Short fiction: A young woman will find liberation by making handiya, a traditionally made rice beer

The gates don’t open on their own. The watchman opens them, after scrutinising each entry and exit. He has a lot of patience she thinks, as she watches him from the balcony where she is cleaning the railing. He decides who can step out without being investigated for stolen possessions. But it’s actually quite simple – residents are never checked, servants are.

She finishes her work and goes to her room, to rest for a while. The room is tiny, but her bed is next to the window and the family treats her well. Sitting by the window, she dreams of her grandparents’ hut near the sal woods where she used to romp in her childhood. The river with gold in its belly. The boats that ferried raucous schoolkids and goats. The smell of woodsmoke in the evenings. The sweet smell of handiya that her grandmother brewed in earthen pots.

When her grandparents passed, she worked as a reja for a builder, bearing load on her head at construction sites. Then he brought her home to work for his family, the daily weightlifting that keeps a house alive, and she discovered that all families are alike. Only the clothes change, the language, and food.

She looks at the...

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