He was wearing a Kerala-style jibba, with three lines of stitches down the sides. It hung very loose on him. He had tied a kerchief around his neck, and the knot was nestled in the hollow at the base of his throat. In his hands, he carried a black shoulder bag and the day’s copy of the Travancore Nesan.

As he passed by Excelsior Press, he saw the proprietor, Francis, standing on the steps outside. Isakki greeted him with utmost respect, bringing his palms together in front of his forehead.

“Ah, it’s you! Come, come!” said Francis.

“I just remembered something the moment I saw you,” Isakki began. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

“All that can wait,” said Francis. “There was an ad for my press printed in your newspaper yesterday. What are you up to, Isakki? Are you playing games with me?” He grabbed Isakki’s right arm and twisted it behind his back.

Isakki quickly turned his back toward Francis to keep his shoulder from dislocating. “Brother, brother, let go of my arm! I can explain. Aah! Aah! It hurts too much . . .”

Francis relaxed his hold a little. Isakki twisted his head over his shoulder and begged, “Brother, please let go of my arm. I will explain.” When Francis let go of him, Isakki rubbed his shoulder ruefully. “I was the one who ran the ad, brother,” Isakki said. “I heard yesterday that the other guy was planning to start a press. So I thought if you had some publicity right now, it will give you a bit of a boost . . . Do you understand?”

“Who is starting a press?”

“Michael, the one who broke away from you.”

“Hey! Why are you so concerned about me? You worry about me like you are my mother! You are going to waste away if you take on all the worries of the town . . .”

“Brother, you have always had a special place in my heart. I swear,” said Isakki, placing his right hand on top of Francis’s head.

“Now, look here. Go straight to that guy Michael and tell him, ‘Your ex-boss got all rattled when he found out you were opening a press,’ and get him to print an ad too.”

“Chee! Chee! That’s a cheap thing to do.”

“Exactly!”

“I don’t have it in me to even think of such a thing, big brother!” said Isakki, dramatically lifting his right hand in a solemn gesture.

“What’s wrong with your hand? Do you have eczema? Ooh, is your skin covered in welts? You need to rub some soap-nut powder and oil . . . Let me see your fingers . . .”

“Stop teasing me, brother. I really do need a favor from you. Please give me one-eighth of a pound of the letter K.”

“K?! One-eighth of a pound?! What for?”

“I am going to give it back to him good today!”

“Who?”