Many years ago, before my frontal lobe had had a chance to peak, I decided to enter the world of crime — theft to be precise. I was seven and a half, and we were spending the summer at Phuphee’s. It was hot and most of our time was spent running around the orchards, often trying to seek the shade of an obliging tree.

On one such hot day, the criminal mastermind in me was awakened, probably by the confusion caused by dehydration and listlessness. I had been walking around trying to find my cousins in a game of hide and seek, when I saw a kraenjul (wicker basket) resting by the window in the pantry. Inside was a bunch of juicy crimson red plums. I looked around and could see no one. So I reached out my sweaty little hand and grabbed one and devoured it, the blood red juices running down my chin and frock.

When I had consumed one, I grabbed another and then another, dropping the pits to the floor. Before I could gather my senses, I had consumed half a dozen. I would have eaten more, but my stomach rebelled. I heard a sound coming from the kitchen, and in a tizzy I picked up the pits in my hand and buried them in the ground. I believed it was the perfect crime.

I walked to the front of the house, where Maetonji (Phuphee’s friend and the nun who ran the local hospital) was sitting. She was reading something to Phuphee, who looked like she was sleeping. As I got closer, it became clear that Phuphee was indeed fast asleep, but Maetonji kept reading Little Women to her. This scene was confusing. I didn’t know Phuphee could understand English. And she was asleep, so who was Maetonji trying to read to?

‘You know Phuphee is sleeping? She can’t hear you!’ I said, very matter of factly.

‘Oh, child, don’t you know Ta-hee-ra never sleeps,’ replied Maetonji.

Unable to digest this new information, I waited for her to explain. She looked at me, shut her book and gently pulled me closer to her.

She took a handkerchief which she dampened slightly at her own lips and dabbed at the corners of my lips and chin, winked and said, ‘That’s better, child! Now you don’t look like Count Dracula so much! Ta-hee-era never sleeps, she closes her eyes, but she can still see and hear everything. It’s part of being a great and powerful peerni.’

Upon hearing this, I was dumbstruck. Had Phuphee seen me eat the plums? My career as a great thief had ended before it had even had a chance to blossom, not to mention just how much trouble I would now face. Everyone would know I was a thief, a petty thief who stole plums, plums Phuphee had plucked for aer tchetin (a sweet-and-sour plum chutney) for the evening meal. Now there weren’t enough plums to make the tchetin for everyone. Blood rushed to my cheeks and I felt great shame.

‘Oh Gub-ree-la [Maetonji’s name was Sister Gabriella], what new yarns are you weaving in her head now?’ Phuphee asked, yawning and stretching.

‘Goodness Ta-hee-ra, I am a woman of God. I am sure I don’t know anything about weaving yarns. And speaking of God, I need to get back, Lord’s work needs doing,’ she said, as she winked at me. She left the book on the verandah and bid us goodbye.

‘Are you alright, myoan toath [my loved one]. You look a bit flushed,’ Phuphee asked.

I didn’t have the courage to confess my crime or how deeply sorry I was. So, instead, I embraced her, inhaling the aroma of cardamoms and cloves, and I sobbed.

At dinner as everyone was eating, one of my cousins asked where the aer tchetin was. I froze, expecting Phuphee to reveal my crime. She looked at me, meeting my gaze for a split second before replying, “They weren’t ripe enough. Maybe in a day or two we can have them,’ and carried on eating.

Later on, lying next to her in bed, my body nestled in the space between her chest and arms, her breath soft, she stroked my hair and whispered, ‘You can always tell me anything, myoan shoosh [my lungs]. You will never get into trouble for telling me the truth, no matter how bad it is. Tomorrow, we will go together and pick more plums for the tchetin.’ With those words I fell into a dreamless sleep.

That incident stayed with me and in moments when my darkness emerged, her unfaltering love became my saving grace. At such times, I understood the importance of being loved wholly, because often the first step towards redemption was acceptance of your own dark side. The most powerful thing about being loved like that, when the darkness in you is accepted in the same way as the light, is you find the strength to never give in.

Phuphee taught me not to just accept both sides of myself, but that light often exists in the same place as darkness. As important as it was to revere the light, it was also important to be in mild awe of the darkness.

Saba Mahjoor, a Kashmiri living in England, spends her scant free time contemplating life’s vagaries.