Transitions

by Mahadevan Ramesh

If instead of 'Gowri Tailors', you had asked where Tailor Abdullah's shop was, even a five-year-old child could have told you. For, Tailor Abdullah was a much bigger icon in that part of town than his shop was, although he had such a small frame that he wasn't even five-foot tall. He had a tentative beard that refused to flourish on his face and a pair of piercing eyes. After all, tailors needed sharp eyes, and even to this day, he threaded needles faster than anyone in his shop. You could always see him walk up to his shop around nine in the morning, some days a few minutes late, but never terribly tardy. His assistants -- and he called them his 'boys' -- would arrive much before him and hang around outside. As soon as Abdullah opened his shop, the men swung into action. One person would carry the signboard (with the picture of the smiling lady) and prop it outside. The lowliest of the assistants swept the place clean of all the lint and threads and miscellaneous cloth bits. Then they all sat down, cranked their machines and got going. Again, the most junior of the boys was relegated to simply making the buttonholes or running errands. A rag picker always came around noon and collected the trash. Abdullah had no idea what anyone could do with fabric bits. But over the years, it had become a kind of a routine. A little past noon, Abdullah went home for lunch for a good two hours and the boys would take turns to eat and relax. The customers mostly showed up in the evenings and Abdullah would personally deal with them -- of course, with utmost courtesy.

Abdullah always managed to attract enough apprentices, mostly Muslim boys around his native village. He taught them the ABCs of tailoring -- not just the fashion cuts and style, but also how to oil the sewing machines and untangle the thread when the bobbin slipped out of its cage. But the boys typically didn't stick to the job for more than a few years.

“Who wants to go through the grind of becoming a tailor?” Abdullah would lament “With so much construction activity in the city, they all become electricians and mechanics and then, in two more years, they all go to the Gulf for even better jobs. Why would anyone sit in one place all day long and gyrate over a sewing machine?”

He wished he had a son at least for this -- to carry his business forward after him. But, he didn't complain very seriously, since God had blessed him with two beautiful, loving daughters, complete with equally wonderful sons-in-law. The older daughter and family eventually migrated to the Gulf themselves, but the younger daughter lived in Madras, not too far from where Abdullah himself lived.

Abdullah could still remember those days, some 30 odd years ago -- when he saw the little shop available for rent, he flipped for it. The rent was modest, the area was full of decent, middle-class people and above all, it was a mere ten-minute walk from his house. He quickly paid the rental advance and launched his empire.

“Why have you given your shop a Hindu name like 'Gowri Tailors'?” a Muslim friend asked Abdullah as the tailor was showing him around the premises, just before he moved in. “Why not a nice name like 'Mumtaz Tailors' or 'Fatima Tailors'?”

Abdullah gesticulated him to stop. “Bhai, I live in a predominantly Hindu area and most of my customers are going to be Hindus. I don't want to have a name that sounded too parochial…”

“At least you could have called it 'Modern Tailors' or 'Tip-top Tailors'.”

“No, no. Those names sound too foreign. Our name should be easy for ladies to remember.”

“And who is Gowri, anyway?”

Here Abdullah let go a little laugh. “There is no Gowri. I just picked up that name from nowhere.” Then he paused for a moment and continued, “Actually, I did know a little girl called Gowri in my village when we were young. A beautiful little girl with sad eyes. I never spoke to her even once. Wonder what came of her eventually… I am sure she is married and a mother of several children by now…”

Abdullah then explained his floor plan to his friend and the visitor was truly surprised when a door on a sidewall opened into a rather large back room. “Oh, wow,” Abdullah's friend exclaimed. “You have such a huge area here. You can easily fix a florescent lamp and put one or two sewing machines here for those busy periods.”

“No, no. I have already decided what I want to do with this space,” Abdullah interrupted his friend. “I am not going to put any machines here, because this room is going to be my Prayer Room. Besides, I can stash away all my sewing supplies here.”

True to his words, Abdullah kept a mat in that room and he and his boys prayed there regularly, some days as frequently as four times. Over the years his business flourished and flourished. Ladies garments to school uniforms to pillowcases to pajamas -- he was the final authority on those matters in that part of town. Then there were those patrons who came to him for alterations because their clothes 'had become' too small. Occasionally he would be commissioned to do wedding dresses. And once, just once, he even did a coat and a suit, and had to spend days at Mount Road hunting for the right inner lining material and fancy buttons. Abdullah was certain that everyone in that neighborhood had been his customer one time or the other, in spite of stiff competition from tailors all around him.

