There were also two weekly fairs where he could deliver soda. And if there was a temple festival going on somewhere, he could get business there too. Some ten or fifteen people had won the right to sell soda and coloured cold drinks on the Senkundroor hill in an auction. If he allied with them, he might be able to sell bottles there next year. In those places, one would have to snare people’s attention by yelling, ‘Colouraeeee, colour colouraeee!’ and ‘Sodaaa colouraee! Sodaaa colouraee!’ During the Tuesday fairs in Senkundroor, he had seen sellers standing next to their bicycles, carrying bottles and raising their voices in the same way. He could learn to do that too.

The job itself was not a difficult one. It was the preparations that were going to be tiring. First, he had to remove the small carrier on the bicycle and attach a bigger one. Then, on both sides of the carrier, he had to fasten some hooks from which wire boxes could hang. He also needed to fix two hooks on the handlebar of the bicycle so that the boxes he hung there did not slip off. Clearly, he would first have to give the bicycle a much-needed overhaul. This was going to involve a lot of expense and a good deal of running around. But the potential income would be sufficient to provide for their lives here, and he would no longer have to expect his mother to support the household. Once money started coming in, everything would become easier. Had this been Tholur, there would have been ten shops in just one street to which he could deliver bottles. But he could not expect such things here. Not that he was particularly worried about the challenges of setting up a new business. At the moment, his primary concern was that the current commotion should settle down so that peace could prevail.

Though Kumaresan tried not to show it, Saroja knew that he was struggling to raise money for this venture. When he had worked in Tholur, Kumaresan gave all his income to his mother, and though he was certain that she would have kept it all safely, he now hesitated to ask her for help. If Marayi refused, it would be like a slap on the face. In any case, the situation at home was volatile, with her spouting things like, ‘If you marry a woman who has nothing to bring, you will soon have to carry an alms bowl and roam the streets. Would any dog worth its salt as much as look at a woman who does not have even a penny to offer?’ If he asked her for money now, it would only get worse. So he went to other places to seek help, and returned only by eight or later in the evening after the conch signalling the end of the day’s work was blown.

On one such night, he did not even lift his head to look at Saroja. She tried to engage him in conversation, but the only responses she got were distracted, defeated monosyllables. It scared her, because he was all she had. What would she do if he too turned away from her? He had never been this way before. No matter how exhausted he was after a day’s work, his face usually broke into a smile as soon as he laid eyes on her. She never had any reason to think that his wellspring of affection for her was beginning to run dry—at least, not yet. Even with the entire village against her, she could keep the spark of her life aflame with the strength he gave her. With just one kiss, he could unburden himself and reassure her. He could carry her in his arms like a piece of cotton, banishing the day’s woes. But what had happened to him now?