The news of the six-week consignment delay felt like a physical blow. The sudden lack of inventory—the honey and pulses that were the lifeblood of A&M Store—created a financial vacuum that threatened to suck them under just as they were gaining momentum.
Arun spent two days trapped in a cycle of frantic phone calls and defeated spreadsheet analysis. He called alternate suppliers, but the cost of expedited transport and the lack of their personal vetting meant the margins were obliterated. They were trapped.
"We have eighty-five thousand in the business account, Mira," Arun reported one evening, his voice flat. "Our operating expenses—rent for the barsati, the Lajpat Nagar flat, our distributor fees, and Mira's prenatal check-ups—will consume that in six weeks. We have zero margin for the baby's arrival, and no stock to sell during the Diwali push."
Mira, settling heavily onto the worn sofa, understood the math instantly. "We need to infuse at least seventy thousand, just to hold the line until the consignment arrives."
The options were terrible.
"I won't ask Papa," Arun said, pre-empting the most obvious alternative. The shame of returning to the mountains to beg for money—money his father had always offered to invest but Arun had vehemently refused—was unacceptable. It would be an admission that Delhi had defeated his ambition. "We swore we would do this ourselves."
"And the loan from that Sahukar your distributor mentioned?" Mira asked, referencing a local money lender who charged exorbitant interest.
Arun slammed his fist softly on the dusty table. "A loan at forty percent interest? That's not a solution, Mira. That's a noose. We won't build our life on that kind of debt or that lack of integrity. We stay clean."
They fell into a miserable silence. The noise of the city outside seemed to mock their desperation, reminding them how fragile their venture was against the massive scale of Delhi commerce.
Mira looked down at her hands. The bangles she wore were heavy gold, a wedding gift from Arun's mother, passed down through generations. They weren't just jewellery; they were her Stri Dhan, her traditional financial security blanket, meant to be touched only in a true emergency, or never at all.
"We have the money, Arun," she said quietly, tracing the intricate mountain-inspired pattern etched into one of the thick bands.
Arun looked up, confusion quickly turning to horror. "No, Mira. Absolutely not. That's your inheritance. That's... family. You don't touch that. It stays."
"It's gold, Arun. It's sitting idle in a hot, cramped flat, giving us no advantage," Mira countered, pulling off the three heaviest bangles. They were cold and heavy in her palm. "The baby needs to be born into a running business, not a failed promise. This is not for a new storefront, Arun. This is a medical emergency fund. It is the ultimate security."
She pushed the gold across the table. "These are the roots, Arun. They hold the family. Use them to buy the stock. Use them to pay the hospital bill. Gold is just metal. The business—our future—is life."
Arun stared at the jewellery. To sell it felt like sacrificing a piece of their past, a betrayal of the traditions they had promised to uphold even in the city. But Mira's logic was ruthless and unassailable. This was the only ethical lifeline.
The next afternoon, Arun went alone to a small, cluttered gold shop in Karol Bagh. It was a transaction of cold, unforgiving efficiency. The shop owner, a man with calculating eyes and a weighing scale that looked suspiciously worn, examined the craftsmanship, tested the purity, and named a price that was exactly what they needed: seventy-two thousand rupees.
Arun felt a deep, wrenching emptiness as he watched the man place the heavy gold into a vault. He was trading sentiment and heritage for brittle paper currency.
He returned to the barsati where Mira was polishing the cedar shelves, a serene look on her face despite the burden they now shared.
He placed the thick stack of notes on the small packing table. "It's done," he said, the words heavy and metallic.
Mira didn't look at the cash. She looked at his face, at the pain in his eyes. She walked to him and wrapped her arms around his waist.
"They didn't leave us, Arun," she whispered, resting her head against his chest. "The roots didn't go into the vault. We used them to plant a stronger tree right here. This is the seed money for Anushka."
The cash went immediately into the business account. They now had enough breathing room to manage the six-week stock gap and cover the estimated hospital bill. But the cost was higher than money; it was the realization that their venture demanded every ounce of their material and emotional security. They had sacrificed their past to buy their future