Dhamu adopted the views of a hardline socialist. This seemed a way for him to retain some of his critical approach as well as the culture of protest. Even though India had attained independence, there was more work to be completed, he said. He now spoke in a tone of concern and urgency, as if the immense task of preparing the nation for the revolution was now on his shoulders. But as time passed, he realized that none of it made a mark, and nothing ever made a difference. He grew listless and, finding no other means of escape, fell back on his business. This made his brother Chellappan very happy, and the business thrived under their combined attention. They made money, and for a long while after that Dhamu stayed behind the cash counter, concentrating on the shop. Later, when the Betel Merchants’ Association was started, he became a secretary at his friends’ insistence. Long after he immersed himself completely in his business, long after he realized that the pleasure of slowly accumulating wealth was no worse than other pleasures, he still sometimes reminisced about those good old days of fame and recognition. He was overcome with self-pity in those moments. He’d say to anyone who happened to be standing nearby: “Politics is in a state of ruin these days. Not so in the old days! It had a certain prestige, you know . . .” It was his way of consoling himself.

Dhamu never expected a return of his glory days. It was all sheer luck. “Not just one black-marketeer like Khader—I will drag a thousand of them out in the open,” Dhamu roared on the municipal grounds. It was true that the new circumstances demanded such a tone. But when Dhamu had come out on bail, he had not in the least expected that he would be greeted and garlanded by nearly five hundred merchants. He was deeply moved by it. It felt like Mother India was showing him kindness and calling out to him, “Come, my son, come back to me.” He was overcome with emotion.