Musings Of An Aunty On How Circumstances Can Create Distance Between Friends, Only To Forge New Ones

It’s years since I was here in Delhi last and as has been my routine since a little after ’95 when I shifted to Bangalore from Kobe, and met my seamstress through word of mouth; she was the first stop I made. I’d call and tell her the function needing the outfit, and we’d hardly discuss the budget, she knew my limits. We’ve come to understand each other’s lingo so well that mid-way through the convo, she’ll go, “Ya, I know,” and I’ll reply, “Ya, you know,” and thus has been the story of my salwar kameezes, the loose pants, and the tunics we Indians wear with a scarf called the dupatta or choonee; my orders have been, more or less, blind.

So, this time too, I called to tell her I’d be coming and requested her to complete the order she’d been sitting on for almost a year. She’d seen no reason to rush, neither did I have a reason to push her. In fact, I’d almost forgotten about it; as I’ve mentioned often enough, I’m not on anyone’s invitee list. Nevertheless, just to break the monotony of my wardrobe and to stay in touch, I’d place an order once in a long while. I’m a total disaster with online shopping and anyway, clueless about boutiques in Delhi. So, she’s always been my first and only stop for my Indian outfits. At this very present moment I’m here in Delhi and as usual, as soon as I got in, from the airport itself, I headed straight to her.

I’d plenty of repairs, and I also figured that since time had lapsed, she’d best retake my current measurements. Finding her new place wasn’t easy; earlier, she’d been on the one floor of the three-story apt she shared with her sister-in-law, who’d now evacuated her. This new workshop was a hole in the wall in a crazy business district, not the swanky South Extension or anything even close. I was downcast; this wasn’t fun, the earlier was homey, of course, since it was home. The best part was the steady stream of food her cook dished out while we worked: finger-licking paneer tikka and black makhani daal, gobi aloo, etc. Through those hours of chatter about styles and haggling over the billing, our lives’ complaints, and woes, inadvertently, got woven in.

Despite being unhappy about getting no tidbits and tea or Limca, nevertheless, I, like the rest of her clientele will follow her anywhere, anyway. The place had the sense of the same familiarity; an assorted, orderly mess, here there, and everywhere. But in spite of the seeming disorder, she knew exactly where what was and whose it was, as did her assistant, who could find anything in that haystack.

I’d barely plunked myself into a chair; very uncomfortable compared to the sofa in the earlier place, when she proudly held up the kameez; whose story had started almost a year ago. I gasped; not because it wasn’t pretty, but because it was oversized; I mean significantly OVERSIZED. I shouted my displeasure and chided her or mixing up my measurements with one of her curvier clients. She has an easy disposition, really calm and unperturbable; with the years she’s dealt with the fuss we women are capable of, especially when it comes to our personal attire, she’s learnt how to balance on the tightrope slung across the Bombay Ghats. She chuckled through her tobacco-stained teeth, stemming from her terrible, terrible habit of chewing on a toothbrush, which she dips into a tobacco toothpaste; something I didn’t know existed till I met her and for which she’s willing to risk oral cancer.

Anyway, she nudged me to try it on. And lo, and behold, it fit like a glove. OK, so, yes, I’m fat, and yes, I’m huge and yes, I’m old and it’s OK. I am, after all, a Punjabi; I like colour and I like food. But I am alive, and that’s all that counts!