“Honesty and integrity are the hallmarks of a good tailor,” he would tell his boys. “The last thing you want is someone accusing you of stealing cloth. Our customers, every one of them, should derive happiness through the clothes we stitch for them.”

“Make sure you use the best thread and the best design,” Padmaja's buddy kept instructing Abdullah as he patiently showed them the various cuts and designs. Padmaja herself didn't talk much. She simply stood there and looked cute. Suddenly someone thrust soft drinks at the actress and her friends, and it was only then that Abdullah noticed a small crowd outside his store, rubbernecking at the actress. Just as quickly as she came, she went off, leaving a whiff of some real strong perfume.

“Masterji, this better be your best job ever,” yelled one of the members of the entourage as the car took off. Abdullah and his boys toiled day and night afterwards. The perfect blouses were designed and stitched. Even Abdullah was happy with the end product after he carefully inspected the hems. When Padmaja's secretary later came and picked up the consignment, Abdullah was quite sure the blouses would get her noticed.

Get noticed, they did, the blouses. But for the wrong reason. When Padmaja wore one of them to a filmi party, there were mild chuckles all around her.

“Look at her choli,” someone quipped. “The sleeves are so small her flesh is bulging out all over.” “Or she must have borrowed a blouse from her mom.”

Somebody actually came up to her and asked if she was going retro, trying to get the fifties look. “Very nicely made blouse, Padmaja. I am sure this design is back in fashion again. I have seen some Bombay stars wearing such things…”

That was enough for Padmaja. She banished those blouses in a fit of rage and never once ordered another piece sewn at the Gowri Tailors.

But Abdullah's stock had already skyrocketed. People begged him to make Padmaja-style blouses for themselves. They would ask him to recount the celebrity visit and Abdullah would never tire of telling the story over and over.

“She was such a fine lady. Every tailor's dream.” He would go on, “And above all, she was so simple. I know she is too busy to make personal visits. But I think she sends her orders through her people every once in a while…”

Padmaja or not, Gowri Tailors was suddenly a popular place to get a blouse made. There were doctors, lawyers, housewives, college girls, and Abdullah and his boys seemed to have no time to rest or pause.

“You have to be very careful when taking ladies' measurements,” he would lecture his boys. “You shouldn't have any bad thoughts when doing it. Remember how shy they must be feeling. And you have to do it only once. Period. That is why you should have a sharp mind and a good memory to become a good tailor. I can tell you Padmaja's measurements even now, from memory.”

It wasn't always smooth sailing at Gowri Tailors. Like that time a few years ago just before Deepavali. Abdullah had been uncharacteristically late in fulfilling customer orders and a crowd of about a dozen angry customers had gathered around his shop.

“What is going on, Masterji? Deepavali is just a few days away.”

“I am sorry that things are getting delayed this time. Two of my assistants have quit in the past week without notice and the belt on one of my machines broke and I have been all over Thambu Chetty Street to get a replacement…”

“Ah cut the cock and bull story, Tailor Abdullah,” snapped another customer. “If you cannot deliver the clothes, then give us our material back and we will go elsewhere, although at this eleventh hour who will take our orders? We will have to celebrate Deepavali naked.”

“No, no. Don't talk like that,” Abdullah pleaded with him. “You are my long-time customer. I will not disappoint you.”

That was when a really irate customer interrupted and said, “Why would you care for Deepavali anyway? You are after all a Muslim…”

There was stunned silence. No one wanted to make the next move. Abdullah motioned them to be calm, adjusted his fez and stepped out of his shop and got right close to the crowd.

“Brothers, yes, I am a Muslim. But all of you around me are Hindus and I know what Deepavali is,” he said. “I will give you my word that all of you will have your clothes on your special day. I won't default on anyone. We will work day and night and get the garments ready. What am I without customers like you?”

Just then, one of the boys showed up carrying a tray loaded with cups of hot tea. Reluctantly, the customers reached out for their cup of tea and started sipping. After some more chitchatting, they left reasonably satisfied, but still a bit skeptical. Abdullah even turned to the person who accused him of being insensitive to the Hindus, and told him that he would stitch his clothes for free, just to prove he was sincere. After a few days of round the clock labor, Abdullah delivered on his promise and this incident was quite forgotten just a few weeks later. Even that really belligerent customer was satisfied enough to pay Abdullah, insisting that it wasn't about money. Everyone was again happy in Abdullah-land.

