Tailor Made Article!

16 May 2019, 10:00 PM

It is hard to satisfy my dear father. At 83 years of age he is mentally agile to the point of finding faults with laser precision. He has a keen eye for details.

My dad retired several years ago from the Indian Railways. A great part of his career was spent as a design engineer for rail coaches, where his sole satisfaction was the soul-satisfaction derived from spotting errors in the engineering drawings made by his underlings. Finding mistakes was critical since any drawing-errors would lead to interminable trips between the design office and the rail coach shell workshop, which was sole-wearing for a shoe-wearing engineer.

A good engineering design should manifest as a faultless blue-print and finally, the intended hardware. Having a keen eye for errors and being paranoid that any engineering drawing is seldom right the first time is necessary for reduced down-stream and more expensive mistakes. This paranoia naturally trickles down to other walks of life as well. Therefore, it was quite a surprise for me when he declared, sometime in 1991, that, “At last the great Narayana Rao has arrived in our neighborhood.” There was a visible sense of gleam and contentment in his exclamation.

I was wondering as to who this Narayana Rao was, so capable of earning the acclamation of my dear father, who by nature was stingy in his approbation! I was young and (hence, naturally) curious.

We live in a part of Chennai, which during 1991 was considered as remote. The only tailor our family trusted those days was one Greenland Tailors in Ayanavaram, who had been existing since the start of time and is still flourishing. It was a good six kilometer from my home to the tailor shop. The lower middle-class family that we were, it was only once or at best twice a year that we chanced to visit this tailor. Dresses were expensive, and you can’t take chances with a mediocre tailor!

With Greenland Tailors, the results were assured. These folks were skilled and the measurements, in my dad’s eyes, though not as good as his engineering drawings, fully justified the distance travelled.

It was always a painful pleasure – pleasure at the prospect of wearing a new dress and pain at the travel involved – more often in a bicycle – pedaling doubles with one of my brothers! We were young and thin, and so it was not in any way too much of a bother pedaling. It is an entirely different story now. It would take for one person now, the same cloth material that could have – in those days – been enough for two of us. Moreover, today, the bicycle would also squat if two of us would risk riding it as doubles. While our trusted bicycle has rusted quite a bit, we have also gained in girth over the years. Riding a bicycle these days is risky as well. There are way too many rouge drivers out there on the road. Times have changed – for the better or for worse, I am not sure.

The moment we would come home with our new shirt, we have to parade, wearing those in front of my mother who would often chide, “The shirt is too short. How many times do I have to say! Should have been a bit lengthier. You all buy expensive fabrics and make a mess out of it. The tailor would have taken half the cloth for himself. Wasting money!” This was her usual rebuke regardless of the length of the shirt. We would protest, “Amma, if our shirt would be stitched longer than this, we would all start looking like an Arab wearing his tunic! Worse, the shirt would go all the way down like hospital outfits given to in-patients. We wouldn’t even need a pant. One long shirt all the way from neck to feet.” She would give a parting shot, “you children are growing and in three months this shirt would become short and also tight like a pillow case and I would have to run to ‘Konna-Vaayan’ to get it altered!”

In Tamil, names are of two kinds – ‘idukuri peyar’ (name with no apparent meaning) and ‘kaarana peyar’ (meaning that could be derived from a name). Konna-Vaayan is the ‘kaarana peyar’ affectionately given by the neighborhood ladies to a local tailor. He happened to be an alteration specialist. In fact, throughout his professional life, he never had the good fortune to stitch new clothes, much to his chagrin. His old sewing machine was his adjudged altar and all he did to old clothes was adjust and alter. He got his nickname, thanks to his permanently crooked lips.

He became such a handy fellow that some of the ladies created a more banal, but respectable and shortened, variant of his name – “Konn-aiyyan”. “Konn-aiyyan” would pay a visit to our neighborhood unannounced. Even when we as kids playing cricket see him coming from a distance, we would all stop our game momentarily, run to our respective homes and announce, “Amma, ‘Konna-Vaayan’ is on his way”, and reconvene to continue with our game.  If a person could stop your game midway, however momentarily it may be, he better be someone important. The women would also drop all their important tasks, gossips, television, etc., scurry and quickly hunt down old clothes waiting to be altered, grumbling to each other across the wide-gaped, barbed fence, “This ‘Konn-aiyyan’ fellow doesn’t know when to show-up”.

