A Pocketful of Rye

Raj-Jeevan was in charge of the storehouse. He was the only male non-family member that the young bride could interact with – the purdah system was implemented with an iron hand. But he was unavailable today – he had been called away to the fields for supervision – the regular supervisor happened to be sick.

As usual, the men folks were not available – in any case, the building where they spent most of the day playing cards and conducting business was a good five hundred yards from the haveli where the ladies spent virtually all their time. However, the distance was not the problem – the young girl that Sumitra had been less than a year ago – before she got married – could have sprinted that distance in a matter of minutes – but now it was against all known rules and protocols of the house.

The problem was rice. Raj-Jeevan had neglected to set aside a sufficient quantity before leaving. An unexpected guest had shown up to visit the men folks and they had run short.

Sumitra, who was usually the last one to eat, had none left for herself. And she was extremely hungry – she also knew instinctively that newly pregnant wives must not skip meals – and rice was one item she had to have.

Asking the elder ladies was out of the question – her mother-in-law was conducting an all-day pooja and could not be disturbed. The rest of the ladies belonged to the “other” camp within the ladies household – they had separate cooking arrangements – the two camps were rivals – they did not get along and speaking to any member of that other camp without saasji’s permission was asking for trouble.

Sumitra asked the helper lad – do you know where Raj-Jeevan keeps his keys?

The lad said – I do, but the keys aren’t there. I saw him take those along.

Sumitra thought of a scheme – the skylight was large enough and the lad was small enough to fit in – why don’t you just slip through, and use the bamboo ladder to climb. Just get me some rice.

The lad protested – I don’t even know where he stores the rice.

Sumitra had the answer ready – it’s the third drum to your right – you can’t miss it.

The lad said – I don’t have anything to carry it in.

Sumitra said – just fill up your shirt’s pocket with it – it’s large enough. Make sure you button it well before you climb back up.

The lad still hesitated – it’s dark in there, I’m afraid to go in. I have been told that old maalkin’s ghost hangs around inside.

The old maalkin had died over a year ago.

Sumitra enticed him with a rupee coin.

It was getting quite dark by the time the lad got back. Sumitra did not ask him any questions – in the darkness, she just upturned his shirt’s pocket into a small scarf and took it inside her room. She settled herself on a little charpoy in the corner – hunger was gnawing at her insides – she decided to take a bite of the rice without bothering to cook.

Then she immediately spat out the mustard grains.