THE TAILOR IN NEW LIGHT

(Continued from the last post On The Tail Of A Tailor)

Considering Param's personal history, I was at my wit's end when he appeared at my doorstep wearing a woe-begone face not with my shirt but with a request to use my(non-existent) clout with the President of a local Co-operative Society (a man as straight as a die and very antithesis of nepotism). He wanted me to secure a clerk's job at the for his daughter who had justpassed the B. Com degree with colours that were anything but flying.

Fear Of The Blouse

Fearful of the horrendous things Param could do to my shirt if I antagonised him, I meekly obliged by phoning up the Society's president with the entreary. True to his percieved image, the president tactfully ducked my supplication, stopping short of asking me to go and jump into the nearest lake. As a crest-fallen Param left, his eyes betrayed a firm determination to stitch me a tight fitting blouse(on which I could only wear a saree) that could per se have my humour club audience in stitches. I shuddered at the prospect of becoming a butt of jokes for the hoi-polloi.

Yet, on the eve of the D-day, Param re-appeared at my doorsteps and delivered, belying all my apprehentions, a well tailored shirt. He was cock-a-hoop about his daughter's appointment at the Society. And with a child-like exuberance, he narratedhow his friend Venky helped his daughter clinch the clerk's post. Then Param departed, chirpily humming the opening bars of 'Dum Dum Diga Diga.'

Venky And The Tigress

To set the record straight, I must reveal that Venky was a office attendant at the co-operative society in question with a reputation for clinging to people like a leech to achieve his ends. "If you want the tigress's milk, ask Venky, " was the common refrain heard on the Society's corridors.

Knowing Venky myself personally, I could well visualise a harassed tigress, confronted by an insistent hustler like Venky, lying supine asking him to squeeze out as much milk as he wanted just to see his back. The President of the Society was, after all, an ordinary human like you and me.

You Might Also Like:

Dictionary Of 'Woo Fix Klan'
Bill Fights At Cafe

ON THE TAIL OF A TAILOR

My eyes nearly popped out of my head when Param appeared at my doorsteps like the summer rain. It was as though an eel had developed amnesia forgetting all about being slippery and presented itself to be pickled and devoured. Why I am offering this parallel would become explicit if I furnished enough dope on Param's antecedents and idiosyncrasies.

EEL THAT TAKES TO HEEL

A tailor by profession, Param was no different from others of his ilk except in one small detail. He seldom, if ever, stitched at a stretch for more than a few minutes. He worked, like municipal taps, in short bursts. Being someone with itchy feet and perpetually parched throat, Param, after every 50 cms of frenzied sewing, went out for a cup of tea as though it were the elixir of his life. Normally his shop(a one-man show) wore a desolate look, like a town in the grip of a plague epidemic, while Param merrily downed his cup of stimulant in some godforsaken restaurant. On those rare occasions when he was at the post, he slipped behind the cupboard at the mere hint of a suspected client approaching his shop, morbidly scared of additional work that would hamper his periodic tea-drinking jaunts!

To me, unfortunately, he seemed nothing short of a sartorial genius and I always felt as though I were streaking on a nudist beach if I wore any attire not tailored by Param. But the biggest hurdle was tracking down my outwardly mobile tailor and the thought often crossed my mind that I should equip him with a radio-collar around his neck(like they do to keep track of tigers in the wild) in order to monitor his movements on my radar screen.

THE ELUSIVE TAILOR

So, recently when I needed a new shirt - I wished to appear chic wearing it at my forthcoming address to the local Humour Club - I launched an elaborate 'man-hunt' for my tailor, visiting tea stalls I never even thought existed. And finally *buttonholed* him at a nondescript cafe forcing him to take down my measurements in full view of the amused cafe's clientele. From then on, each time I caught him at his shop (or behind the cupboard), his stock reply was, "Only the buttons remain to be stitched, sir", even as the uncut shirt cloth winked at me from his shelf. And as the days slipped by, my patience, besides my new pair of shoes, began to wear thin.

(To be continued in the next post The Tailor In New Light
)

You Might Also Like:

A Touchy Issue
Bargain By Intuition
Hitched To Habit