I picked up a jean, found the regular size tight and told the tailor-friend at the mall to alter it.
“So you putting on weight,” he mocked, asking “How is Rajesh?” “Oh, that tinku (shortie)?” I asked and instantly noted a frown in the tailor’s face. Shucks, the tailor himself is a “tinku,” shorter than Rajesh.
Realising the blunder, I changed the subject, “People prefer readymade garments; how do you tailors manage?”
“We are going great,” he said. “As long as there are women, our business will thrive.”
“And as long as there are women, husbands will suffer,” I told myself.
Friend A told me she almost slapped a tailor who ruined her party dress. “Don’t ask about that idiot,” she said angrily, and I shut up worried she will throw her mobile on my face.
Our own tailor in Chennai used to have a trademark pencil on his ears, inch tape around his waist and half folded pant. He was notorious in ruining dresses. Once a nephew’s full pant had to be used as shorts by my tall brother.
A politician went to a tailor to get his pant stitched. “No worry, I will keep the pocket long,” said the tailor knowing about the corrupt guy.
“Make it normal,” said the politician. “These days they send directly to my Swiss account.”