Sartorial slip ups

A day before Deepavali, my father got his bonus. He used the money to buy us all clothes, first for my sister and mother, then shirt material for him and me in Triplicane, one of the oldest neighbourhoods in Chennai.

We went to a well-established tailor shop in the vegetable and meat market. Handing my checkered-brown cotton shirt, dad said in Tamil, “Panicker, take shirt measurements for my boy and get this cloth stitched; deliver by evening.”

Panicker, with a mouthful of paan, measured the cloth and promptly returned it, saying, “This cloth is not enough for stitching a slack shirt for the boy.” My father was convinced Panicker was trying to cheat him but politely said good-bye to him.

We then proceeded to another young tailor, Dayalan, new to our locality, in the lane next to my home. He took measurements and agreed to keep my shirt ready by 4 am the next day, just in time for the festival, for a princely sum of Re 1 & 4 annas, which my father bargained down to Re 1. To get my father’s shirt stitched, we went to Mount Road. Near Elphinstone Theatre stood a tall statue of the then Chief Minister Kamaraj, with his right index finger pointing to a Sindhi tailor shop. Dad ordered: “Stitch a full-sleeve bush-shirt for me and deliver it by 8 pm today.” To the tailor, my father was a VIP, as he had secured a costume stitching contract for the tailor. Hence, he readily agreed to keep my father’s shirt ready as ordered.

I was back with my father to the Sindhi tailor shop exactly at 9 pm. Tek, the proprietor, came running to welcome us, but what caught our eye was the shirting cloth neatly wrapped in a Hindi newspaper and lying on the thick glass-topped cutting table. My father was exasperated. He said in anguish to Tek, “Only a few hours left for the festival, and you have not even cut my shirt. You will deliver it only for the next Deepavali.”

Tek smiled and said, “Sir, your shirt is ready; only buttons are to be stitched.” My father decided to wait.

A while later, Tek handed my father a just-pressed shirt. There was no
trial room, and my father tried it on in front of us.

He looked at his image in a life-size mirror that was fixed at the entrance. Tek helped dad button the shirt. But then I couldn’t contain my giggle and could see dad’s eyes turning red in anger. He stared for a while at Tek and softly said to him, “Look, Tek. You took my measurement but stitched the shirt for that statue of Kamaraj?” Kamaraj seemed to be smiling at us.