Dhamu was from a family of five brothers, originally from Kuzhithurai. The children had been orphaned when their mother ran off with the healer who had been treating her stomachaches. Not only had their mother left her family, but she had gone off with a man from a lower caste, which was even more disgraceful. Soon after, the oldest, Chellappan, stopped a lorry on its way from an estate and hoisted his four brothers onto the back, and all of them had ended up in Nagercoil. I only knew three of the brothers. Chellappan only cared about the store; nothing else interested him. Dhamu was a patriot from the August Movement. He had been clubbed by the police at the clock-tower junction for refusing to take off his turban. That was when everyone came to know who he was. In those days, people considered it a veritable service to the nation to buy fruits from Dhamu’s shop. Students would pass a hundred stores to get to his.

But there was another reason for my personal fascination with these brothers: Chellappan and Dhamu shared a wife. To me, this was an exotic and titillating arrangement. Others praised it as a smart way for the brothers to keep their income in one piece. I was curious to know if the arrangement caused any friction in their family and work life, but I found out that was not the case. Chellappan worked during the day; Dhamu took the night shift—this was how they divided their life. Dhamu’s shop had no shutters. On the day Gandhiji was assassinated, they hung a black shawl to cover the entrance; this was the first time that shop had ever been closed since it started. The only time Chellappan and Dhamu were seen together was when they all went to Pazhani for a head-tonsuring ceremony for one of the kids.