk a generous portion of cheap country liquor, courtesy of Gopal Moira (sweet maker), whose shop he “borrowed” sweets from whenever he was hungry.

As he staggered along the mud road, hiccupping like a leaky harmonium, he looked up at the glistening roofs of the village houses. The drizzle made the terracotta tiles gleam like they were made of gold.

And that’s when Haru had a brilliant, or so he thought, idea.

“Arrey! Look at that shine! If the zamindar can buy new tiles for his mansion, why can’t I sell some old ones?” he mumbled to himself.

Within minutes, he had climbed onto someone’s roof, muttering, “Just borrow a few tiles, brother, I’ll return your sunshine later.”

By dawn, Haru had managed to fill a gunny bag with cracked, rain-washed tiles, humming happily to himself. He even talked to the bag, “You and I, my friend, will be rich today. Zamindar babu’s mansion is hungry for tiles!”

 

Morning came with the usual chaos, roosters crowing, children yelling, and women scolding their husbands for being useless.

Haru woke up under a banyan tree, his head pounding like a drum at a village fair. He looked at the gunny bag beside him and blinked.

“What’s this? Did I steal bricks? No… tiles! Terracotta tiles!”

Then it came to him, the roof tiles he’d stolen looked awfully similar to the ones on Zamindar Bhubanesh Das’s mansion.

He smirked. “Perfect! The zamindar loves anything old and expensive. I’ll sell it to him as antique village craft. He’ll fall at my feet!”

And so, with his lungi tied tight and gunny bag slung over his shoulder, Haru began his noble march to the mansion of Bhubanesh Das, the proudest, greediest zamindar in Beldanga.

 

The mansion stood like a sleeping elephant, majestic, cracked, and slightly smelly. Haru arrived at the giant wooden gate and shouted,

“Oi! Anyone home? Tell Zamindar Babu a fine merchant has come with terracotta treasures!”

A sleepy servant opened the door and looked him up and down.

“Merchant? You look like someone who’d steal coconuts from his own tree.”

“Don’t insult me,” Haru said, puffing his chest. “These tiles have seen the world! Bring your master. Quick!”

The servant rolled his eyes. “Wait here.”

Haru waited. Then waited more. Then waited so long that a crow built half a nest on the mansion’s wall.

Finally, he decided to wander around the courtyard. That’s when he met her, an old lady sitting in a corner, peeling a banana with utmost concentration.

She looked up and smiled kindly. “Ah, you must be the new servant?”

Haru blinked. “Servant? No, no, I’m a, uh, tile dealer.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” she said cheerfully with a wrinkled face. “The zamindar always needs honest workers. Come, have some food first. You look half-dead.”

Before he could protest, she dragged him to the kitchen and served him steaming rice, lentils, and fried brinjal. Haru stared in disbelief.

No one had ever fed him before being a theft.

He tried to speak between mouthfuls. “You must be the cook?”

She chuckled softly. “Me? No, I’m Bhuban’s maid. He’s a kind man, you know. Treats me like family.”

That made Haru choke on his rice as he recalls. The maid was none other than Bhuban’s mother, Durgamoyee Devi, a once-feared matriarch whose mind had grown foggy with age.

As Haru ate like a king, she hummed an old Tagore tune and said, “People say my son’s heart has turned to stone. But stones can still shine in sunlight.”

Haru nodded, his mouth full. “True, Ma. And so can tiles.”

 

By the time Bhubanesh Das finally appeared, Haru had eaten two plates of rice, three brinjal fries, and drunk an entire jug of water.

The zamindar, tall and portly, looked at him with suspicion. “You again? Didn’t I see you stealing mangoes last month?”

“That wasn’t me,” Haru said with mock outrage. “That was my evil twin, Baru Chor.”

Bhuban rolled his eyes. “What’s in the bag?”

Haru opened it dramatically. “Behold! Ancient terracotta tiles! Made by the ancestors of Bishnupur craftsmen, each soaked in divine artistry!”

The zamindar crouched to inspect the tiles. “They look… ordinary.”

“Ordinary?” Haru gasped. “Sir, these tiles were kissed by the rain, blessed by the wind, and… uh… stolen, no, collected, from a heritage roof!”

