Free The Sari Shop by Rupa Bajwa

move away from it. A small boy came out and asked what he wanted. Ramchand ordered a glass of mossambi juice, with one hand placed protectively on the bundle of saris on the carrier. The boy brought him a glassful. Ramchand sipped at it.
    The orange liquid slid down his throat smoothly.
    He threw his head back and drained the last drop into his mouth.
    Grey pigeons flew overhead.
    A single drop clung to the corner of his mouth, caught the sun’s rays and glinted quietly. Ramchand wiped it away, paid up and cycled off again, feeling more free and happy than he had in years.
    After half an hour of serene cycling, Ramchand reached Green Avenue where Ravinder Kapoor lived. Gokul had told him exactly how to get to Green Avenue. Now Ramchand took out the piece of paper on which Gokul had scribbled further instructions clearly. He had to turn left when he saw a phone booth. Ramchand spotted a shiny new-looking glass booth with the letters ‘P.C.O.’ written on the smooth glass in bright red, and turned.
    He was in a broad lane shaded with leafy trees and a proper pavement. On his right side there was a row of big houses with high boundary walls, on his left there was a big park, a large open space that Ramchand would never have imagined existed in Amritsar.
    ‘The third house on the right,’ he murmured to himself, wobbling a little. He passed two big houses and stopped at the gate of the third.
    The high iron gates were of an intricate pattern, with brass knobs shining here and there. The top of the gate was spiked, so were the walls. A large granite nameplate had two words engraved on it. Ramchand stared at them, murmuring the letters that formed the words. Then he found, to his delight, that he had managed to read them. The words said ‘Kapoor House’. The granite nameplate looked very impressive.
    Through the grille of the gate, Ramchand could see a driveway lined with potted plants, a chauffeur polishing a long blue car, and a well-kept lawn. A gardener wearing a blue kurta was bending over some flowerbeds.
    Ramchand rang the bell nervously. The chauffeur came and opened the gate. He was a hefty man. He had his sweatersleeves rolled back and Ramchand could see his muscular forearms.
    ‘Yes?’ he asked suspiciously.
    ‘I have brought them,’ Ramchand said nervously.
    ‘Brought what?’
    ‘Saris.’
    ‘Which saris?’
    ‘For memsahib’s wedding. From Sevak Sari House.’
    ‘Oh.’ The chauffeur looked Ramchand up and down appraisingly and then moved to one side. ‘Come in,’ he said.
    Ramchand wheeled his bicycle up the broad driveway. He was asked to wait in the porch. A big wooden ‘Om’ hung above the main door. He waited, cracking his knuckles swiftly, one after the other. He could see now that there was a red car behind the blue one and the garage door was closed, maybe there was another car inside the garage. The driveway was wide enough for any of the cars behind to be taken out without having to move the blue car.
    After a minute or two, a surly looking maid in a mauve sari opened the door and ushered Ramchand into a big room with grand-looking sofas lining the walls and a glass-topped table in the middle. A thick blue carpet covered the entire floor space. There were paintings and brass antiques hanging on the walls. Ramchand nervously sat on the edge of one of the soft sofas with his huge bundle of saris sitting beside him, feeling like a fish out of water. There was complete silence, except for the loud ticking of a very fancy looking clock on the wall. He waited for fifteen minutes. Then a boy appeared through the door with a glass of chilled cola on a tray. He was blushing. Ramchand also blushed.
    He took the glass self-consciously, and tried to look as if he sat in plush rooms every day receiving glasses of expensive soft drinks from domestic help. When he picked up the glass,he noticed that the tray was made of frosted glass with a pattern of dancing peacocks engraved on it. It reminded him of