The morn­ing sun had just start­ed to push its gold­en fin­gers through the cloudy skies over Curepe Junc­tion. The hum of ear­ly traf­fic blend­ed with the chat­ter of school­child­ren and the call of ven­dors set­ting up along the pave­ment.

Ch­agua­nas taxi dri­vers hus­tled pas­sen­gers out of max­is in­to their sev­en-seaters to head to Ch­agua­nas. At the cor­ner by the old hard­ware, Ravi’s dou­bles cart stood like a loy­al sen­try, bright red canopy, steam­ing bara, and that un­mis­tak­able scent of chan­na sim­mer­ing in cur­ry and gar­lic.

It was Fri­day, and Bud­get Day was com­ing on Mon­day. The whole coun­try seemed to be hold­ing its breath. Ravi wiped his hands on a tow­el, his fin­gers mov­ing with the rhythm of years of ex­pe­ri­ence. Bara in hand, he shout­ed, “Next! Pep­per or no pep­per?”