The ladies in the neighborhood never had the need or the desire to know his real name – but I did, thanks to my natural propensity to investigate and discover such useful, important and handy information. His real name (‘idukuri peyar’), I discovered, was S Pandurangan. You may call me a Sherlock Holmes in the making. But let it be a secret between us that this was the farthest frontiers of my General Knowledge at that time!

Konna-vaayan routinely altered ‘hand-me-down’ pants into two ungainly shorts for us little boys, all for a small sum of money – the amount which would be finalized after some fierce haggling and awkward showdowns between him and my mother; which would be to the tune of two or three rupees. Konna-Vaayan would grumblingly concede defeat every time at the hands of my valiant mother with a sullen muttering of withdrawal in chaste Chennai Tamil, “eppa paaru, ovoru dabaavum badaa bejaaru” (means – “every time we have the same problem”). My mother sternly, “enna?” (means – “what?”) He would back-off, “onnum illa maa, ellam en thala eyuthu” (means – “nothing, it is all my fate”). She boasted more knock-outs on this fellow than Iron Mike Tyson on his opponents!

Back to Narayana Rao. In 1991, suddenly Narayana Rao resurfaced. A chance encounter with my father revealed that this time, he had opened his shop right on the street parallel to where we lived – just two minutes by walk. My dad couldn’t contain his excitement, “Sons, no more Greenland; no more pedaling all the way to Ayanavaram.” With the gait of an army General, he looked at us sharply and declared, “Tailor Narayana Rao has arrived!” We – his children – wondered, “Who is this Narayana Rao and what makes him so great even to excite our dad?” Afterall, my dad is not the one who could be easily impressed. He could nit-pick even on Hercules (which, by the way, was the brand of his old bicycle that I had mentioned a while ago). I made a mistake by asking him, “Is Narayana Rao better that the Greenland Tailors?”

“Tailoring runs in the veins of Narayana Rao,” snapped by father.

Centuries ago, it was the period when King Serfoji, the Maratha, ruled Thanjavur. His name was duly ‘Tamilized’ as Sara Bojee. Around this time, there was migration of Marathas into Tamil Nadu. Several of these migrants were tailors who continue this profession even to date for generations. Narayana Rao came from this exalted sartorial pedigree. My father had known him in the past, sometime during the mid-fifties. Thereafter my dad changed residences and along with that tailors as well. Narayana Rao became a distant memory for him – out of sight and out of mind. Now that very same Narayana Rao has returned – like ‘return of the dragon’. “From now on, you should all get your clothes stitched by this old pal of mine,” thundered my dad. We had to concede. Afterall, friendship is sacred and must be revered, especially if it happens to be a tailor.

I had just completed a few months in my new job as a graduate trainee engineer in a large company and had some cash to spare for a new pant, which I badly needed. I went to the local Bombay Dyeing showroom, purchased a nice piece of pant cloth, rich olive green in colour just like the ones they use in army, and went straight to Narayana Rao and introduced myself, “I am so-and-so’s son. My dad told that you are the best tailor. I want to get my pant stitched.” He patted me patronizingly and with affectionate eyes said, “Boy, I know your dad very well. Met him yesterday.”

With a style that could only be expected from generations of tailors, Narayana Rao briskly whipped his tape measure true to his illustrious lineage and started measuring me – 28, 18, 25… and so on. I have often wondered at the memory of tailors, with genuine admiration. They remember your size last year and the year before (assuming you go to the same tailor year over year)! Ask them to stitch a pant and shirt, they would make you stand straight, turn you around, come around you, wrap the tape around you, squat, measure you all over and would suddenly lunge to their register and start regurgitating endless strings of numbers and strange annotations – 28, 22, 15, 12.5, 28… and so on. Not a Taylor-series at works; simply our Tailor Narayana Rao, serious at work!

