A story of guilt and grace

Growing up on the premises of a veterinary hospital, my childhood was a kaleidoscope of diverse encounters with people from all walks of life. My father, the assistant director of veterinary services, created an environment where I was encouraged to observe, listen, and engage
with everyone—patients, farmers, staff, and visitors.

One day, a playful prank by my friend Prakash nearly ended in a painful burn from a Caesalpinia crista seed. Just as I was about to try it, a stern voice interrupted us. A man in his mid-30s, dressed in white pyjamas, a bush shirt, a Gandhi cap, and a red towel draped over his shoulder, intervened and gave Prakash a scolding. He had the look of an ordinary farmer. His name was Sharanappa, and he had come from a neighbouring village with his two majestic oxen for treatment.

A few days later, Sharanappa returned for a follow-up visit. I ran to him and asked if he came all the way from his village. His response stunned me: “No, dear. I am an inmate of the Hindalaga jail. These are the jail’s oxen.”

I asked, “Were you put behind bars for theft?” He calmly replied, “No. I am serving a life sentence for murder.” I froze. A mixture of fear and curiosity swept over me. Sensing my unease, he grinned and said lightly, “Don’t worry—I don’t kill random people.”

Mustering my courage, I asked, “Why did you kill someone? Will you tell me?” And he did.

Sharanappa and his cousin Chinnappa had been inseparable since childhood. They shared everything—school, games, and farm work. But as they grew older, disputes over land broke out between their fathers. The boys drifted apart. Hostilities flared over time, and one day, in a moment of uncontrollable rage, Sharanappa did the unthinkable. At the time, Sharanappa’s wife was heavily pregnant. “I have never even seen my son’s face,” Sharanappa lamented.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” I blurted out, barely able to grasp the weight of what I’d just heard, though a wave of empathy washed over me.

After that, I continued to see Sharanappa occasionally. He always asked me about my studies and urged me to do well. Then, one day in early January, he arrived at the hospital with a beaming face. “I am being released!” he exclaimed.

“No! Please don’t go,” I pleaded. He smiled, sadly. “I have been waiting for this day for a very long time.”

On January 26, he was released due to his exemplary conduct in prison. I felt strangely empty.

Later, my father explained gently, “That is the best thing to happen. Would you rather he remained in prison forever or lived a quality life with his family?” He was right. To me, Sharanappa wasn’t just a convict. He was a good-hearted farmer whose life had been shattered by one moment of anger. Our bond, built in the unlikely setting of a veterinary hospital, was a testament to the complex nature of human bonds, extending beyond the definitions of crime and punishment.