One day Abdullah was sitting at home with his wife after dinner and she started the conversation.

“You know, I have a thought. You should not get angry if I mention it…”

“Okay, okay. What is it?”

“You have been a good man. You have worked so hard all your life. Don't you think you should go on Haj?”

“Ah shut up, woman,” ordered Abdullah. “Let us not have unrealistic dreams. If Allah has willed it, it shall happen.”

His wife did become quiet for a few minutes. But she egged him on. “It isn't as if you cannot afford it… Remember, your own daughter lives in that part of the world. You can even visit them…”

“Talk about practical things, woman,” Abdullah responded. “And who do you think will take care of my store and my customers when I am gone?”

“Customers will always be there. You can't wait for the last one to turn in his order and then go on a pilgrimage. Don't they go on their pilgrimages? You said your assistant Ahmed is fairly sincere and reliable. I am sure he can look after things when you go to the holy place.”

Abdullah closed his eyes and pretended to sleep, but was secretly reflecting over his wife's words. It did make some kind of sense. A visit to Mecca would be such a wonderful thing to experience. Ahmed could handle the shop -- at least he wouldn't botch anything.

That day, the boys were hanging around the shop waiting for Master Abdullah to show up. It was well past nine o'clock and there was no sign of the man. One of them volunteered to run up to Abdullah's house to see if anything was wrong. In just fifteen minutes the boy came running back, his face bleached pale. “Friends, he is gone. Abdullah Master is dead.” Shocked and stunned, the boys all ran up to Abdullah's house.

“Oh, son Ahmed. How can I even describe this horrible thing…” wailed Abdullah's just widowed wife. “Our Vappa is no more… it all happened so suddenly last night. It is difficult to even remember the sequence… he had just broken his fast and taken his dinner… in fact, he had an extra helping of rice because he liked it… then, then… he asked for a glass of water and when I came back with the water, his head was leaning to a side in a strange way… he didn't respond when I told him to drink the water. No matter what I did he didn't move. That was it… he didn't even get a chance to tell me any last words. Oh, why do horrible things happen to such gentle persons, Ahmed?” She was beside herself. Her younger daughter and son-in-law were already around and helped her into the house. An eerie sorrow clouded that neighborhood as people remembered and eulogized the Master Tailor. A day later, Abdullah's other daughter and family too arrived from the Gulf and soon afterward, he was laid to rest with due honor, befitting a kind and religious man.

Gowri Tailors though remained shuttered even after two weeks. The boys were confused whether to continue operating the tailoring shop or not. Ahmed, for one, thought of borrowing a few thousand rupees from his father-in-law and taking over the shop. But with a young child and a lot of responsibility on him, he could not justify taking the risk of running a business. The following week, the boys returned all the raw materials back to the customers and finally, the shutters went down for good on 'Gowri Tailors'.

“This browsing center is really cool,” one young customer was exclaiming to his friend. “In the other place, we had to wait for hours. This place is cheap… and they sell cigarettes too.”

“Forget all that, machi,” the other guy responded. “Did you notice that a lot of chicks come here? Look at that one in the blue churidhar. I bet she is from Stella Maris College. I swear I will find her user ID and password by the end of the day.”

“How come we never heard of this browsing center until now?”

“I think this place kind of opened up only recently, machi.”

“Oh, really? What used to be here before?”

“I don't know. Some dry cleaners or grocery store.”

The owner and his friend had a chuckle overhearing the teenage conversation.

“Some of these boys,” the owner said. “They spend their lifetime in this center, browsing all day long. They seem to have rich enough parents that money seem to be no object.”

When the owner led his friend through the side door to the back room, the visitor was visibly surprised to see such a large, empty room in the back.

“Oh, wow!” he exclaimed. “What are you going to with all this space? You can easily put some fancy lighting here and add a few more computers.”

“Actually I have a better plan than that,” the owner explained. “I am going to put some partitions here and create private browsing booths, where customers can browse in privacy. You know a lot of people go into those adult sites or send sexy emails. This way, they can do all that without anyone looking over their shoulders. Of course, I will charge them more for these booths…”