My wife’s sister suddenly sneaked into my room in the middle of the night and made a puzzling request when my wife was away
That night, in the workers’ dormitory in Dwarka, New Delhi, room number 302 was silent. There was only the ticking of the clock and the smell of incense mixed with the humidity of the early rainy season.

I – Amit, was holding a spoon to stir the pot of khichdi to ease my hunger. My phone vibrated, a message from my wife:

“I’ll be back tomorrow. Don’t eat instant noodles all the time, my stomach is weak.”

The room was already small, but when there was no one, it seemed a few inches wider; the widest part was the chair where she often threw the cloth bag with the words “Bolo kam, bolo sahi – Don’t speak loudly, just speak the truth”.

Then tok… tok… tok… – a light and urgent knock on the door, like a cat’s claw tapping on glass. The clock showed 0:27.

I opened it a crack. The person standing outside was Diya – my wife’s sister.

The yellow light from the hallway illuminated half of her face, making her black eyes sparkle unusually. She wore a thin coat, her hair tied up quickly, and slippers on her feet. She put her finger to her lips and said, “shh.”

“What’s the matter, sister?” I asked hoarsely.

Diya didn’t answer right away. She looked into the room, scanned around as if to make sure no one else was there, then said softly, in a strange voice:

“Give me… sanitary napkins. My house is out of them.”

I was stunned for half a second.

A series of silly questions popped into my head: In the middle of the night? Sanitary napkins? Out of stock?

I knew Diya – a straightforward, quick-witted woman who loved old books and hated bargaining. But sneaking into my brother-in-law’s room in the middle of the night to ask for sanitary napkins, and saying the phrase “out of stock” like a code word, really made me confused.

“Sister… come in.”

Diya shook her head, her voice urgent:

“No need. If you have it, give it to me. If not, lend me your phone to call.”

I turned back and opened my wife’s wooden cabinet. The second drawer still had the familiar box of items: all kinds of bandages for day and night, with and without wings. I handed them to her.

But Diya didn’t accept it right away. She looked at me and said softly:

“If you don’t mind… come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“Room K, room 109. It’s better if you hurry.”

I was confused, imagining all sorts of things: someone fainted, someone was injured, or… something more serious. But looking at Diya’s eyes, I knew it was no small matter. I put on my coat, grabbed the bandage bag, and followed her.

The hallway of the rainy season dormitory smelled of damp walls, stagnant water, and even dried fish someone had forgotten in the cabinet. The sensor lights flickered on and off like a person in a dream. Diya walked very quickly, her slippers making no sound.

When she got to the ground floor, she didn’t turn to the gate but instead went around to the backyard, where the workers’ raincoats were hung up. The raindrops gathered in drops, sparkling like cat eyes.

“Sister, what’s going on in room 109?” I asked.

“Someone needs it. He said the right password, so let’s go.”

“Password?” I repeated, still bewildered.

Diya smiled faintly:

“Yes. That sentence you told me – ‘please give me sanitary napkins, we’re all out’ – is the password.”

“Whose password is it?”

“Ours. From the 0 rupee cabinet.”

Room 109 was ajar. Diya knocked three times, whispering:

“Lina, it’s me.”

The door opened. The girl watching the coffee cart below the gate had a pale face and trembling lips. The smell of iron wafted out – not rust, but fresh blood. Dark brown stains were on the tile floor.

Another girl sat on the edge of the bed, her forehead covered in sweat. No one said anything.

Diya handed Lina a pack of bandages, then took out painkillers, cotton swabs, and a warm towel from the cloth bag embroidered with the words “0 rupee bandage cabinet”.

“Sit straight, don’t close the bathroom door. I’ll call a taxi. Will you come out?”

I stood there dumbfounded. All her actions were neat, professional, gentle, and decisive.

“Can I… help you?”

“Call a female motorbike taxi to the district hospital. Note: female patient has menstrual cramps. Oh, take a screenshot of the transfer your wife sent me yesterday.”

“What’s the matter?” – I asked, still not understanding.

Diya didn’t answer, just dialed another number:

“Anjali, open the second cabinet, get me some night bandages and a bottle of warm water.”

Hanging up, she turned to the girl:
“Did anyone scare or scold you just now?”

The girl shook her head. Lina said softly:

“The room where the drunk workers threw bottles at the door, we were scared.”

“Do you want me to go over there and talk?” – I asked.

“No need,” – Diya said – “She’s drunk. Let’s take care of this one first.”

I called a female motorbike taxi. Diya helped the girl out, I held the bag. Lina followed, trembling as she walked.

“Go to the hospital, I’ll be your family member, fill out the paperwork,” – Diya said softly – “Don’t let them keep you waiting too long.”

At the hospital, the doctor checked and nodded:

“Anemia, acute menstrual cramps. Rest for a few days and you’ll be fine.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. While waiting for the paperwork, I noticed Diya’s cloth bag — in addition to the words ‘Zero Rupee Ice Box’, it also had the following printed on it:

“If you need it, call.”

“Have you… been doing this for a long time?” I asked.

