What the Saryu Remembers
The white cloth was the first thing Priya noticed.
She had been waiting outside the chai stall near Faizabad Chowk since 5:30 in the morning — the old Ghanta Ghar clock visible down the lane, the sky still undecided about the day — when the old man came cycling around the corner. Thin, white-kurta, white topi, moving at the steady unhurried pace of someone who has been going to the same place for thirty years.