By the time they reached the bustling flower market, the air was already heavy with the fragrance of marigolds, roses, and jasmine. The market was alive with activity—vendors shouting prices, buyers inspecting the freshness of the flowers, and laborers carrying large baskets on their heads. The air buzzed with a mix of urgency and tradition.
This time, Bani and Aman had brought only 150 kg of marigold flowers. It was a smaller batch compared to last time, but they were determined to get a good price.
A buyer approached them, a middle-aged man with sharp eyes and a practiced tone. "Marigolds, huh? I'll take them for 180 rupees per kg," he said, crossing his arms.
Bani exchanged a quick glance with Aman. She had already observed the market rates and knew 180 was far too low.
"That's way below the market price," she countered. "These are fresh and bright. We're looking for at least 250 rupees per kg."
The man scoffed. "250? You must be joking! I can get them for 200 from the next stall."
Aman stepped in. "Then why are you bargaining with us? If you could get them for 200, you would have already bought them."
The buyer smirked, realizing he was caught. "Alright, I'll be generous. 210."
Bani shook her head. "We'll wait. There are other buyers."
They stood firm, watching as more sellers closed their deals. A few minutes later, another buyer—a florist who supplied to wedding decorators—came by. He inspected the flowers, rubbing the petals between his fingers.
"Good quality," he murmured. "I can take the whole lot for 240 per kg."
Bani did a quick mental calculation. 150 kg at 240 per kg would fetch them 36,000 rupees. It was a fair price. She looked at Aman, who gave a small nod.
"Deal," she said, shaking the florist's hand.
They watched as the workers loaded the marigolds into the buyer's van. The golden-orange flowers glowed under the morning sun, a small but satisfying success.
Same routine went on for a week she was producing fresh vegitable and rice and flowers to sell in the market.
Bani's home had never been a place of suspicion before. It was just another residence in a quiet neighborhood, a second-floor apartment that had served them well for years. But lately, too many eyes had been watching. Too many whispers had started circling. The movement of goods in and out of their home had drawn attention, and while nothing had happened yet, the unease in the air was undeniable.
Her father, who had always been stubborn about change, was the one to bring it up first.
"We need to find a new house," he declared one evening at dinner, his voice heavy with decision.
Aman, her brother, frowned. "Why all of a sudden?"
"It's becoming difficult to move the products up and down," their father explained. "And I don't like the way people are looking at us these days. We need a proper place—an individual house with space for storage and parking. It'll be easier for deliveries too."