Diya smiled slightly:

“It’s been two years. It was Rhea’s idea at first — my wife. We saw that the female workers in the dormitory were suffering. Some lost their jobs just because they got dirty on the floor during ‘that thing’ and were scolded by their boss in front of men. Some were criticized by their boyfriends as ‘expensive’. Some fainted in the bathroom because of anemia and no one knew. So we made the Zero Rupee Ice Box — whoever needed it could use it, no need to be ashamed.”

I was silent.
We lived with my wife but I never knew she did such things.
I remember the times she bought a few more packs of tape, the small arguments because I said “we still have the house”, the notes in the bathroom that said “Don’t be shy – you’re not alone.”

When we got back to the dormitory, it was already past two in the morning.

Before going back to her room, Diya said:

“Done. Thanks.”

I handed over the remaining tape box:

“I’ll send it back.”

Diya shook her head:

“You keep it. This house is responsible for everything.”

She smiled and turned away.

“Wait,” I called out after her, “Where is that 0 rupee cabinet?”

She pointed to the balcony of room 402.
On the old air-conditioning unit, there was a white painted wooden box with neatly written words:

“0 rupee ice cabinet – Take it when you need it – Don’t be shy.”

Below was a small piece of paper with instructions printed on it:

“How to deal with menstrual cramps – When to go to the hospital – Phone numbers Diya, Anjali, Rhea.”

And a very small line:

“If you are a man reading this, you can help by: buying more, guarding the door, or at least — don’t laugh.”

I stood looking at the silent box, feeling both sad and warm inside. In the musty boarding house, there were women silently supporting each other in the simplest way.

The next morning, Rhea texted:

“I’m coming home this afternoon. Have you had breakfast yet?”

I replied:

“Egg bread. Oh, I have something to show off.”

“What?”
I took a picture of the box on the balcony and sent it to her.

She only sent back a heart emoji and the message:

“I didn’t tell you about it because I was afraid you would make the sign too big. We like to keep it small.”

I smiled, deciding to make… a separate stainless steel box tonight.

In the afternoon, Rhea came home. As soon as the door opened, I pulled her into the kitchen, pointed to the stainless steel box I had covered with paper:

“0 rupee ice box – This family will cover it all.”

She smiled and leaned over, teasing:

“Are you really a ‘startup’? How much capital do you have?”
“My whole heart,” – I replied.

In the evening, Diya came over for dinner. She saw the box, raised her eyebrows:

“So fast. It was born in just one night.”
Rhea glanced at me:
“Our biggest investor.”
Diya laughed:
“So how about the shares?”
“The family will cover it all,” – I said.

Both women said “yes” – a small “yes” but it sounded warm like the sound of rain outside.

Late at night. The three of them sat in the hallway, sipping chai.
The sensor light flickered, making the person’s face alternate between bright and dark like in an old movie.

“You scared me last night,” I said. “The phrase ‘please give me sanitary napkins, we’re all out’ sounded like a secret letter in a detective story.”

Diya laughed:

“We said that so that those who needed it wouldn’t feel embarrassed. It didn’t ask for money, didn’t ask for favors, just asked for what was needed. ‘We’ll take care of everything’ means we’ll endure the looks, the gossip, and even the prejudice that ‘men take care of everything’.”

Rhea said softly:

“When I was little, I used to sit in class all day just because I had my period and didn’t dare tell anyone. I swear when I grow up, I’ll make a cabinet like that for other kids.”

I held her hand, and Diya just kept silent and smiled.

Then suddenly my phone rang.

It was the security guard:

“Amit? Room 109 has some drunk guys throwing bottles again, I called Diya but she didn’t pick up.”

We stood up and ran quickly.
When we got there, a few young men were standing around in front of the door.
Diya stepped forward, her voice cold:

“You guys try throwing again.”
Rhea opened her phone camera.
I said loud enough to be heard:
“Call the local police.”
The security guard added:
“There is a camera here.”

The others laughed awkwardly and walked away.

The door opened, Lina stuck her head out, sobbing:

“Thank you, thank you.”

Diya rubbed her shoulder:

“If you make any noise tomorrow, hang a sign in front of the door that says ‘Please give me sanitary napkins – We’re all out’. Anyone who can read this and still throws them away is stupid.”

I burst out laughing, tears welling up.

If someone heard this from me, they would probably only hear the first part:

“My wife’s sister came to my room in the middle of the night and made an incomprehensible request.”

And they would imagine all sorts of things.

But next, I will explain:

“The request was: ask for sanitary pads – the house was out of them. And I followed her, helped save a girl who was fainting in her rented room. Then I saw the white wooden cabinet, saw how Indian women supported each other in silence, with a password that was both rustic and endearing.”

From that night, in front of room 302 there was a small piece of paper:

“If you need pads – knock on the door. This house will take care of everything.”

Occasionally, in the middle of the night, there was a very soft, very urgent knock – tok… tok… tok… – like a cat’s claw on glass.

I opened the door, handed out a pack of pads, didn’t ask for a name, didn’t care who it was.

In return, I received a tiny “thank you” like a raindrop.

And each time, I saw Diya’s shadow walking down the stairs, her steps light but steady, like a string holding the wooden box “Zero Rupee Cabinet” on the balcony through many windy seasons