The euphoria of securing the Barsati in Shahpur Jaat faded quickly, replaced by the grim reality of bureaucracy. The dusty 150 square feet were a blank canvas, but it was useless until "A&M Store" existed on paper.
In Himachal, a handshake and a clear ledger were often enough. In Delhi, Arun quickly learned that trust was replaced by stamped documents, seals, and endless waiting.
Arun took a week off his logistics job, deciding to push through the registration process for their proprietorship. He needed a business name clearance, a GST number, a trade license from the municipal corporation, and a dozen other papers he hadn't known existed a month ago.
His days became a loop of stifling heat, slow fans, and long, static queues. The government offices were labyrinthine, filled with lethargic officials, buzzing fluorescent lights, and the sickly-sweet smell of cheap air freshener trying to mask decades of grime.
He would wait three hours only to be told he was missing a form that had been phased out five years ago, or that his signature required an affidavit signed by a notary public two districts away.
"They just want the tea money, Arun," an older, cynical man whispered to him one day in the registration office, nudging a folded fifty-rupee note toward him. "Just grease the wheels. It's faster."
Arun felt a flash of pure Himachali stubbornness. He had promised Mira this business would be built on honesty and integrity. He refused. He tore up the note and walked away, choosing the long, clean road over the short, dirty one.
But the delays began to wear him down. Each failed day meant they were burning through their small savings without generating revenue. The strain began to show in their cramped Lajpat Nagar flat.
Mira, meanwhile, was focused on the creative side. She cleaned the Barsati until the concrete floor shone, treating their tiny room like a shrine. She used the space to sketch detailed floor plans, arranging the shelves to maximize the natural cedar wood they planned to install. She called Arun's family back home, confirming the first consignment of jam, honey, and hand-knitted Kullu shawls. She was building the future; Arun was fighting the past.
One evening, Arun returned home, his shirt soaked with sweat and his face dark with fury. He flung a pile of confusing, triplicate forms onto the rickety dining table.
"This city is designed to crush you, Mira," he spat out, pacing the tiny room. "It's a disease. I spent six hours waiting, only for the clerk to tell me the required affidavit must be stamped by a specific commissioner who is 'on indefinite leave.' They want me to fail."
Mira looked up from her designs. "Then we find a way around the clerk. We go to a different office. We use the online portal, Arun, you mentioned it last week."
"The portal is a joke! It crashes every twenty minutes!" Arun snapped, turning on her. The stress had finally boiled over, making him harsh and unfair. "You don't understand, Mira. You sit here, surrounded by your lovely sketches, talking to farmers and designing labels. That's the dream. I'm out there, fighting the real city. The one that demands a bribe for a signature."
The silence that followed was heavy and cold, sharper than the mountain wind. Mira stood up slowly, picking up the scattered forms.
"Don't talk to me about the real city, Arun," she said, her voice quiet but ringing with authority. "The real city is where you lose your Pahari spirit. Our integrity is more important than a piece of paper. You are letting them make you angry and frantic, just like everyone else here."
She walked to the small kitchenette and poured him a glass of water. "You are the logistics expert. You analyse the problem. We treat this like a supply chain bottleneck. Where is the jam? The notary. Fine. I will find a notary with a digital signature who works late. You stop fighting the city like a bully, and start navigating it like a clever mountain man."
Arun looked at her—at her calm face, her steady hands organizing the chaotic paperwork. He saw his own anger reflected back as weakness. He was trying to smash through a concrete wall; Mira was showing him the window.
They worked together late into the night. Mira organized the forms into color-coded folders; Arun used his logistics contacts to find an experienced, online-savvy chartered accountant who specialized in new ventures. They paid the accountant a small, professional fee—honest money for honest work—and within 48 hours, the applications were filed correctly.
Two days later, Arun's phone buzzed with an email notification. The subject line read: Registration Confirmation for M/s A&M Store.
He read the words aloud, his voice thick with emotion. Mira hugged him fiercely, the relief washing over them both. It was just a document, but it was the permission slip for their new life.
"The roots are in the soil, Arun," Mira whispered. "Now, we build the trunk."
The next day, they celebrated. They bought two cheap metal shelves for the Barsati and painted the walls a soothing, clean white. For the first time, the dusty little room felt less like a storage unit and more like a bridge between the Himalayas and the city of Delhi.