The five-star euphoria from the Dastkar market lasted exactly as long as it took for Arun to read the food blog's post again: "Great concept, but the high-altitude pulses are tough. Overcooked them for two hours and they're still not right."
Arun, the pragmatist, saw a threat to their survival. "One bad review is enough to tank our social media presence. People in Delhi buy based on hype. If the product doesn't perform, the story is worthless."
Mira, the Pahari, understood the problem instantly. "He didn't know how to cook them, Arun. Our pulses—the rajma and chana grown above eight thousand feet—are dense. They're dried by high wind and sun, not machines. They can't be cooked like the flatland variety. They need to be soaked overnight, and even then, they require a pressure cooker for three whistles, not two hours in an open pot."
The problem was not the quality of the product, but the quality of the customer's knowledge. They were selling authenticity, but they had failed to include the instruction manual for that authenticity.
Their pivot strategy suddenly had a critical new layer: education.
Mira took charge, her energy surging as she entered her second trimester. She drafted a small, beautiful instructional card using her hand-drawn logo and a simple typeface.
A&M Store: Cooking Instructions for High-Altitude Pulses
Soak for a minimum of 12 hours.For every cup of pulses, use three cups of fresh water.Cook in a pressure cooker. Do not use an open pot.Cook for three full whistles on high flame, then let the steam release naturally. Enjoy the authentic texture and flavour!
Arun immediately reached out to the food blogger, not defensively, but with gratitude. "Thank you for your honest feedback. You discovered a key feature of high-altitude farming: density. We have now attached a detailed cooking guide to every pack. We hope you try them again." The blogger was impressed by the transparency and posted an update, praising their responsiveness. The crisis was averted and, in fact, turned into a powerful anecdote about their product's genuine mountain origins.
Over the next three months, "A&M Store" found a rhythm born of necessity. Arun handled the logistical hell of the pop-up circuit. He became an expert in assembling and disassembling their small wooden display stand in five minutes flat. They sold at various markets—smaller ones on weekdays, and the expensive, profitable ones on weekends.
Mira, now with a noticeable baby bump that she hid imperfectly beneath her loose kurtas, focused entirely on the customer experience and online orders. The barsati became a bustling, fragrant workshop. She managed the packaging, the delicate shipping of glass jars, and the customer service, weaving their family story into every email response.
The physical strain, however, was immense. The Lajpat Nagar flat was three flights of stairs up, and the barsati was two more steep flights. Mira was constantly tired, battling Delhi's heat and her body's increasing demands.
"I can't believe we're doing this," Mira said one evening, rubbing her swollen feet after a gruelling day packing fifty jars of jam for a corporate order. "This city is just non-stop. If you stand still for one minute, it runs over you."
"That's why we don't stop," Arun replied, gently lifting her feet and placing them on his lap. He felt a fierce, protective love for his wife and the unborn baby. The pregnancy had shifted his priorities: he still wanted success, but now he needed stability.
Their savings account, once critically low, was now slowly growing thanks to the strong margins they maintained. They had enough for three more months of operation before they would need to pay for the delivery and initial hospital stay.
Just as they were starting to feel safe, the first financial threat that couldn't be fixed by good branding hit.
Arun opened an email one morning from his primary Pahari supplier—the farmer who provided the bulk of their organic pulses and honey. The email was brief and apologetic. Due to unseasonal heavy rains that damaged the transport route, the farmer would be unable to deliver the next, crucial consignment for six weeks. This consignment was already 80% pre-sold to small Delhi distributors Arun had lined up.
Arun stared at the email, the numbers swimming before his eyes. Six weeks without core inventory. They would miss the lucrative Diwali pre-order season. The financial consequence was immediate: a sudden, massive hole in their projected cash flow, which would directly coincide with Mira's due date.
"No, no, no," Arun whispered, feeling the floor drop out beneath him. He looked at Mira, radiant and round, carefully selecting the font for a new product label.
They were about to plunge back into the red, and this time, they had a child due in three months. Arun knew he had to get creative, and fast. The only solution he could see was one he had sworn he would never touch: personal assets.