The Weight of Stolen Rupees: My Dark Secret from a Tragic Overdose Call
It’s been two years, but the memory still burns, a persistent ember in my soul. I’m a fireman, a ‘sevak’ for the community, a job I always took immense pride in. That day, we got a call – an ambulance assist. Simple enough, we thought. But as often happens, our Agnishaman Dal truck was the first to screech to a halt outside a modest house in a quiet lane.
We burst in. The air was thick, heavy. Two young men lay slumped on a sofa, their faces ashen, breathing shallow. Heroin overdose. The sight hit me hard; I'd seen it before, but it never gets easier. My colleague rushed back to the truck for the vital reversal medicine. For a brief, terrible moment, I was alone with another junior colleague, our eyes scanning for signs of life. And then I saw it – a worn leather wallet, spilling with what looked like a hefty wad of cash, lying carelessly on a small side table.
My heart pounded, a frantic drum against my ribs. Twenty thousand rupees, maybe more. In that split second, a voice, dark and insidious, whispered. Before my rational mind could catch up, my hand moved, swift and silent. The notes were tucked deep into my uniform pocket, the fabric burning against my skin. My colleague returned with the medication, and we worked frantically. The men were revived, thank God. We packed up, professionalism masking the tremor in my hands. No one noticed. No one questioned. But I did.
That twenty thousand rupees – it felt like a fortune, a solution to so many small worries. But it’s long gone, spent on mundane things. Yet, the guilt remains, a permanent stain on my uniform, on my conscience. I’m meant to save lives, to be a beacon of trust. Instead, I stole from someone at their lowest, someone almost certainly lost in the grip of addiction. Every siren I hear, every face I see, reminds me. Am I still worthy of this uniform? The question haunts me, a silent, terrible judgment.
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