Listening to the Wheels

Farida opened and closed the lunch tin three times before asking her first customer for payment.

“I'll settle up at the end of the month,” he said.

She almost nodded. Then she stopped. “We'll settle the first week on Sunday.”

At home, she told her mother what she had said.

Her mother asked, “Was something wrong with the lid?”

At thirty-one, Farida had been working in other people's kitchens for twelve years. She knew how much water a short pot of dal could take. But pricing her own meals, she kept leaving things out: cooking gas, spices, her time.

Her younger sister, Najma, looked at the notebook and added a line.

Your labour: zero.

Farida turned the page.

The family whose breakfast and lunch she cooked was moving away. She would lose three thousand rupees a month. Why not deliver lunches to people living alone nearby, Najma suggested. Even five customers would help.

Farida liked the idea. She couldn't see how to deliver it.

She couldn't carry all those tins two kilometres. She could ride a bicycle, but not with containers of hot dal swinging from it. The scrap dealer had a small handcart. He wanted seven thousand rupees; she bargained him down to four thousand eight hundred.

When her mother heard her mention selling the old sewing machine, she removed its needle and put it in a box.

“Leave that.”

“It doesn't even work.”

“So?”

Farida said nothing more. That night her mother dusted the machine. By morning it looked much the same, except for the fresh newspaper covering it.

Farida bought the cart with her savings, including the money set aside to repair the stove. Najma suggested having someone inspect it first. Farida could already hear another person explaining why she couldn't do this.

She bought it without an inspection.

On the first morning, she packed nine lunches: potatoes and peas, dal, four rotis each. The tins fitted so tightly there was barely a gap. Everything was fine until the main road, where the left wheel began to wobble.

Thinking the load was uneven, she rearranged the tins.

At the next turn, the wheel tilted and the cart sagged sideways.

Yellow dal spread into the road dust.

Only two lunches survived. Farida called everyone to say she couldn't deliver. One man said he would eat out. Another asked whether this was going to happen every day.

Back home, she covered the cart and leaned it against the wall.

“Hurt?” her mother asked.

Farida shook her head.

“Then wash your hands. Eat something first.”

That evening she told Najma to tear up the slips with the customers' numbers. Najma left them alone. In the notebook, she wrote four thousand eight hundred beside “Cart” and left a blank line underneath.

Next morning, Farida dragged it to a repair shop. The mechanic removed the wheel. The paint was new; the wheel's bushing was worn out. Repairing it would cost nine hundred rupees.

“For that much, a new wheel—”

“A new wheel is fourteen hundred.”

She fell silent.

As he worked, she watched him prop a block of wood beneath the axle before putting weight on it. What should she do if it happened on the road again? He showed her a couple of things and told her to check the wheels for play every morning.

This time, when she didn't understand, she asked again.

She postponed buying a replacement lid to cover the repair. Her mother washed the surviving tins and set them aside. The sewing machine stayed where it was. They hadn't needed to sell it.

Before restarting, Farida loaded the tins with water and tested the route. Najma walked beside her, watching the time. On the climb toward the bridge, both had to push.

“We'll have to drop this customer,” Najma said.

Farida objected. He had been among the first to sign up.

“One lunch is going to make all the others late.”

After their third stop on the slope, Farida agreed. Her voice shook when she called him, but she gave the actual reason.

They started again with five lunches. Payment would be weekly. Customers had a deadline for cancelling a meal. One wanted less chilli; another wanted six rotis. Trying to accommodate everyone made her late again on the second morning.

The next order slip offered only two options. Najma did the lettering.

Farida wrote the prices.

On Sunday, four customers paid. The fifth was the man who had offered to settle at the month's end. Standing at his door, Farida explained that she needed payment for the past week before starting the next.

He took out his wallet.

The conversation was much shorter than the one she had rehearsed.

That night, after expenses, seven hundred and forty rupees remained. It wasn't a fortune. It didn't yet cover the wheel repair. For the first time, she entered her own share on a separate line.

“How many tomorrow?” her mother asked.

“Seven. But I'm keeping it at seven for now.”

In the morning, as Farida wheeled the cart out, her mother handed her an old cloth bag. Inside were a wrench, a small wooden block and a clean handkerchief. The split seam of the bag had been neatly stitched.

Farida checked both wheels. Then she put her hands on the handle.

This time, even after turning out of the lane, she was still listening to them.