The Shahpur Jat Barsati became a command centre. The five-thousand-rupee buffer was spent on a cheap, second-hand digital camera, a roll of bubble wrap, and a small, functional website built by Arun over three sleepless nights. The site was basic—a clean white backdrop for Mira's stunning product photography and compelling story about their authentic Himachal supply chain.
Their strategy had pivoted entirely: forget the storefront for now. They needed velocity. They needed cash, and the fastest way to get high-value sales was through Delhi's weekend organic and artisan markets.
The biggest prize, the one Arun targeted, was the Dastkar Nature Bazaar—a high-end, curated market where Delhi's elite came to spend money on ethical, handmade goods. Securing a stall was expensive and competitive, but Arun used his last remaining connections from the logistics job to secure a tiny, last-minute spot.
The first consignment arrived three days late, having been stuck in a bureaucratic jam near Chandigarh. The truck that finally pulled into their narrow Lajpat Nagar lane was massive, disrupting traffic and drawing hostile glares from neighbour's.
The stock was perfect: jars of golden wildflower honey, vibrant, tangy apricot jam, sturdy hand-pounded pulses, and the small, colourful wool caps that Mira's mother had knitted. The scent of wood and pure honey temporarily overwhelmed the city's exhaust fumes, bringing a small, precious breath of the mountains into their living room.
Mira, battling persistent first-trimester nausea, meticulously packed the goods. She placed tissue paper around every jam jar, taping small cards to the back of the caps detailing the name of the woman who had knitted them. Arun handled the logistical nightmare of storing and transporting the items, realizing the sheer complexity of moving fragile, temperature-sensitive goods across a megacity.
"We need six hundred rupees just for the auto-rickshaw to take this to Dastkar," Arun muttered, counting their dwindling cash. "If we don't sell a thousand rupees worth, we're operating at a loss before the market even opens."
Mira forced a smile, though her stomach was churning. "We're selling more than pulses, Arun. We're selling a quiet life. People here will pay for that illusion."
Saturday morning dawned hot and oppressive. They arrived at Dastkar, a large, lush green space transformed into a bustling hub of commerce. Their stall was small, sandwiched between a high-end Kashmiri rug dealer and a South Indian silk vendor.
Mira, wearing a traditional Kullu shawl not just for comfort but for brand identity, set up the stall. Arun was all business, focused on transactions. Mira, however, was the magnet. She offered tiny samples of jam on cedar-wood skewers. She didn't push or shout; she simply spoke quietly about the altitude where the bees flew and the clean water used to wash the apples for the jams.
A sophisticated woman in an expensive linen saree paused. "Apricot jam? Is this from Kinnaur? I haven't tasted real Kinnauri apricot jam since I was a child."
Mira connected with her instantly. "Yes, Madam. From a small farm in Kalpa. Low sugar, only the sun to ripen the fruit."
The woman bought three jars of jam, a bag of rajma pulses, and two small knitted caps. The total was nearly three thousand rupees.
Arun watched, astonished. He was ready to talk supply chains and purity certificates; Mira was selling nostalgia.
The day was a whirlwind. Arun, handling the cash and quickly updating inventory on a small tablet, saw the numbers climb. Mira, visibly tiring but powered by sheer necessity, kept telling the story, her voice growing hoarse but her eyes bright.
By late afternoon, their table was nearly empty. They had sold 80% of their initial stock. Arun counted the cash in a back corner: fifty-nine thousand rupees. They had nearly doubled their initial investment in one day.
Exhausted, they sat quietly on a low wooden bench after packing up. The financial stress was still crushing, but the immediate threat of failure had receded.
"We did it," Arun whispered, leaning his head back against the dusty wall. "We actually did it."
Mira closed her eyes, clutching a small plastic bag that held her own purchase—a small, comforting pack of ginger candies for her morning sickness. "The roots are strong, Arun. They hold."
But then, as they were waiting for their auto-rickshaw, a young man from a local food blog approached them. He had bought a jar of honey earlier, praising its unique flavour. He now stood before them, tapping rapidly on his phone.
"I just posted a review, Madam," he said with a grin. "The honey is great, but the pulses are tough. Overcooked them for two hours and they're still not right. I mentioned it in the post, just a fair warning for other buyers. But great concept!" He walked away before they could respond.
Arun and Mira looked at each other, the weight of the negative review—their very first public criticism—crushing the euphoria of the day. The city had celebrated their dream, but now it had delivered its first, sharp, public cut. They were not just selling a piece of the mountains; they were selling their family's reputation, and it had just been chipped.