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Elias nodded and walked down to the canal bank. His small wooden vallam (boat) was bobbing gently. In the peak season—December to February—this canal would be a highway of houseboats, filled with Russian and European tourists clicking cameras at the egrets. The water would be churned into a brown froth by diesel engines.

An hour later, they had fixed the pipe—mostly by accident, after Finn dropped the wrench and it loosened the valve. They were both soaked, muddy, and laughing.

That evening, the three of them sat on the veranda—Raman, Leela, and Finn. The rain had softened to a whisper. Finn’s stew, made with local potatoes and some suspiciously spicy green chilies Leela had added, was surprisingly good. Raman, who usually grumbled about "foreigners who come only for the sun," found himself telling stories about the 1999 floods, when he had rowed a boat through the main street.

"Yes, Ammamma," Elias replied, setting down the steel glass. "I’m going to the market."

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