The afternoon sunlight catches dust and the scent of spices. They blend together in the baking heat, so the schoolboy can't tell which ones sting his eyes and which ones cling to the back of his throat. He wipes sweat from his eyes and clasps at the silky fabric of his mother's hem.

He can feel her weariness. It brings with it an almost whispered staccato to her negotiations with the shopkeeper. Her voice is firm and unswaying. It carries the weight of a world outside of here, beyond the echoing hoarse-throated shouts of buyers and sellers, beyond even the rusty tinkling of rickshaw bells piercing through the honking of cars and roar of engines in the intersection just outside.

The shopkeeper's throat rattles responses but gathers no momentum, until it grunts in capitulation. A pregnant pause is followed by tin rapidly scooping powder and the rustle of paper bags being filled.

The schoolboy holds his mother's hem tighter as she reaches forward to pay. Even without touching anything he can feel the frayed burlap of the sacks holding the spices.