The Measure That Remained

In Aogawa, rice had been gone from the shelves for more than three weeks now. In this region once called “the rice country of the east,” no one, surely, had imagined days on end without the sight of a glossy white grain. And yet reality had come, mercilessly, from beyond the bounds of imagination.

Shinomiya Seiichi gazed out the living-room window and let out a deep sigh. On his thin back, past seventy, seemed to rest the weight of the long years he had spent as a professor of food ethics. Behind his glasses, his eyes stared into the distance, as if at the bookshelves of a study that no longer existed.

“Seiichi, the tea’s ready.”

His wife Chiyo’s voice brought him back to himself. Chiyo was nearing seventy, but her movements were as brisk as ever, still carrying a trace of her days working as a nutritionist. The steam rising from the cup she held out, for an instant, recalled the scent of freshly cooked rice.

“Thank you,” Seiichi said, taking the cup. “Was there anything in this morning’s paper?”

Chiyo gave a small shake of her head. “They say there’s still no prospect of rations from the agricultural co-op. It must be hard on Tetsuya, too.”

Their second son, Tetsuya, worked at the local agricultural cooperative. Amid this unprecedented rice shortage, he was surely run off his feet day after day with complaints and inquiries.

“Theoretically, a supply rupture like this is—” Seiichi began, when the sound of the front door opening came.

“I’m home.”

It was Misaki’s voice. Their granddaughter, a high-schooler in uniform, came into the living room with a smartphone in one hand. Weariness showed on her face.

“Misaki, how was school?” Chiyo asked.

“Same as always.” Misaki shrugged. “But today we debated the food crisis in class. The teacher called it a ‘historic crisis.’” She turned her gaze to her grandfather. “Some of the kids said the things you used to predict are coming true.”

Seiichi knitted his brows. “My research is not ‘prophecy.’ It is scientific analysis. The depletion of resources and the fragility of distribution systems—theoretically and empirically—”

“Grandpa, are you starting a lecture again?”

A new voice joined. Their eldest son, Kentaro, had come by. In his early forties, he wore an exhausted expression, but the passion of his work at an international food-aid NGO lived in his eyes.

“Kentaro, it’s been a while.” Chiyo rose. “I’ll make you tea.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Kentaro nodded and turned to his father. “Dad, I came to report the latest from the NGO. Global grain reserves have reached crisis levels. Especially across Asia—”

“Chiyo!”

This time the voice from the entrance belonged to Rie, the wife of their second son, Tetsuya. She too looked tired—back, no doubt, from her work as a local food-support volunteer.

“It’s getting terrible,” Rie said, out of breath. “In the eastern districts of the city, there are households that haven’t had a proper meal in over a week. Especially the ones with small children—”

“Everyone, calm down a moment,” Chiyo said, quietly but with a core of steel. Returning from the kitchen, she wore the look of someone who had made up her mind about something. “Actually, there’s something I want to show you.”

The whole family gathered in the living room turned toward Chiyo. She held a small wooden rice bin. It was old, unused for many years.

“This is…” Seiichi began.

Chiyo slowly lifted the lid. Inside were a scant few white grains of rice.

“I found it while tidying the storeroom. It was left at the bottom of an old rice bin I’d forgotten about,” Chiyo explained quietly. “About one gō, I should think.”

The room fell silent. Every eye was riveted on that small rice bin. One gō of rice—perhaps the most precious treasure in all of Aogawa now—was there.

“So, what do you intend to do with it?” Seiichi asked. In his voice seeped the tension of a food-ethics scholar honed over many years.

After looking around at the whole family, Chiyo said, “Let’s decide that together.”

At that moment the front door opened again, and their second son, Tetsuya, came home. His expression was dark, etched with fatigue.

“Tetsuya, welcome back.” Rie went to her husband. “Are you all right?”

Tetsuya shook his head. “The co-op is completely dysfunctional. The instructions from above are a mess, and the inquiries from citizens are flooding in. It’s just…” He broke off, noticing the change in the living room’s atmosphere. “Did something happen?”

Kentaro explained to his younger brother. “Mom found one gō of rice.”

Tetsuya’s eyes went wide. “One gō? Really?”

In that voice was the astonishment of a man who, as a co-op employee, felt the reality of the rice shortage acutely.

“Dad,” Kentaro turned to Seiichi. “I think it’s time for a family meeting. Let’s all talk over what to do with this one gō of rice.”

Seiichi rose slowly and spoke with the bearing of a man taking the lectern. “Indeed. Let us hold a formal family meeting. On the use of this one gō of rice, each of us will state his opinion.”

He adjusted his glasses and continued, as if beginning the introduction to a paper. “First, as a premise, what we must consider is the multifaceted value this single gō of rice holds. We should discuss it not merely as a source of nutrition, but including its symbolic value, its future value, and its social value.”

Misaki rolled her eyes. “Grandpa, is this going to get complicated again?”

Chiyo laid a hand on her granddaughter’s shoulder and smiled. “When the talk turns to food, your grandfather goes back to being a professor.”

Seiichi cleared his throat. “No—this is an important matter. To put it another way, we now stand at the intersection of the philosophical problem of distributive justice and the practical problem of survival.”

“We don’t have time to stand at intersections, Dad,” Tetsuya said wearily. “Reality won’t wait.”

Kentaro nodded. “True. But Dad’s right that this carries meaning beyond mere food. Our decision will reflect our values as a family.”

Rie quietly proposed, “Let’s first hear from everyone. Why don’t we each just say, off the top of our heads, what we’d want to do with this one gō?”

Seiichi settled deep into his chair and surveyed the whole family with the sharp eyes behind his glasses. “Very well. Then I shall begin. On this one gō of rice, I will state my thoughts.”

And so he began a lecture that might be called the culmination of his long career as a food-ethics scholar. The whole family, each with their own thoughts in their hearts, listened to his words.

In the quiet residential streets of Aogawa, in the Shinomiya family’s living room, the debate over the last gō of rice that remained had begun.