Satisfied, Bala placed the mango in her bag, counted out annas in the old woman’s palm. “Come,” she said, glancing back at Deepa. “We still need to buy rice and dal.”

A group of merchants sat in a circle on the ground, puffed beedies. Smoke snaked out of their mouths, conjoined, floated across a basket stuffed with yellow peppers. At the next stand, buckets overflowed with toor and channa dal. When Bala sifted through them, they sounded like sheets of rain hitting the roof.

On a typical day, vendors waved their arms, called out prices to encourage negotiations, ushered prospective buyers to their goods with promises that their product was the highest standard. The market was a living organism with a snappy, syncopated rhythm. This afternoon it was sluggish. Vendors picked at their cuticles, yawned with wide-open mouths, conversed with other, rival sellers. No one seemed interested in making a sale.

“Here. The peppers,” Deepa said. “Didn’t you say we needed them?” She pointed to a wooden box containing red, yellow, and green orbs, all varieties of capsicum. A man with a thick, long mustache stood behind it, tapped his foot, glared in their direction.

Bala administered two sharp shakes of her head, beckoned Deepa to her. “He’s refusing to sell to us,” she said. “Can you imagine? I have always given him such good business. If my annas aren’t good enough for him, we will take them elsewhere.”

“Why won’t he sell to you anymore?”

Bala pulled her close and off to the side. “Because the fool doesn’t like that your parents see Muslim patients at the clinic. Pay the man no attention. Let’s just keep walking.”

Deepa spun around, flashed him a stern look.

“Deepa!” Bala quipped. “Please don’t cause any trouble. Do you remember what Poonam said? Mind yourself! Don’t provoke anyone!”

Poonam arrived every morning to shake out the rugs, wash the floors, and most importantly, deliver gossip to Bala. Two days earlier, as Poonam squatted and swept, she told them about the terrible things. One girl Deepa’s age disappeared in broad daylight. She was returned to her family days later, badly beaten, her body defaced by many men. The girl’s mother, filled with shame for her now unmarriageable daughter, soaked herself in kerosene and lit herself on fire. The story troubled Deepa so much she couldn’t sleep that night.