THE MORNING TRAIN CARRIED four carloads of cantaloupe to the market in Los Angeles. Jivan knew his finances would be determined at the exchange in the ag pit, by men in a large room smelling of sweat and adrenaline. They negotiated fortunes and failures by a show of fingers, by gestures of hands. A raised index and middle finger meant his family would have meat five days a week for the season. Two arms held skyward meant that he could buy the seeder from Hanson’s Implements. Two thumbs down, and they would skimp on the cumin and turmeric that Kishen purchased in Brawley. They had to trust Consolidated to take their cantaloupes to market safely. They had to trust the sales agent too.

Other carloads would converge on the stock exchange, from the San Joaquin fields and the Central Valley and Palo Verde. That week, it was too many. The men in the ag pit showed thumbs down, thumbs down, thumbs down. Sweat trickled down backs inside starched shirts, beaded on foreheads wiped by silk handkerchiefs. A certain trader representing Consolidated Fruit, representing other shippers too, made a single phone call to the vice president of the company.

Afterward, that vice president of Consolidated Fruit called an operations officer of Southern Pacific. When the engine pulling car number 417 steamed into the depot the stationmaster checked his roster. Carloads 417 and 420 were disconnected and left on a siding in the afternoon heat. They were picked up thirty-six hours later by another engine. By then, the soft flesh of the fruit had turned to water. All of this, Jivan did not know.

In the newspaper, Amarjeet showed Jivan the list of violators of the standardization laws. Jivan Singh’s name was included. FEE IMPOSED FOR EARLY HARVEST AND SHIPPING, the headline said. But he could not find the names of the Hamiltons and the Proutys, who had also been sorting green fruit that day.

A letter arrived from Consolidated Fruit three days later. Payment was being made for three of the carloads, but one carload, number 417, had contained only overripe melons when it arrived. Sale at the exchange had not been possible and no money for that carload would be forthcoming. Mr. John Singh, the letter said, should take note that fruit should be shipped at the appropriate time.

On the porch in the late afternoon, the men listened as Karak read the letter to them twice. His face was dark with sarcasm. “Our melons were overripe when they arrived, but they were too green when they were shipped. How can it be?” He did not have to explain the calculations to the others. The fourth carload—417, the lost one—contained the whole of the Singhs’ profit.

“We will go to court,” Karak said.

“What is the use?” Jivan said. “Who will side with us?”

“You will just accept this, bhai-ji?”