Shariff stands islanded among his bundles of cut-pieces, short and stocky in his white shirt and sarong, his dark moustache looking strange, incongruous on his bland, cherubic face, although behind that smooth exterior he is a shrewd, very shrewd businessman.

Bundles and bundles of cut-pieces, Four-by-Fours, American georgettes that really come from Japan, and Korean silks lie tumbled about at his feet. He can’t take a step backwards or forwards. He can only turn his body from side to side, stoop, pick up something and throw it at you. The bundles of cut-pieces, knotted together, look very tempting. Some of the designs and colours pleasing to the eye. You have only to sew a fine seam and join the cut-pieces together. My friend says that the seam will not be noticed. It will be hidden among the pleats.

Shariff is most obliging. He does not mind how many pieces you wrest out of the pile and fling aside. As you grasp and pull, he too tugs at the piece of cloth or takes another cut-piece and thrusts it under your nose.

‘I show you something nice,’ he says.

‘No, no, I’ll choose,’ I insist.

It becomes a delightful game. We clutch at hundreds of cut-pieces, rip them out of their bundles and hurl them at each other.

‘This, what about this? You like this? This colour, this design? It will suit your complexion.’

The shop is crowding up.

‘You come Friday. I get another bundle then. More cut-pieces. American georgette.’

Beside me stand two village women, dressed in printed butter nylon. They too can’t make up their minds.

‘Akke, isn’t this nice for me?’

‘Yes, this border is good. The colour will suit you. What about this? No, this is better.’

They are standing at the narrow entrance, blocking it. The salesman standing close to them is grumbling. ‘Almost two hours you have spent choosing and choosing and still you have not chosen.’

Does he mean me? Whom is he talking to? I turn round startled. The man’s face changes. It is rather a rough sort of face with stubbly cheeks, sharp, narrow black eyes, a long thin nose, thin lips curling at the comers. He stands outlined against a background of flimsy, rainbow-coloured sarees. They are not all cut-pieces.

I look at Shariff. ‘I am sorry I have taken so long,’ I say apologetically.

The salesman is discomfited. He begins to murmur incoherently. He slurs his words and stumbles over them in embarrassment. ‘No, no, no, not you, nothing, all right, not you.’ Shariff breaks in smoothly, ‘Madame, not you—that—’ he lifts his eyebrows in the direction of the two women. ‘Poor people, let them choose, let them take their time.’ He has immense patience and tact, but then, that is the only way in which his business will progress.