Half a Rupee Worth By R.K. Narayan

About the author

The story “Half a Rupee Worth” is a compelling short story that delves into the themes of greed and human selfishness during challenging times. It serves as a cautionary tale, highlighting the detrimental effects of materialism and the absence of empathy, which can ultimately lead to one’s own downfall. The narrative follows Subbaiah, a successful rice dealer in his forties, whose life is dominated by money rather than values. Tragically, the story concludes with his premature demise, buried beneath his own rice bags. This poignant moral encourages readers to reflect on the struggles of others, particularly in times of hardship.

Rasipuram Krishnaswami Narayanaswami, commonly known as R. K. Narayan, was born on October 10, 1906, and passed away on May 13, 2001. He was a notable Indian author and novelist celebrated for his rich portrayals of life in the fictional South Indian town of Malgudi. Alongside prominent names like Mulk Raj Anand and Raja Rao, Narayan played a significant role in shaping early Indian literature in English. In recognition of his literary contributions, he received the AC Benson Medal from the Royal Society of Literature in 1980 and was honored as an Honorary Member of the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters in 1981. Throughout his prolific career, Narayan wrote over 200 novels, short stories, and plays. His narratives often explore the tension between traditional lifestyles and modernity, bringing to life the social intricacies of his characters’ worlds. He has drawn comparisons to William Faulkner, who also created a fictional setting to delve into the humor and depth of ordinary existence. Additionally, literary experts have likened Narayan’s short stories to the works of Guy de Maupassant, praising his skill in weaving concise yet compelling narratives. Spanning more than sixty years, Narayan garnered numerous accolades, including the esteemed AC Benson Medal, the Padma Vibhushan, and the Padma Bhushan, which are India’s second and third highest civilian honors. In 1994, he was awarded the Sahitya Akademi Fellowship, the highest distinction from India’s National Academy of Letters. He also held a nomination to the Rajya Sabha, the upper house of the Indian Parliament.

Story

Subbaiah sold rice at the market gate. In his shop you find rice heaped in wicker baskets, all varieties, from pebbly coarse rice to Delhi Samba, white as jasmine and slender as a needle. His shop was stuffy and dark but he loved every inch of it. He loved the smell of gunny sack, of rice and husk, and he loved the warm feel of rice cascading into his baskets freshly arriving from the mill. Through good times and bad he flourished. There were days of drought when paddy didn’t come up and the rice mills were silenced, when people looked hollow-eyed and half dead. But even then he never closed his shop. If he didn’t find stuff for twenty baskets, he scoured the countryside and filled at least two baskets, and sold them. There were times when the harvest was so rich he could hardly accept a quarter of the grain that was offered, when it seemed fool’s business to be selling rice. If you sold rice all day and night you could not hope for a profit of even fifty rupees. They called it depression in the trade. The God of Harvest was capricious. His bounty was as unacceptable as his parsimony. But Subbaiah survived all ups and downs. Rice was in his blood. He had served as an unpaid apprentice when his father ruled. Those were days when Subbaiah loathed the rice bags which hemmed him in at the shop; he longed for the crowded streets, cinemas, football matches, and wrestling tournaments, which he glimpsed through the crowded shop door. But his father more or less kept him chained to the shop and discouraged his outside interests: “Young fellows often should be horse whipped if they are not to become brigands.” He practised this theory of child-training with such steadfastness that in due course the little man had no eyes or ears for anything except rice and the market.

When his father died he slid into his place so nicely that nobody noticed the difference. Most people thought that the old man was still there counting cash. Business prospered. Subbaiah kept tethered at the backyard of his home five prize cows and buffaloes whose milk, curd, and butter he and his wife and five children consumed day and night and then became rotund and balloon like. He owned thirty acres of land in a nearby village, and visited it once a month to survey his possessions and make sure they were intact. He lent money at exorbitant rates of interest to desperate persons, and acquired dozens of houses through their default. He became swollen with money. He sent his children to a school, bought those brocade caps and velvet coats, and paid a home-tutor to shout the lessons at the top of his voice every evening under a lamp in the hall. He loaded his wife with gold ornaments and draped her in gaudy Benares silk; he added on to his house two more storeys and several halls and painted all the walls with a thick blue oil paint, and covered them with hundreds of pictures of the gods in gilt frames. All day he sat by his iron safe and kept shoving money into it, watching closely at the same time his assistants measuring out rice into gunny sacks; it was a completely satisfying and tranquil existence. There seemed no reason why it should not go on through eternity—the same set of activities and interests, going on and on, money piling up and rice coming in and going out, and then one or the other of his sons to acquire his shape and appearance and continue the family business. This seemed, for all practical purposes, a region beyond life, death, and change.

It might have continued thus but for the War. It seemed at first to be the end of civilization, but after the first shock, it proved not so unwelcome after all. His profits piled up as never before—Saigon and Burma ceased to send rice, and that meant the stock he held was worth its weight in gold. People flocked to his shop at all hours, and the door of the iron safe could hardly be pushed in. He bought the big house next door for a godown and then the next one and the next, and then bought a dozen more villages. He loaded more gold on his wife and daughters and increased his own girth. War seemed, on the whole, a very beneficial force—till the introduction of Price and Food Control. For the first time in his life he was baffled and worried. He could not see how anyone had the right to say what he should sell and at what rate. He raved night and day to a set of his admiring friends and assistants: “Sircar, what do they know of this business? Let them content themselves with tax-collection, catching thieves, and putting up drains. What do they know of the rice business?” He felt happy when he heard someone say, “The Food Department is a hoax. The Government is making a mess of things.” He agreed heartily and implored, “Can’t some educated person like you represent to the Government? It’s disgraceful.”

He soon found that he could still survive under a new garb. By waiting before officials, and seeing people, and filling up forms, he was soon allowed to continue his business as a Fair Price Grain Depot. Still it seemed a poor substitute for his old trade. He groaned unhappily when he learnt that he had to surrender all the rice his peasants laboriously cultivated in his village fields. The whole thing seemed to him atrocious. “They have to fix the price for my produce! They have to give me permission to take what I myself produce!” The scheme seemed to him tyrannical. But he accepted the position without much outward protest. He slept little and lost the taste for food. All through the dark nights his mind dwelt on the problem. Finally a solution emerged. He cried to himself, “I still have my rice in the fields, and I still have the bags in my godown. If I can’t use my wits and keep my hands on these I might as well perish. After all, what does the Government want? To have things in nice shape on paper—that they shall have.” It involved some intricate work, but it was worth it. He retained all the rice he wanted—for sale and personal use—but out of sight and out of paper. He had to give away a lot of money to people who were entitled to examine his stock and accounts, but he never grudged this investment. If he passed a ten-rupee currency note on such an occasion, it meant he had screened from prying eyes a thousand rupees’ worth of grain. When he thought it over, he realized that all controls and restrictions were really a boon. He reflected philosophically: God arranges everything for the best. He distributed a few annas for charity twice a week, and broke a coconut at the temple on Fridays in appreciation of God’s interest in his affairs. Gradually, with experience, as his technique developed and improved, he became a master of his situation. At his depot, he measured out rice with a deft hand, so that at the end of a day a considerable quantity accumulated which was nobody’s and then he delayed and opened and closed and reopened his shop in such a manner as to make people come to him several times before they could get any rice out of him; when they had money he had no stock, or when he had rice they had no money. By all this manipulation, he accumulated a vast quantity of rice every week, and then out of his village harvest only a small portion reached the Food Department.