How I Made a Deal with a Marwari Rat (and Won)

A year ago, if anyone had told me my life in Harlur would involve more drama than a Bollywood thriller, I would’ve laughed it off. But here we are, living in a duplex with a rat that outsmarts us at every turn. And not just any rat—a Marwari rat. Yes, you read that right. This rat is a self-proclaimed connoisseur, only nibbling on the finest sugarcane and chiku. It doesn’t even look at my healthy spinach or lettuce. Who does that?

It all started one morning when Hari and I were in the backyard, tending to my little garden. It’s small, but it’s my pride. A dwarf chiku tree, a few herbs, and sugarcane stalks that I had carefully nurtured for months. I had even dreamed of biting into the sweet, juicy sugarcane once it was ready. But one fateful morning, I saw something disturbing: small patches of soil disturbed near the garden’s edge, like something had been digging.

At first, I thought it was probably a mole or maybe even some earthworms getting cozy in the soil. But then, I knelt down to inspect, and there it was. A rat. A small one, yes, but calm and focused. Not just nibbling—it was feasting on my precious sugarcane like it was a five-star buffet. The audacity! This wasn’t a mere rodent; it was a sophisticated creature with taste.

“Arrey yaar, this is no ordinary rat,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s a Marwari rat!”

Hari, wiping his hands on his gardening apron, gave me a confused look. “A Marwari rat? Are you serious?”

“Look at it!” I pointed. “It won’t touch the spinach or the lettuce. Only the sugarcane. This rat has class.”

Hari just sighed, his practical self showing through. “Okay, fine. Let’s get a trap. How tough can it be to catch a rat?”

Optimistic, we set up our first trap—just a cage with butter and cheese. We waited that night, hoping to hear the satisfying snap of the trap closing. Nothing. Not a sound.

The next morning, we rushed out. The trap was empty. The butter? Gone. The cheese? Gone. The rat? Nowhere to be found.

“Seriously?” I whispered, stunned. “It ate the poison and left?!”

Hari stared, wide-eyed. “This rat is smart. Really smart.”

We tried again. And again. More traps. More cheese, more butter. But every time, the rat side-stepped us. It would nibble on the butter, taste the cheese, and leave the poison untouched. And then it would vanish—like it had just pulled a disappearing act on us. We even tried locking it in a room once, but somehow, the rat magically escaped, leaving nothing but crumbs of cheese and butter behind.

“Hari, this rat is smarter than us!” I said, growing frustrated. “What is this? A rat or a CEO?”

And then it started walking around like it owned the house—like a celebrity. It would strut through the net doors, effortlessly hopping from floor to floor. We’d catch glimpses of it, casually strolling down the stairs like it was attending an awards show. It had no fear. It had no boundaries. It even knew where the best food was kept. And it would always, always, ignore the leafy greens. No, this rat had a sweet tooth that would make even the most stubborn Marwari auntie proud. Chiku. Sugarcane. That was its diet, nothing else.

After weeks of failure, I was about to throw in the towel. But then, something clicked. If we couldn’t catch it, maybe we could outsmart it. Maybe it wasn’t just about traps anymore.

“Hari, I’ve got it,” I said one evening, an idea forming in my mind.

Hari gave me that skeptical look—the one he gives when I say something crazy. “Got what?”

“A deal,” I said, as if it were the most obvious solution in the world.

“A deal? With a rat?” Hari blinked in disbelief.

“Yes,” I said, confidently. “Let’s make a deal with it.”

“A deal?” Hari was practically laughing now.

“Yes! We give the rat what it wants—the sugarcane and the chiku. But only if it agrees to stay out of the house. We’ll set boundaries in the garden. One side for us—where the greens can grow in peace—and the other side for it. Sugarcane, chiku, all for the taking. But no more roaming the house.”

Hari stared at me. “You want to… negotiate… with a rat?”

I smiled. “It’s a Marwari rat, Hari. It knows how to make a deal.”

And so, we did it. We divided the garden. On one side, my leafy greens and herbs could grow in peace. On the other side, we set up the rat’s buffet: all the sugarcane and chiku it could ever want.

And guess what? It worked. The Marwari rat—sly little creature—keeps to its side now. It doesn’t enter the house, and I don’t have to worry about it eating my greens. The boundaries are respected, and peace is restored.

Hari was floored. “You’re telling me… the rat negotiated with you?”

I shrugged. “It’s a Marwari rat, Hari. It knows how to make a deal.”

Now, the backyard is divided, and a quiet truce reigns. The rat gets its sugar-filled meals, and I get to enjoy my veggies in peace. Some might say I’m crazy for negotiating with a rat. But in Harlur, when life hands you a sugar-loving rodent, you don’t fight it. You make a sweet deal.

And that, my friends, is how I ended up being outwitted, charmed, and ultimately negotiating with the one and only Marwari rat.