Being good and doing the right thing were drilled into our heads from the time we could remember our lives. Our whole purpose on this earth according to our mothers, fathers and teachers was to be good and do the right thing and we were told endless stories of how good always triumphed over evil.

So why do we do things right? 

Is it because we are scared of getting found out? 

Are we deterred by the punishment that can follow?

Do we fear being ostracised for not being good? 

Or is it because we are simply programmed to do things right?

My first ever lesson on right and wrong was something I learnt when I was all of five years old. It was my first day in my new school. After a whole year of going to kindergarten with my baby brother, I was finally leaving him behind and going to the big school. I was very excited. I couldn’t stop preeining before the mirror with my new bag, water bottle,shiny, new shoes and of course my new uniform. I loved the uniform, starched and ironed.
“Come on, let’s go,” said my dad to me as I bade farewell to my dolls. I loved playing school and had lined them up on one side of my bed, promising them I’d return home soon and teach them all that I’d learnt.

I ran out of the door and sat inside the car. I could hardly sit still and waited impatiently while my brother was dropped off to his school. Finally, the car turned in at the road which led to the big school. I watched in wonder as other children trooped in, some in groups, some alone and some with their parents like  I was.

I was bursting with pride and happiness as I walked beside my dad, he in his Naval uniform and me in my school uniform. As he took me down the corridor, I couldn’t help marvelling at how grown up I was! I could hardly wait to wave good bye to him as he left me with my class teacher to settle down to a new adventure.

The classroom was big and bright with yellow and red coloured tables. All along the walls ran a soft board on which were brightly coloured charts. At the front of the class was a huge desk with a jam jar of daisies behind it a green board that went up and down with the words “Welcome Class 1K” written in blue chalk.

The day went by like a dream. Miss Potts took us for Reading and Maths and Mrs. King took us for Art. I loved walking down to the end of the corridor and filling up my jam jar with clean water. I was excited making new friends and was waiting to go home and tell my dollies all about it.

At the end of the day, the bell rang and we had to stand up and say “Good Afternoon and Thank you Miss Potts,” pick up our bottles and bags which were kept to one side and walk down the corridor to the main hall and wait for our parents to come and pick us up.

While walking down the corridor, something shiny glinted in the dark. I went closer and picked it up. It was a gleaming, new brass drawing pin. I twirled it in my fingers and loved the way moved, smoothly like a top. I looked at it and heard my mother’s voice telling me ” DON’T PICK UP THNGS THAT DON’T BELONG TO YOU!” but the golden gleam was too hard to resist. i pretended I hadn’t heard my mom and  hid it in my fist and just before I met my dad, quietly slipped it into my pocket. All the way home, I chattered about how my day was and couldn’t stop talking till bed time.  All the while, I felt the pin from time to time, and felt a secret pleasure.

“Shouldn’t you be getting out of your uniform?” my mother would ask me from time to time but I couldn’t bear being parted from my golden pin. Finally, it was bedtime and I just had to take off the uniform. Reluctantly, I took it off and threw it in the dhobi basket and got into my pyjamas. That night I dreamt about school and couldn’t wait for the new day to dawn. At seven in the morning I heard my mom rustling about in the kitchen and quickly jumped out of bed. “Ouch”, I screamed in pain as something poked my foot. I turned it up and found that the drawing pin had gone in. Hearing my cry my mother rushed to the room and was as shocked as I was seeing blood coming from my foot. 

“How did that happen?” she asked me, gently pulling it out.

” I stepped on a drawing pin”.

“But how did that get here?” she asked looking at the stubby little pin that had now miraculously lost its golden glamour and acquired a villainous tinge.

“I found it in the corridor in school,” I said between sobs, ” I promise I didn’t steal it.”

” Ah,” she said wisely, and made me walk to the bathroom.  I winced as she washed my foot and dabbed it with Mercurochrome that  stung even more than it normally did. She put a small band aid on the “wound” and gave me a special kiss as she saw me off to school. 

The lesson I learnt that day went much deeper than the pin. I learnt never to take things that didn’t belong to me.