Bhuban smirked. “And how much do you want for this divine garbage?”

Haru was about to say “two rupees” but remembered the brinjal fry and the kind old lady. His belly was full, his heart content.

“Twenty rupees!” he said confidently.

“Twenty?” Bhuban scoffed. “I could buy new tiles for ten!”

Haru folded his arms. “Buy new ones then. But they won’t have the same… spiritual coating.”

Bhuban frowned. “Spiritual coating?”

“Yes,” said Haru. “These tiles absorb the laughter and curses of those who live under them. Pure village energy! You’ll feel it!”

The zamindar, confused but curious, scratched his beard. “Ten rupees.”

“Twenty.”

“Twelve.”

“Twenty.”

“Fifteen.”

“Twenty.”

By the end, the zamindar was red-faced. “Fine! Twenty! But only because I want to be rid of your mouth.”

Haru grinned. “Pleasure doing business, sir. Where should I unload?”

“Cowshed!” Bhuban barked. “Put them with the scrap.”

As Haru left, Durgamoyee Devi waved from the veranda. “Don’t forget to eat again tomorrow, servant boy!”

Haru winked. “Only if you make brinjal again, Ma!”

 

That afternoon, Bhubanesh Das sat down for lunch in his grand dining room. The servants had prepared everything, rice, fish curry, chutney, sweets. But something felt… odd.

The room seemed unusually bright. Sunlight poured through the roof in golden streams, bouncing off the floor and glinting off his silverware.

Bhuban squinted. “Why is it so bright in here today?”

A servant scratched his head. “Must be the weather, sir.”

“No, no,” Bhuban said, standing up. “The light’s coming from above!”

He craned his neck, and his mouth fell open.

Half the roof was missing.

Where there should have been terracotta tiles, there were gaping holes, sunlight flooding through like a celestial spotlight.

He yelled, “What in the name of Ganga’s cow is this?!”

The servants rushed in. “Sir! The tiles are gone! Stolen!”

Bhuban turned pale. “Stolen? When?”

“Last night, sir.”

He froze. His face twitched. “And… where did we unload those tiles I bought from that rascal?”

“In the cowshed, sir.”

A moment of stunned silence. Then Bhuban groaned.

“By all the gods of Bengal… I just bought my own roof!”

 

By evening, the story had spread across Beldanga faster than gossip at a wedding.

“Did you hear? Haru sold the zamindar his own roof!”

“Haru Chor’s become Haru Seth now!”

Even the cows in Bhuban’s cowshed seemed to be smirking.

The next morning, Haru walked past the mansion proudly, munching on a banana. A few villagers bowed mockingly.

“Namaskar, Haru Seth!”

“Going to buy the zamindar’s walls today?”

Haru grinned. “No, no, I’m moving into international business. I’m thinking of selling him his own shadow next week.”

Just then, Bhuban appeared at the gate, red with fury. “You devil! You tricked me!”

Haru bowed deeply. “No, sir. I only helped you see the light, literally.”

For a moment, even Bhuban couldn’t hold back his laughter. He shook his head. “You’re a scoundrel, Haru.”

Haru smiled. “A scoundrel, yes. But an honest one.”

The zamindar sighed. “You win this round. But if I catch you stealing again,”

“Stealing?” Haru interrupted. “Never, sir! I’ve retired. I’m now a businessman.”

He turned to leave but looked back and said cheekily, “By the way, I’ve got some fine second-hand bricks if you’re interested. Excellent for patching holes.”

Bhuban’s laughter echoed through the courtyard.

And somewhere inside the house, Durgamoyee Devi called out from the kitchen, “Tell the servant boy to come for lunch again! He has a good heart.”

Haru winked and shouted back, “Coming, Ma! But this time, I’ll bring dessert.”

 

A week later, villagers noticed something strange, Haru wasn’t stealing anymore. Instead, he sat under the banyan tree, sipping tea from a clay cup, dreaming up new “business ventures.”

He’d even opened a stall. The signboard, painted in crooked letters, read:

“Haru & Sons – Antique Construction Materials. Guaranteed to Shine!”

As for Bhubanesh Das, he eventually fixed his roof, using the same tiles Haru had sold him, of course. But whenever sunlight streamed into his dining room, he couldn’t help but chuckle.