A wedding party to the venue, a board to a plant, three generations to a farmhouse, a film crew and its cases: there are days when a family should not be split across four cars. For those the house writes a van — nine to sixteen reclining seats, the luggage in its own hold — with a sarathi of ours at the door, and the smaller cars of the house beside it when the party divides.
Six or seven, in captain seats across a table. The one with a star on the front; the one a family asks for by name.
Four to seven, in seats that recline flat. The quietest cabins the house knows, for a bride's family or a chairman.
Nine to seventeen reclining seats in a van built in this country for exactly this: the wedding party, the board, the family of three generations, with the luggage in its own hold.
Nine to fourteen seats, the van the airports and the embassies use; the Granace in its lounge form for six, when the party is small and the day is long.
Twelve to sixteen seats, the tallest and the quietest of the vans, for a party that will spend a day on the road and arrive as it left.
Tell the house how many, the day and the places. It writes one figure for the whole — the van, the sarathi who rides at its door, fuel, tolls, parking and GST — and, where a party divides, the smaller cars of the house beside it on the same page: a Carnival for the grandparents, a Marque for the bride. One sarathi is answerable for all of it. Nothing is added on the day.
Before a van is named the house sees its registration, its permit, its commercial insurance and its fitness certificate, and meets the driver who comes with it. Only a vehicle on commercial plates carries a guest of the house. The sarathi rides with you; the partner's driver drives.
Write to the houseChoose Marque and say how many. The figure follows in writing.