As he was measuring me, there was an unmistakable stench coming from his mouth. Narayana Rao was fully drunk! I had heard that sailors drink, but this was a revelation for me that even tailors drink! Quite understandable since the sails of a sailor would have to come from a tailor.

 “Do you need a ticket pocket?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good… and how about loops for belt?”

“Of course!”

“One hip-pocket to the right should do fine.”

“Yes sir!”

“You look thin. Pleats should suit you fine. Go for double pleats.”

“Sure”

“…and zippers as well. In those days we used to have buttons – embarrassing. Buttons fall off and let me not describe to you the consequence. Go for zippers. Zippers don’t fall off.”

“hmmm”

He would then cut a small triangular piece of the fabric and elegantly staple it on a card, with the due date on when to collect the pant. “Come sharp on the date indicated. Unlike other tailors, I am punctual. Discipline and work ethics are important. These are lacking these days. Your dad knows the kind of person I am.” Pleasantries exchanged, and hands shaken, I was about to take leave, but decided to get complimented. I asked him a question, “Sir, is my cloth material any good?”

“Of course, boy! Of course! Whose son you are!!! Like father like son! Your dad also has an eye for excellent dress material. Come back next week and see how nicely the pant would fit you.” He complimented himself, “Tell your friends that Mr. Narayana Rao means latest style.” I simply nodded.

One week is a very long time for any suspense to a young man, eager to wear his pant in the latest style. I was awaiting the pant-of-the-century, courtesy Narayana Rao. So, sharp as agreed, I visited him to collect my pant. He greeted me with the same warm smile. I told him, “I am here for my pant.” He replied, “Oh! Pant. Yes! Pant. Yes! Your pant! Glad you reminded me. Come next week. I was too busy.”

Next week I visited him. “Very prompt boy. See, I was a bit sick. Positively I shall give your pant next week.”

And so, one more week passes by!

Again, a week later when I saw him, “Boy! What a dress material you have purchased! First-class cloth material boy. I simply don’t feel like even cutting it! Who would even be so insensitive to run his scissors over such a fine piece of fabric!” He was still drunk.

I mildly protested, “Sir, how would you stitch a pant without cutting the cloth? If you don’t feel like cutting the material – howsoever good – I would simply have to take it back and wrap it around like a lungi! You are not feeling like cutting the cloth and my father doesn’t want me to go to anyone else but you.”

After several more days and lots of pleading, Narayana Rao finally relented and stitched my green pant. I took it home and with great expectancy opened the pant, applied some Kumkum, wore it and proudly visited my friend’s home. Not too often does a young man gets to flaunt the latest and greatest in fashion to his friend and subject him to the agony of peer pressure. I was expecting my friend to go wild at my pants and rush to Narayana Rao to match wits with me. Afterall, style keeps changing every week - sometimes! Who knows, by the time my friend gets his pants stitched, mine would have already gone out of fashion. Remember, “Narayanan Rao means latest style”.

But my friend’s great-grandmother inadvertently played spoil sport. She looked at me with wild amusement. Her sagging eyes opened wide as she exclaimed, “Boy! Anything special today? Are you going to audition for any historical drama? You seem to have come straight out of history books. I become so nostalgic upon seeing you. Your pants remind me of Sara Bojee Raja!” On normal occasions, comparing me with a king would elate me. But this old woman's contextual tone was oozing with mischievous sarcasm.

You know how great-grandmothers are! No doubt my grandmother was great by her own right, but my great-grandmother was even greater. Give them a chance and they never stop.

My friend’s great-grandmother started reeling out anecdotes on the Marathas who ruled Tanjore. I seemed to have, by no fault of mine, opened her doors to past! I had to squiggle-out like a worm. So much for Narayana Rao’s latest style!

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Ps.: I thereafter lovingly gifted the pant to my brother by managing to convince him that none of his friends had great-grandmothers! But then, who knows where great-grandmothers might be hiding!!!! There could be one out there, lurking around the corner waiting for an opportunity to prance on you! Beware of great-grandmothers!