Mr. Tailor

Dear dedicated reader,

Although our lives here are indubitably based almost entirely around the school, its students and its staff, there is a two hour period in each day between the end of class and our 8 o’clock curfew that we are allowed outside of the school grounds and during this time there are a few village characters that play a role in our lives here.

One such character is Mr. Tailor. Whether or not this is his actual name, we don’t know; however, it was as such that he introduced himself and this is the name by which we call him. Whether or not it’s coincidence that his profession happens to be the same as his name, I also don’t know: what I do know is that he makes the best clothes of any tailor I’ve ever met.

His unmatched skill was proven yet again when I went by recently to pick up some sari blouses that I had asked him to make. The designs were elegant, the stitching flawless, and all for the low, low price of rs. 170 (approximately four US dollars). However, like everything here, our relationship with Mr. Tailor goes far beyond the simple “measurements taken – clothes made – bill paid” interaction.

“I am the best tailor, right?” He asked us as I looked over the blouses.

“You are the perfect tailor,” Melissa enthusiastically responded. “The best tailor!”

“Do you have internet?” He asked suddenly.

“Uh, yes?” I replied, a little wary of where this new subject could possibly be going.

“I also have internet – we have one modem that you put in your computer like pen drive and it is 250 kilobytes per second!” He has particularly exclamatory way of talking.

“That’s great,” I replied with an indulgent smile. I have become accustomed to random topic shifts, especially when I am speaking with someone in English here. I know well enough that when speaking in a language you struggle with, you grasp at whatever you can think of. However, I had misjudged the situation: this topic actually had a point.

“Do you want to borrow that pen drive?” He asked us.

“But… we have internet,” I explained.

“Yes, but this will be so much faster!” He exclaimed, bringing his hand down in an large agreeing thump on his sewing machine.

He explained the terms of our borrowing the modem: he didn’t need this modem at night (what he’s doing with it during the day while he tailors I don’t know) and the first two months of use are free – “So,” he said, “You can take this modem then from that Friday evening and return it that Monday morning before 7 am.”

“You mean, Sunday night?” I said.

“No, Monday morning is fine,” he said, as I inwardly cringed at the thought of being presentable enough at that hour to traipse through the village to return the modem.

We agreed, and he gave us the modem to take home that night, calling after us that we should not bring it back past 7 am sharp!

Like so many gifts and favors here, this one turned out to be more of a burden than a favor. We could not get the modem to work in our computer and we still had to bring it back at that unspeakably early hour. We sighed and resigned ourselves to our 30 kbps connection.

Later that night, Melissa’s cell phone rang. It was just after eight thirty. We looked at each other: who could be calling?

She picked up the phone. “Hello?” I heard her say. Thinking it was her mother, I went back to reading my book. As I tried to reabsorb myself within “The Audacity of Hope”, I heard her say: “But, uh, how did you get this number?” I looked at her over the top of my book.

“Who is it?” I mouthed.

She cupped her hand over the talk piece. “It’s the tailor!” She said in an amused whisper.

I almost laughed out loud. She scolded me to restrain myself.

After a little more confused chatting, the conversation ended. “How did he get your phone number?” I asked incredulously.

She sighed. “The phone guy gave it to him.”

The man who sold Melissa her cell phone and to whose phone booth we nightly make the trek to make international phone calls was directly across from Mr. Tailor’s shop. Their families are great friends and whether we are at the phone booth or at the tailor’s shop, the other man is always there.

“And he’s coming over right now.” She continued.

“Uh, what?!” I jumped up, pajama clad.

“Well, I told him that the modem wasn’t working in the computer so he said that he’d come over with his brother and fix it. Now.”

I rushed into the other room to change out of my pajamas. I had just enough time to throw on a kurta and some pants before we heard a knocking on the door.

The tailor and his brother entered. We offered them water in the style of Indian hospitality; they declined. Instead, they immediately set to work on the computer. They had brought along with them some lacking serial number or other.

Quickly following their sitting down in the chair at the computer, there was another knock at the door. The principal peaked his head through the crack of the door left ajar.

“What is going on here?” He asked in that innocuously concerned way that he has perfected.

“Oh sir,” I said, jumping a little. “They are just…” How did I even begin to explain why they were here. I mean, we didn’t invite them…

Luckily, Mr. Tailor jumped in. “We are here installing this pen drive,” he explained in Gujarati. He continued along at a quick pace that I couldn’t follow, but whatever he said must have been to the principal’s satisfaction because he nodded and let them carry on their work, under his hawk-eyed supervision.

After they got the pen drive up and working, the principal gave a waggle of approval and left. We thanked the tailor and his brother. “Don’t forget – “ he began.

“I promise we’ll bring it back by 7 am,” I assured him.

“And Saturday, you must come to my house for Ganesh Chaturthi!” He exclaimed. Ganesh Chaturthi is the proper name of the Ganesh Festival that is currently going on. “Our garampatti is the best!” We assured him we would.

Like I said, so much more than just a tailor.

Best,
Cat

P.S. When Melissa did take the pen drive back, just before 7 am, Mr. Tailor was not, in fact, at his shop.