"A Guardian and a Thief" by Megha Majumdar

Megha Majumdar, a finalist for the National Book Award, spins a tale set in a future India grappling with severe climate changes. Here, we find a mother on the edge of relocating her family to America, thrown into turmoil when she realizes a desperate young man has stolen all their passports, plunging her into a week-long struggle filled with ethical dilemmas.

A Glimpse into the Story

In a clandestine space below the stairs, Ma retrieves a handful of rice and a batch of moon-dappled eggs. She stands by the stove’s bluish flame, her eyes drifting constantly to the window. Outside, in the dimness of early evening, bats loop in flight, the neem tree quivers, and someone bicycles past with a tune on their lips, offering an illusion of peace.

The thought 'thief' crosses Ma’s mind. Who else would roam a decaying Kolkata in such an oppressive year, beneath a burning sun that feels like a weapon, humming a melody upon seeing fresh produce? She watches, contemplating whether the cyclist will stop. He continues on his way. Yet, she envisions an alternate scenario where he leans his bicycle against her wall, scales the pipes like a nimble climber, and appears at her window—a seeker of community whispers and a wise follower of rumors about clandestine food reserves—caches she meticulously assembled from the aid delivered to her workplace while the city outside yearns for something to alleviate its hunger.

A History of Scarcity

The area was commonly labeled as suffering from scarcity. In the preceding year, collapsing agriculture left farmers feverish under an unrelenting sun. In idle fields stalked by pests, they lost their crops acre by acre. The west suffered riverbeds dried by drought; the east saw saltwater encroach upon rice paddies. City residents navigating to local markets, clutching lists scribbled on newsprint scraps—cabbage, ginger, the lily-textured flesh of lychee—found them empty: no vibrant baskets nor haphazard tarps. Instead, neglected remnants of onion peels hugged the edges where livestock once browsed.

These scenes replay a past history. During 1770, failed harvests brought famine and illness. In 1876, drought ravaged the Deccan Plateau even as the British exported every grain they could. By 1943, stark monochrome images captured the desolation—emaciated figures facing helpless photographers, stripped by hardship of joy and spirit but laying bare their enduring hunger.