Arjun had seen enough spy movies to know two things:
Everyone has a hiding spot.The best clues are never in obvious places — they're in the boring, everyday stuff. Like a switchboard. A painting. Or… a pickle box.
Especially when that pickle box has a number lock.
It all started when he was searching for the rice bag in the storeroom.
He opened the top shelf, and there it was — a round steel container, wrapped in old newspaper, wedged between the atta bag and dried red chilies.
Heavy. Out of place. And way too clean for something that usually smells like garlic oil and sunshine.
He picked it up and turned it slowly.
No masala smell. No oil marks.
Instead, a flat dial lock.
Three digits.
He stared at it.
A pickle box… with a combination lock?
He whispered to himself, "Either my wife is running a black market out of my house, or I'm in the middle of an intelligence operation."
That night, he acted normal.
Sort of.
Sreeja was on the balcony, folding clothes, hair tied in a soft bun, looking like every middle-class wife in a Telugu serial who secretly knows how to fire a gun with her eyes closed.
Arjun walked out with two cups of Horlicks. She took one, smiled faintly.
"You're being quiet," she said.
"Just work," he lied.
She nodded and looked up at the stars. "You ever think about what your life would've been like if you didn't marry me?"
He sipped his drink. "Less exciting. Fewer clues. Safer rice boxes."
She turned to look at him. "Rice boxes?"
"Nothing," he said quickly.
After she fell asleep, he got up.
Quietly padded into the storeroom. Switched on the phone flashlight.
There it was. The mysterious box.
He stared at the lock again.
Three digits.
It couldn't be random. Not with Sreeja. She was too clean for that.
He tried 143.
Didn't budge.
Then 007.
Still locked.
Then it hit him.
Her birthdate. He remembered her Aadhar card flashed during their marriage registration. He tried 231.
Click.
It opened.
Inside was not a bomb. Not a gun. Not poison. Just… documents.
Neatly folded. In waterproof sleeves.
One was an old ID card. The photo showed a younger Sreeja in combat gear, her hair shorter, eyes intense.
Agency of Strategic Operations — Tier 3 Covert Unit
Another was a hand-sketched map with three marked buildings and scribbled code words like "relay point," "exit protocol," and "dummy team."
At the bottom of the box, he found a small black cube. It had one button.
He didn't press it.
Not yet.
He closed the lid. Took a deep breath.
This wasn't a game anymore. It was real. And dangerous.
And for some bizarre reason, the only thing his brain could focus on was:
"I hope she hasn't bugged my socks drawer."
The next morning, Sreeja served up hot pesarattu with chutney like nothing had changed.
"Sleep well?" she asked.
"Not really," he replied. "Dreamt I was in a Jason Bourne movie."
"Was it a good dream?"
"Depends. Was I the main lead or the guy who dies in the first scene?"
She chuckled. "You talk too much when you're scared."
He looked up.
"You're not going to ask what I did last night?"
She sipped her coffee. Calm. Not even blinking.
"No," she said. "You'll tell me when you're ready."
He stared at her for a long moment.
Not sure whether he was married to a woman, or a fully-trained operation in disguise.
And yet, weirdly…
He liked it.