The Immunity of Children

Children enjoy a curious kind of immunity. They are free to try things, if not in front of adults (for fear of being stopped), then surely in their absence. It is nothing but the raw expression of human freedom, getting ready to assert itself.

But adults, too, know how to use this immunity when faced with a caveat or taboo. Take, for instance, the case of killing cockroaches inside God’s room. For devout believers in non-violence, such an act is unthinkable, worse still if it happens in the sanctum where God’s presence is invoked. So, a compromise is struck. A child, the very incarnation of innocence, is coaxed into doing the “forbidden” act—bribed with a packet of chocolates or promised a shiny toy gun. The child gladly takes the can of pesticide, sprays it in and around the idol, and then runs off to claim the prize. The arrangement works perfectly: the adult escapes God’s censure for killing His creatures, while the child acts under the cloak of innocence and the lure of fun.

But the question remains: how long does such immunity last?

Some adults keep addressing grown men and women as beta, “my child”, even when those “children” have children of their own. My story, however, is not about such adults. It is about four teenagers—fast friends, inseparable, and bound by the motto of “sink or swim together.” They were given mythological nomenclature: Bhim, Arjun, Nakul, Sahdev. There was little story about them: their mothers conceived and gave birth to them about the same time, and no wonder, as they were mythologically named as if consulting each other.

They were all fish-eaters. Their friendship had the flavour of mischief, secrecy, and an unspoken pact of loyalty. Every evening, they roamed the village grazing field with Tipu, their dog. There they whispered about things no adult would allow them to discuss in public—questions about life, women, money, and the mysteries of adulthood.

When answers were not found, they quickly forgot and turned to what they could manage—collecting berries, wrestling, or swimming in forbidden styles no sport would approve of. Sometimes, they pooled their turns to borrow a much-circulated 40-page booklet and found a quiet spot to read aloud together before taking it home, one by one, secretly. Books sparked new questions, too—why should girls not talk directly to boys, and why should their thoughts about the boys be so misconceived?

Their minds were buzzing with riddles: How to earn enough money to buy spicy fritters at a roadside stall? How to purchase kites or bicycles? How to reach school on time even after detouring to places where no adult’s eye followed them?

One day, the four reached the embankment of a pond. Their first curiosity: how deep was it?

Bhim said, “It must be fifteen feet.”

Arjun said, “No, fourteen at most.”

Nakul said, “Well, it’s two feet max.”

Sahdev, the self-styled mathematician of the group, averaged the guesses and declared, “Hmm, it’s ten feet!”

Nakul, who estimated only two feet, was dared to wade in, for if it was indeed that shallow, he had nothing to fear. He marched in bravely and proved himself right—the water rose only waist-deep, about three feet in the middle. The others applauded his triumph as if he had fathomed the Mariana Trench.

But triumph turned quickly into conspiracy. “Don’t tell anyone,” whispered Bhim. “We can catch fish here.”

The pond was a public one. Its fish were reserved for sale to fund the village’s annual function and the open-air theatre troupe. But community decisions mattered little to four adventure-hungry boys. They planned a secret fishing expedition the following Sunday.

The bigger problem: where to cook the fish? Parents would never allow it for fear of being ostracised. After some deliberation, they struck upon the temporary hut of a beggar who had squatted at the edge of the grazing field. The man was sometimes away, but luckily, that evening he was present. The cabal of four gathered from the beggar that he would be present in his hut on the following Sunday. That’s all, the beggar was not to be made privy to the details of the forthcoming adventure!

On Sunday, just after sunset, the boys crept into the pond. Fortune favoured them—a large carp, easily more than a kilo, slipped under Arjun’s feet almost at once. Catching it was easier than plucking a guava from a low branch!

They rushed to the beggar, who roasted the carp in a fire. He coaxed them for the source of the fish, but the boys held their silence. Suspicion flickered in his eyes, but he said nothing. When the fish was ready, the boys devoured it with nothing more than salt. No spices, no oil—yet they declared it the best fish of their lives. They left only the fish head for the beggar. He declined their offer to share, saying he would first pray to God and eat later.

But Sahdev grew uneasy. Why hadn’t the beggar eaten with them? Why had he pressed so hard to know the source? Was he planning to betray them?

The suspicion proved true. The beggar went to the head of the village elders and complained. The Head might have ignored it, but with other dignitaries present on his veranda, the matter took wings. The beggar was promised three kilos of rice if he could identify the culprits.

The next day, during school recess, the beggar pointed out the four boys from afar. The deal was sealed.

A village meeting was convened. The boys admitted their act, though Arjun argued cheekily:

“I caught the fish because it came under my feet. What else was I to do?”

The elders were not amused. The case was proven. Now came the question of punishment.

One elder rose to announce the penalty but was interrupted by the village head, a man of unusual sagacity. He said:

“Can we blame a witch if we leave our baby unguarded? The pond was shallow because we failed to dig it properly. Let each household now spend ten days’ labour to deepen it.”

The gathering nodded.

He continued:

“A child is always innocent. Don’t we ask a child to cut a wax gourd because it is considered a symbolic sacrificial animal, forbidden for women to give it the first cut? The child does it without sin, because innocence shields him. Similarly, if these four ‘innocent’ children have caught the fish, they cannot be punished. When you deploy them for your work, you treat them as innocent, but when they do something out of their childlike curiosity, you merrily forget their innocence!”

Instead, he proposed: “Tomorrow, let us all catch whatever fish remain in the pond. Each house will contribute two kilos of rice. This time the feast will be dedicated to the children of the village—none else.”

No one opposed.

And so it was. The next evening, the village celebrated with fish curry, fish fry, and nothing but fish. The laughter of children echoed louder than the temple bells, and the four little miscreants found themselves heroes instead of culprits.

The immunity of childhood had saved them once again.

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By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Bhubaneswar

10-10-2025

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[My latest story book in English, "Midnight Biryani and Other Stories", is available on Amazon. Search by author name "ananta narayan nanda"]