SSC CGL English – Reading Comprehension – Tier II Level · Marathon

For much of the last century, rice and wheat dominated Indian plates, and the small, hardy grains our grandparents ate – ragi, jowar, bajra, foxtail and little millet – were pushed to the edges of the field and of memory. They came to be seen as "poor people's food", eaten only when nothing better was available.

The tide is now turning. Nutritionists point out that many millets are rich in fibre and minerals, and that they are digested slowly, which keeps hunger away for longer. Farmers in dry regions value them for a different reason: most millets can grow on poor soil with far less water than paddy, and they survive dry spells that would ruin other crops. In a warming climate with uncertain rainfall, this hardiness looks less like a sign of poverty and more like insurance.

Yet a revival cannot be built on nostalgia alone. Millets need processing – dehusking, cleaning, milling – and the machines and markets for this are still thin in many places. City consumers want convenience: if millet flour is hard to find, or millet dishes take too long to cook, enthusiasm fades after a few weeks. The grains must also reach the plates of those who need nutrition most, not only the shelves of expensive health stores.

The return of millets will therefore depend as much on supply chains, recipes and prices as on goodwill. A crop survives, in the end, not because people admire it but because people eat it.

The last bus from the town to Vellakkal left at nine, and Joseph had been its conductor for so long that he knew most passengers by the way they climbed the steps. That night it was raining hard, and the bus was nearly empty when a boy of about twelve jumped in at the market stop, soaked to the skin and clutching a cloth bag.

When Joseph held out the ticket roll, the boy searched every pocket and went pale. He had lost his money. Rules were rules; the depot checked every ticket, and a missing fare would be cut from Joseph's own pay. The driver glanced in the mirror, waiting to see what Joseph would do.

Joseph tore off a ticket, punched it and paid the fare from his own pocket. The boy did not know what to say. "Your stop is the temple bend?" Joseph asked, and the boy nodded, surprised that a stranger knew. "Your father sells flowers there. I bought my daughter's wedding garlands from him."

Years later, Joseph, now retired, was waiting at the same market stop when a young man in a conductor's uniform stepped down from a new bus and touched his feet. "I still have the ticket," he said, and held up a faded piece of paper, its punched hole as clear as on the night it was made.