Anita took over her father's shop when he fell ill, with no plan except to keep it open. It sold seed, fertiliser and crop protection on a narrow street, between a tailor and a tea stall, and it had been there longer than most of the farmers who came in.
She was twenty-six and the farmers, many of whom had known her since she was a child, were polite and sceptical. The first season, they came in for what they needed and left without asking her anything.
One afternoon a farmer named Govind came in asking for a particular spray. Anita asked him what the crop was, and how far along, and what exactly he had seen on the leaves. He had not mentioned any of it. She listened, then told him that she did not think the spray would help and that he should look at his watering first.
She lost that sale. Two days later, Govind came back, said the watering had been the problem, and bought his seed from her for the next season. By harvest, half his lane had heard the story.
She began to do small things the shop had never done. She wrote down, in a school notebook, what each regular customer grew and when they usually sowed. A week before the stage when they would need something, she sent a short message. If a bill was wrong, she fixed it in front of the customer without making them feel they had accused her of anything.
When she was unsure about a problem, she said so, and called the agriculture officer or a supplier's field representative while the farmer waited. Nobody had ever seen a shopkeeper do that. They trusted her more for it.
Within a couple of years, farmers did not only come to Anita's shop to buy. They came to ask. A new disease in the area, a rumour about a price, a letter from a bank they could not read: they brought it to her first.
She was never the cheapest shop on the street. She did not need to be. In a business where a bad recommendation can cost a farmer a whole crop, being the person who tells the truth turns out to be worth more than a discount.