In past years, on the day of the auction, Moothapillai set out from his place at two in the afternoon. First, he stopped at Kottaru to buy cattle feed, special sesame-seed cakes, and a pound of fine Jaffna tobacco for himself and his wife. Then he headed straight to the tamarind-tree junction. His carriage circled the tamarind tree two or three times, with Moothapillai lying flat on his back with his head hanging outside the carriage cabin, gazing up at the tree. That was all the time he needed to assess the harvest in financial terms and to make an estimate.

During the auction, Nagaru Pillai, Moothapillai’s coachman, would park the carriage across the road from the tree, in front of Abdul Khader’s store. Moothapillai was always the last one to open his mouth. Until then, Nagaru Pillai would make the bids, guided by meaningful glances from his boss sitting inside the carriage.

The rule of the auction was that every successive bid had to be at least one chakram higher than the previous bid.

At the start of an auction last year, Abdul Ali Sahib and Moothapillai kept quiet, letting the others amuse themselves with their paltry bids. The year before that, the tree had gone for thirty-three rupees, and here were these novices, starting their bids around seven or seven and a half rupees! As these voices went back and forth with their silly bids, Sahib casually said, “Twenty-one rupees,” looking around him as if he’d just woken up from a deep sleep. This was the point at which Moothapillai sat up straighter in his carriage. His coachman quickly glanced inside, and then shouted, “Twenty-one rupees and one chakram.”

When they heard this, some of the young men in the crowd started laughing. Moothapillai always offered only one chakram more than the previous bidder. He did so because he knew that was the minimum he had to bid, according to the auction rules. His desire was to end all transactions with maximum profit or minimum loss. But these rookies did not understand that. They grinned as if they had seen someone dancing naked. But the old-timers in the crowd commended Pillai’s principle. “You can’t beat him! My God, he is a shark!” they said.

At this point, Brammananda Moopanar chimed in hesitatingly, “Twenty-two rupees.” But Moothapillai would not respond to that. He’d open his mouth only after Sahib’s bids.

“Twenty-seven rupees.” This was Sahib calling out.

“Twenty-seven rupees, going once . . . going twice . . . going twice . . .” Valli’s helper dragged it out.

Now Nagaru Pillai turned to look inside the carriage.

“Was that Sahib?” Moothapillai asked him.

“Yes.”

“The rascal won’t give up,” Moothapillai grumbled, and signaled to the coachman with his index finger.

Immediately, Nagaru Pillai shouted, “Twenty-seven rupees and one chakram.”

The crowd erupted in laughter again.

“Twenty-seven rupees and two chakram!” someone teased.

Laughter again in the crowd.