The pavement hawkers stand behind their makeshift counters lined with dazzling mirrors through which flash a coloured whirl of limbs bathed in sunlight—the whole town, its glittering snake of humanity uncoiling itself through the streets, restless, seeking, walking, walking, lifting, touching, feeling, stretching, holding against the body, feeling the textures. The shimmery soft folds of cloth to cover their bodies with. Yes, they all seem to be women. ‘Does the colour suit me? Will this fit me?’ They choose the skimpiest measurements to sew a dress or skirt or a pair of trousers. They don’t leave much room for growing. The skirts are short and uneven, the sarees joined together out of cut-pieces. Cheap rubber slippers lie on the pavement.

They stand in little groups, the young girls, hardly ever alone. They all look the same, even the colour of their skin, the shapes of their bodies and faces, in their standard attire. How lost their youthful insouciance is in the shoddy clothes they wear. As fashions change, so change their uniforms: they all want to share the same identity—the printed T-shirts from Taiwan, the corduroy skirts, the permanent-pleated synthetics, their hair caught back in pony tails, their faces powdered white with talcum, the heavy shoes with thick rubber soles, the coloured hair slides; and the older women, the young married women, the clerks and the teachers, the middleclass housewives, counting their money in their little plastic purses and handbags or untying their knotted handkerchiefs to take out the crumpled notes. The neglected hands criss-crossed with dark lines, the marks of knife cuts, the worn-out finger nails—the result of cooking, chopping firewood, scrubbing pots and pans, cutting vegetables with rough-handled knives. Occasionally the prosperous new returnees from the Middle East pass by—gold bangles, earrings, high-heeled shoes, perfume, that special aura, that gloss of new wealth glittering in the bright clothes and handbags; the children in their brand new imported clothes, shoes and socks.

I peer at a blue flowered print. ‘I like that,’ I say.

‘What, that? It’s not nice at all. Buy the ponjee, the white or cream. Now don’t ask the price of things on the pavement; don’t make a spectacle of yourself looking at all those cheap things,’ my daughter murmurs disapprovingly.