Luxmi carried a cotton quilt out. In its folds she had stuck the satchel. “It is so sunny outside, Nani. I will put this out to air,” she said as she stepped out to the gallery. She picked up a stick to beat the dust out of it.

Luxmi could hear Nani’s loom go clicktey clack around the corner of the gallery. She hid the satchel behind a pile of wood in the far corner and quickly set about beating the life out of the razai. Plumes of dust floated out. After a hearty beating, she put it out on the ledge to sun it.

Clicktey clack. Clickety clack. Nani was lost in the loom. Luxmi took the satchel out and carefully laid all the papers on the floor. There were some envelopes with addresses scrawled on them, a few sheets of blank paper and one odd fat envelope with no address. That was unusual. All letters had to have an address. “This is how the letter reaches the right person,” Dak Chacha had told them.

Luxmi knew that trying to read what was in the envelope on her own would be futile. Half the letters would make no sense. But still, she slid the blank envelope into the folds of her kurta, put the rest back in the satchel and tiptoed back to the room. Nani was still absorbed in her work and didn’t notice her go inside to hang the satchel back.

Where do I hide it? Where do I hide it? Luxmi muttered to herself as she stepped back in the gallery. She knew it was wrong to steal and that was making her heart beat like a loud drum. But she also knew something was up, and she didn’t like being kept out of secrets. Besides, she reasoned, she was helping Chacha. A tiny voice inside her told her that it was all a lie. You are just a curious cat.

A curious cat who loves Dak Chacha, she told the voice sternly as she shoved the envelope deep inside the grain drum at the other end of the gallery. It was Luxmi’s duty to take out the buckwheat to grind whenever they ran out of flour. No one else touched drum. Nani and Mami would not come know. Besides, she had buried it so deep along the edge of the drum that she would have to open the bottom vent that was used to take the grain out to extract the envelope.

Luxmi hoped desperately that Bhola and Umesh would return before Dak Chacha. And that they could recognise different letters of the alphabet from the ones she knew. They could then attempt to read the contents of the envelope together.

“Luxmi! Luxmi,” Nani shouted from inside the house. The heartbeat got louder. Oh no! When did Nani go inside? Did she see me? Oh no, oh no, oh no! Luxmi thought as she sprinted inside. “Get the food ready. Umesh and Bhola are back.” Luxmi put the dal and rice pots on the tandoor to heat them and laid out the plates. Nani settled down on the other side of the tandoor.

“What’s wrong?” Bhola whispered to Luxmi as she put chutney and ghee pots in front of them.

“Later,” she whispered and sat down to eat.

“Are you still mad at us?” Umesh leaned in.

“Shut up and eat your lunch! Nani will give us all a beating if she finds out.”

“Find what? Tell . . .”

“Umesh! Bhola! How many times do I have to tell you to stay quiet while eating? Devta will curse you both for disrespecting food,” Nani shouted.

Everyone ate in silence. No one wanted the devta to curse them and even less for Nani to be the deliverer of that curse with her stinging nettle broom. The last time, when Umesh had got just one brush from it, his skin had burned for the rest of the day. He had had to run to the forest to hunt for hemp plants. Rubbing the hemp leaves gave some relief.

After everyone had washed their lunch plates, they waited for Nani to go back to her loom. Most of her day, before winter truly set in, was spent on the loom, preparing for the weddings that would take place in spring. She was still the best in their village in weaving intricate designs on pattoos and cap borders. And there were things to be made for the family for the cold weather. The boys had outgrown their jackets and Luxmi’s warm kurta had been mended till there were more repairs than the original fabric.

Clickety clack clack. Clickety clack.

Luxmi was listening for the rhythm to become regular before taking a look at what was in the envelope. The boys were looking impatient. She was about to take the boys to the buckwheat drum when they heard someone at the door.

The knocks were hurried and loud.

“Do you want to take the door down?” Nani hollered as she got up from the loom to climb down the stairs. The children ran around the gallery to check who Nani was going to hurl abuses at. They peered down and froze.

Nani was standing at the doorway quietly. Two men in uniform stood facing her, each with a rifle slung over his shoulder. “We need to speak with Padam Koli.”

Excerpted with permission from The Letter to Lahore, Tanu Shree Singh, Duckbill.